The Silent Knight, Kruenbel (4)
Kruenbel thrust his spear.
It was a simple sentence, yet weighed against the gravity of the name Kruenbel, it was anything but light. Kruenbel was a martial artist who had ascended to transcendence with nothing but a single spear. Just as the words "A Sword Master swung his blade" carried crushing weight, so too did the words "Kruenbel thrust his spear."
When his foot slammed down, a storm erupted. When his arm shot forward, the storm coiled around the shaft. And the instant that spear pierced the air in a perfect line—
A tempest howled from the spearpoint.
Ramming.
Kruenbel's strongest strike. Even if his spear no longer held a mindscape, even if he was no longer a transcendent, the technique itself had not dimmed. He had simply lacked a weapon that could withstand it—until now.
This moment was different.
In his hand he gripped the Cross-Star Spear.
Forged by the empire's master smiths and steeped in the feats Kruenbel himself had wrought, it was the very symbol of the man. Returned to its master's grip, the spear endured his technique without flinching. The cross-star blade gleamed for him alone.
And so the completed technique defied comprehension. Just as transcendents refused to be understood by others, so too did the art Kruenbel unleashed. He shattered a single second into fragments, then shattered those fragments further, driving a thrust of such blistering speed that—though it lasted only an instant—it outstripped the Helmet Knight's reaction time.
KRRRRRRRAAAANG!
The storm tore up the earth, shredding everything in its path as it came on.
The Helmet Knight reacted a heartbeat too late. He seized the nearby spear shaft and swung it into the oncoming tempest—only for the shaft to explode into splinters. The storm caught him and hurled him aside.
As if commanding him to clear the way.
The storm had never been aimed at the Helmet Knight. Its true target stood behind him—Najin. Even if the Helmet Knight had blunted a fraction of its force, Kruenbel's Ramming still carried power comparable to a transcendent's finishing blow. It was not a technique the Najin of this moment could hope to receive.
Grit.
Yet Najin's eyes, and the speed of his reactions, yielded nothing even to a transcendent.
Moreover, he had watched that very Ramming through the Helmet Knight again and again. Deflecting or dodging it was impossible—but receiving it, just barely—
Ah.
The instant his sword aura collided with the storm, Najin understood how arrogant that thought had been. A delusion. There was no way he could have taken it.
Thoom.
Najin's feet left the ground. The moment the storm touched his aura, the blade's energy unraveled like frayed thread. The fingers gripping the hilt snapped. The arm that had braced the flat of the blade twisted with a wet crack.
DRRRRRRRRR!
Everything was being ground to dust—his aura, his body, everything that lay in the storm's path. As the tempest flung him backward, Najin saw what it left behind: nothing but finely pulverized powder drifting on the wind. And the certainty that if he failed to endure, he would become exactly the same.
Gritting his teeth, Najin refused to let go of the sword. His heart hammered wildly, pouring aura into the blade without pause. If that aura scattered completely, the sword would shatter and his body would be skewered through.
Hold. Hold. Hold…
In that tug-of-war that seemed endless, Najin's aura claimed the victory. The storm dispersed, giving him one final shove. With a thunderous crash, Najin slammed into a boulder.
Rubble cascaded down, pelting his head. His arm was broken; blood streamed from his eyes and nose. He coughed, forcing out a blocked breath, and black blood came with it.
His insides were a wreck.
Even breathing was agony. A single strike. One strike, and Najin's body had been reduced to rags. He blinked against a swimming haze—and saw blue hair swaying before him. His guide. Merlin.
Grit.
She was chewing hard on her own thumb. Her eyes trembled violently; she kept raising a hand toward the sky and dropping it again, as if wrestling with some decision. Najin smiled bitterly at the sight.
Merlin.
-Ah.
Their eyes met. Only then did the tremor in Merlin's gaze settle.
I'm not dead yet. I'm fine.
-You… you little…
Acting like this already? What are you going to do later?
