The Light That Should Not Be Held (1)
A star rose over the subterranean city of Atman.
Atman was a place whose ceiling sealed away the sky, a city no starlight ever reached. That was why the star that had appeared there shone all the more brilliantly.
A vivid light that no dense fog could veil, no murky glow of ore-lamps could swallow. Platinum starlight that nothing on earth could dare to obscure—that was what the boy had longed for with every fiber of his being. He stared at the star in his hand and blinked blankly.
I pulled it. I actually pulled it.
What he held was the Sword of the Stars. The holy blade that was the very symbol of King Arthur—Excalibur. As Najin gazed upon the radiant sword, his eyes flooded with platinum light.
It had been a gamble taken on a pure what-the-hell impulse. His only grounds for it had been a voice ringing through his mind and his own gut instinct. Yet he had truly drawn the sword. The situation felt unreal, but the weight of the blade in his grip told him this was no dream.
In that case…
If this was real. If he was not dreaming—
“Druggy Hakan.”
There was something he had to do. The boy who had been dreaming returned to reality. Feeling the chill of the hilt against his fingers, Najin slowly raised the sword.
The tip of the lifted blade pointed straight at Hakan. Smiling, Najin aimed the sword at the thug who had dared invade Ivan’s territory.
“Any last words?”
The boy was a wreck. The only thing that had changed from moments before was the single sword in his hand. Yet he was, however faintly, a swordsman—and for a swordsman, a change of sword meant a change of everything.
The tide of battle had flipped. The scales had tipped. The boy stood; Hakan sat crumpled on the ground. She still had plenty of addicts left, but the star the boy now gripped was not something mere minions could obscure. Hakan let out a hollow laugh.
“…Does this even make sense?”
Who could have imagined it? That a boy from this filthy underground city—full of nothing but the discarded—would draw Excalibur. Hakan had prepared a full seventeen years for this very day. Confronted with the boy who had blocked her path, she could only laugh emptily.
Najin kicked off the ground. Blade trailing platinum starlight, the boy strode toward Hakan. The addicts charged him even without their master’s command, but things already finished could never bar his way.
Shhhhk—!
The addicts were swept aside as if a current had cut through them. Hakan watched, dazed. There, before her, was the dream she had left behind on the surface. The thing she had yearned for yet never managed to claim.
A star.
A brilliantly shining star. Not everyone who fell into this city had once dreamed of stars—but the strong enough to rule a district certainly had. Trap-spider Horce. One-eyed Ivan. Druggy Hakan. Every one of them had once dreamed of possessing a star of their own. They had yearned to hang their own light in that lofty night sky. Reaching upward until they plummeted into this city, they had never been able to forget the light of the stars.
“Ahhh…”
Before the approaching star, Hakan groaned. The star stopped right in front of her. She lifted her head and looked at the boy.
His body was a ruin from the explosion—clothes blackened with soot and stained with the blood of addicts. Yet his eyes had not lost even a shred of light. If anything, they held a clearer radiance than before.
Hakan sensed her end. Sensing it, she sneered—at her own fate, and at the wretched future that would soon crash down upon the boy.
“…Brat.”
Hakan smiled at him. It was the smile of a loser who had once dreamed the same dream, only to crash into this city.
“That’s a light that should never have appeared in this city.”
You stood out far too much. You may have been qualified to draw the sword—
“But it’s a light that an unfinished thing like you should never hold.”
You got ahead of yourself. You seized something far too brilliant without any preparation at all.
“The high-and-mighty folk up on the surface don’t bless those who possess starlight. If someone unprepared takes the light, they simply crush them.”
She raised her right arm. The brand seared into it by fire was the same as the right eye One-eyed Ivan had lost, the same as the fingers Horce had lost.
“You’ll be crushed too.”
You seized a light greater than ours. So you’ll lose something far greater.
“You’ll lose everything.”
It was a curse, a prophecy, and advice all at once. Listening to Hakan, Najin recalled a not-so-distant past—the curse Trixie had flung at him when he sensed his own death.
“Najin, you’ll rot in this city for the rest of your life!”
Back then he had been unable to refute it. He had always wanted to argue, but knowing it was true, he had simply let their words wash over him.
But not anymore.
He had crossed the line and begun to run. He had reached for the unreachable and seized it. Now it was time to look higher still and keep running. No one could bar that path.
“That’s your story.”
Najin spoke.
“The story of the ones who failed and fell into this city…”
Success and failure were a hair’s breadth apart. What his own future would become, he would only know by colliding with it. Rather than resign himself, give up, and taste bitterness the way he once had, he would choose the road that shattered him if he must.
The shackle that had bound his feet for so long was broken. The boy’s eyes were no longer colored by the murky sunset that hung over the underground city; they were dyed in the platinum radiance pouring from the Sword of the Stars.
“I’ve got no interest in listening to the tales of failures.”
“…Ha!”
At the word failures, Hakan burst out laughing.
“True enough. You’re not wrong.”
She twisted her lips into a sneer.
“Go on, then.”
Najin raised his sword.
“After you’ve felt it for yourself…”
Will you still be able to say that? How cruel the world above is—how endlessly cruel it can become. Feel it with that body of yours, Hakan shouted.
And Najin swung the raised blade.
Druggy Hakan’s body toppled. Looking down at the blood pooling on the floor, Najin let out a long breath. His whole body ached. It was not only the wounds.
A draining weakness, as if something were leaving him. The sensation had worsened the moment he swung Excalibur. Gasping, Najin let the sword hang low. He had felled Hakan and cut down every last addict. If things could simply end here, it would be ideal…
“….”
In silence, Najin lowered his gaze. There were the residents who had fled the chaos, and the ones still hiding in buildings, staring at him. They were watching.
The sword in his hand. The star that had risen over the underground city.
But not everyone was looking at the star. Some were looking at the boy who held it. They were soldiers sent from the surface—the guards who had been stationed around Excalibur.
The instant their eyes met his, Najin understood. He had to chase them down and kill them. He had to seal their mouths. Yet he no longer had the strength to pursue those who had vanished into the crowd. Limping, Najin turned toward a back alley.
This was not a dream; it was reality. Because it was real, he had to make a decision—if only to avoid being crushed, just as Hakan had said. Najin began to flee toward a place no eyes could reach.
2.
The churches that served the stars. Holy Blood, Holy Body, Holy Light. Once a single faith in the distant past, now split into three. Among them, Archbishop Orlan—effective head of the Holy Light Church—knit his brows.
“What business brings you here at this ungodly hour, Berlo?”
The church knight Berlo had arrived at the office with two soldiers in tow. He forced the pair to their knees before Orlan and bowed in greeting.
“Because there is news Your Grace must hear.”
“Is this about the holy sword being drawn last night? If so, I am already sick to death of hearing about it. Letters have been flying in from every branch—I am extremely busy.”
Orlan tapped the desk with his fingers.
“Is it important enough that you must report it to me in person?”
“Yes. More important than anything.”
If the taciturn knight Berlo spoke like that, it had to be vital intelligence. Orlan exhaled a long breath and gestured for him to continue—go on, then. Speak.
And the story that left Berlo’s lips was more than enough for Orlan to set down his quill and open his eyes wide.
“Berlo.”
“Yes. Command me.”
“If there is even a shred of falsehood in what you have just uttered, you will lose your voice and fall into the very place you named.”
“I swear before God it is the truth.”
“Does this make any sense at all—!”
Orlan slammed the desk.
“I ordered you to keep every hand away from that sword! And now you claim someone from that city of sinners drew the holy blade? How is that even possible?!”
His eyes trembled. Pressing a bloodshot brow with his fingers, Orlan slowly exhaled. Moments earlier, Knight Berlo had reported that a boy from the underground city had drawn Excalibur the previous night.
It was the testimony of the soldiers who had guarded the sword. It was the eyewitness accounts of the sinners of that city.