-I'm going to lose my mind, you hear me? I'm seriously going to lose it.
Merlin groaned. She managed to steady her breathing and dragged a palm down her face. Her voice still shook badly. She had chosen to respect Najin's decision and stay out of it—but fretting was another matter entirely.
Unlike the days when she and Arthur had walked the edge of death together, now she could only watch as Najin staggered on the razor between life and death.
Still… I think I get it now.
-Get what?
I said I think I get it. What I have to do.
Najin closed his eyes for a moment and recalled the scene he had just witnessed. Inside his mind, Kruenbel's every motion began to break apart and reassemble.
The Ramming the Helmet Knight had demonstrated.
And the Ramming Kruenbel had unleashed.
Najin suddenly grasped the difference between them. He sorted through the principles and movements of Ramming he had learned from the Helmet Knight, and how Kruenbel had twisted and refined them.
No matter how transcendent a technique might be… after watching the same art again and again—and after having imitated it with his own body—he felt he could finally understand. Najin opened his eyes. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Because now, at last, he thought he understood.
2.
Having taken Kruenbel's spear, the Helmet Knight put distance between them and broke into a run. Damn it—he should have reacted faster. He sprinted toward where Najin had been. It had definitely been that boulder—
Cough… ghk…
There lay Najin, coughing up blood. Just as expected, he was a wreck. In no condition to continue fighting. The Helmet Knight groaned and reached out a hand, intending to grab him and flee.
Najin did not take it.
"Step aside."
That was all he said.
Coughing, spitting blood, Najin slowly forced himself upright. With every movement came sickening cracks and grinding noises. He paid them no mind, stomping his foot to set the bones, then adjusting his shoulder, then his fingers one by one.
Could that even be called setting bones? It was closer to assembling himself. Relying on monstrous regenerative power, Najin was putting his body back together.
"Move. Don't block my view."
"What?"
"I can't see my opponent."
Blood had rushed to his head; Najin discarded every shred of courtesy and waved the Helmet Knight aside—get out of my way.
"You're going to fight again in that state?"
"Why not? He's fighting without a head."
"It's reckless."
"Recklessness and greatness have always been a hair's breadth apart."
"You little—"
Whatever else the Helmet Knight meant to say died the moment Najin let his sword hang loose. Najin himself seemed unaware of it, but his sword aura now wore a different shape than before.
"I think I finally understand."
Najin swept his hair back.
"So step aside."
Eyes glowing platinum-gold fixed on the Helmet Knight. Flames still burned in those depths that seemed ready to swallow a man whole. Najin's gaze spoke for him.
Do not interfere.
The duel is not over, and I still have a duty to answer the best my opponent has shown me.
"Hah."
The Helmet Knight let out a hollow laugh.
"You're a madman."
"Took you long enough to notice?"
Wearing a crooked smile, Najin walked past him and advanced. The Helmet Knight could not stop those steps. He was pushed back by the presence radiating from a brat who had never even tasted transcendence. He had no choice but to admit it.
Thud.
Both feet planted on the ground, Najin locked eyes with Kruenbel. Kruenbel was still watching him in return. The spearpoint was aimed not at the Helmet Knight but at Najin, and Kruenbel too seemed eager to settle this duel.
Yes. That's how it should be.
Whether you are a dead man, a fallen star, or a star that has crashed—I don't care. For as long as our blades clash, you are a knight. Even if you refuse the title, I will make you one.
Najin drew a deep breath.
Then he shouted.
"Kruenbel——!"
Calling his opponent's name, Najin raised his sword.
The tip he lifted pointed straight at Kruenbel's heart.
"Come."
Najin smiled.
Corner of his mouth twisted upward, bloodshot eyes fixed solely on Kruenbel, the boy declared: Come. With the strongest strike you possess.
"This time I'll smash it head-on."
Whether Kruenbel understood the words was impossible to know. He probably did not. But the meaning carried in Najin's stance, and the heat in his voice, reached him. Kruenbel slowly settled into position.
Perfect form. Fierce spirit. A pressure that crushed everything around him.
Even before that overwhelming presence, Najin refused to bow. Instead he held his head high and took his own stance. Challenging a stronger foe head-on was arrogance and recklessness of the highest order.
But recklessness and greatness had always been a hair's breadth apart.
Only those who refuse to bend even on the edge of life and death can ascend to transcendence. Najin did not retreat a single step as he challenged the enemy before him.
Najin's first star—the Star of Challenge—blazed to life.
Challenge meant meeting the opponent face to face.
For the master who sought to write a new legend, the star gladly scattered its light. A star settled into Najin's sword aura.
3.
Ramming.
The signature technique of the Golden Horn Knights.
It traced its origin to their distant ancestors who once sailed the open seas. Those forebears crossed the boundless ocean with the wind as their companion. At the prow of every ship was fixed a sharp horn—and that was the origin of the Golden Horn name itself.
Advance. Advance. Advance.
Across the sea, through glaciers, ramming aside everything that barred the way with the horn and pressing ever forward.
The golden horn mounted on the prow was the first spear they ever gripped, their first weapon, the means by which they pierced whatever stood before them. To that brutish charge of the ship's beak they gave the name Ramming.
That was the origin of the Golden Horn—
and the birth of the technique called Ramming.
Countless years passed. The tale and the origin of the Golden Horn faded from memory, and even the Golden Horn Knights who inherited their will were erased from history…
Thoom.
Yet here stood a living witness to that history.
His name was Kruenbel. His title was the Silent Knight. The name of his star was the Horn-blowing Star, and his order was the Golden Horn Knights.
Kruenbel tightened his grip on the Cross-Star Spear.
From childhood he had yearned for the Golden Horn Knights. He had been captivated by their war cries as they charged beneath the imperial banner, and he had lost his heart to the Cross-Star Spear held by their commander.
Kruenbel tempered himself, became a knight, and entered the Golden Horn Knights. He achieved countless feats, earned the commander's recognition, and became his vice-commander. The Cross-Star Spear, which only the commander himself was permitted to wield, was willingly bestowed upon Kruenbel.
The commander had joked that he was better with a sword than a spear—but Kruenbel understood the true meaning of the gift.
You are the next commander, Kruenbel.
That was what he had been saying.
Truly glorious days. Kruenbel sounded the horn and advanced. He followed his commander, pressing endlessly forward. Endlessly, endlessly…
But endings always come.
Clowns danced. Laughter, songs, ridiculous gestures, the blare of instruments…
Thuk.
Kruenbel's head fell. Even headless, he did not stop. He had no intention of playing along with such a farce. Pressing the severed head back onto the stump, he charged.
The Golden Horn Knights do not stop. Advance. Press forward. Pierce the enemy. We shall never break.
Again and again his head was struck from his shoulders. His skull was crushed, his body burned, his flesh ground to powder—yet still he advanced. Severing the threads that sought to claim him, he roared. To drown out the clowns' laughter and the instruments, the Horn-blowing Star sounded his horn.
Sound the horn. Advance. Pierce the enemy…
He forgot what any of it meant. Forgetting himself, he became a dead man. The six shining stars fell and turned black.
Yet still he cried out.
Sound the horn. Advance. Pierce the enemy.
The Horn-blowing Star sounded his horn.
The Silent Knight slammed his foot into the earth.
Kruenbel thrust his spear.
Ramming.
In the instant of the thrust, he was a knight. Because the one at whom the blade pointed desired it so, Kruenbel could be a knight. After all, the meaning of a duel is decided by the opponent one faces.
Najin charged straight into the oncoming storm.
His eyes read the tempest's trajectory. Both legs kicked the ground and drove him forward. The sword he raised flashed pure white, making Kruenbel's spear gleam in answer.
Let us measure them.
Whether my sword will cleave your storm, or your storm will pierce me through.