I assumed it would be one of three—the Sword Saint of the Sword Church, the butcher of the Holy Blood Church, or the Empire’s Sword Master…
The continent had been thrown into chaos the moment the holy sword was drawn. The only people the world speculated might have pulled it were those three. They alone had stood closest to Arthur; they alone were thought to possess the right.
One of them had drawn it and was hiding the fact. That was what the world believed. Archbishop Orlan of the Holy Light Church had believed the same.
But—
It had not been any of those three. A boy living in a city of sinners, a place untouched by human eyes or even starlight, had drawn the sword. Orlan could not bring himself to believe it.
Yet he could not believe it, and still the event had happened. He had to decide. The seat of an archbishop who led an entire church always demanded swift judgment. The old priest chose to judge rather than understand.
“…Witnesses? How many know of this?”
Orlan asked. Berlo answered.
“In the city of sinners, too many to count. But among those who can set foot in this city, only these two.”
He indicated the two soldiers kneeling before Orlan. The archbishop’s eyes narrowed.
“Only these two?”
“Yes. The pair who stood guard last night. They were negligent in their duty and failed to stop a sinner from approaching the holy sword.”
“Dispose of them.”
Orlan flicked his fingers. Before the two soldiers could even beg for mercy, Berlo’s blade moved. The sweeping edge kissed both throats.
Shhhk.
Without so much as a glance at the soldiers collapsing in a spray of blood, Orlan looked at Berlo and spoke.
“It is fortunate the Holy Blood Church’s butcher did not draw the sword—yet this is a far greater problem.”
He pointed at the floor where Berlo stood.
“This is the seat of the Holy Light Church’s main cathedral, and the seat of the Church’s judgment seat. For a sinner judged in such a holy place to hold the right to possess the holy sword… is that not an absurdity?”
Holy Light, Holy Body, Holy Blood—each church possessed its own judgment seat, and each judged in its own way.
The Holy Blood Church judged by blood. It punished heretics by making them bleed to death beneath the greatest number of watching stars.
The Holy Body Church judged by the body. It punished heretics by tearing their flesh to shreds and scattering the pieces.
And the Holy Light Church—
The church that judged by light stripped sinners of any chance to see starlight and locked them underground. They were made to rot for a lifetime without the grace of the stars, and thus their sins were punished.
“That a sinner judged beneath the light of the stars has drawn the sword—”
Orlan declared,
“—is an act that shakes the very foundation of the Holy Light Church’s judgment seat and defiles the essence of the Church. It is something that should never have happened.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I trust you understand my meaning, Sir Berlo.”
Dispose of it, Orlan was saying. The strong of the entire continent, the soaring superhumans, even the stars of the night sky themselves still did not know who had drawn the sword. So this was the only moment.
Make it as if it never happened. Quietly. Cleanly.
Of course, Orlan had other options. He could have made an exception to church doctrine, pardoned the boy’s sin and taken him under his wing—or he could have admitted the Church had delivered a false judgment.
He did neither. He was the archbishop who led the Church, and his faith in it was firmer than anyone’s. He knew that the path the Church had walked must contain not the slightest flaw. Therefore he chose to bury the flaw that had already been made. In that decision there was no compromise.
Because Orlan had always lived that way. Because he had always cleaned things up that way. The head of the Holy Light Church’s main cathedral, which stood above the underground city, had passed judgment upon the boy.
“May I trust you with this?”
“I will answer your expectations.”
Berlo bowed and left the office. As latecomers dragged the soldiers’ corpses away, he walked the church corridor and thought.
The city of sinners, Atman. Managing the church soldiers posted there was his duty, and so he knew perfectly well who ruled that city.
Ivan, the knight of Atanga.
Once he had looked toward the same place and stood on the same battlefield, yet in the end he had fallen—and now he was the ruler of that city. A smile spread across Berlo’s lips.
“It’s been a while. Time I paid my junior a visit.”
Former knight of Atanga, Berlo. Having discarded both honor and pride with his own hands, he could no longer speak the name of Atanga. The Church’s hunting dog simply smiled.