The Knight Who Removed His Helmet (1)
I am a knight.
The instant those words left his lips, the Helmet Knight felt the shackles binding his body come undone. Whether it was merely a sensation or whether something that had truly been crushing him had vanished, he could not tell.
Ah, the Helmet Knight laughed.
It was not only his body that had grown light. The torment that had filled his mind vanished cleanly the moment he uttered "I am a knight." His narrowed vision widened. He began to feel that the helmet upon his head was uncomfortable.
He brought his hand to the helmet.
The moment his fingers found the seams, he felt the fog that had filled his mind begin to clear. The hazy mist parted, and forgotten memories started to return. At that change, the Helmet Knight quietly closed his eyes.
Why were the memories returning only now? The curse the Revelry Emperor had laid upon him could not have been so simple.
Was it because his lifespan had reached its end? Like a flame flaring fiercely one last time before it dies, was this a final struggle?
Or, having given his answer and resolved his regrets, had he been freed from the curse? Or was it thanks to having come to this land where he once triumphed in glory? Or because the sword scars remaining on the ground had stirred his memories?
Was it because he could now give answers and have confidence in himself? Or was it thanks to someone who had remembered him? If so, that someone would be none other than Bernstein—should he thank that man? Or the boy standing before him?
Countless questions rose. Countless hypotheses floated through his mind. But the Helmet Knight chose none of them. He made no effort to resolve the questions.
There was no need.
He simply gave thanks for all of it. To Bernstein, to Najin, to everything that had brought him this far.
The Helmet Knight recalled himself.
Reflecting upon his life, he undid the seams of his helmet.
He traced his life.
Tracing the memories from which the fog had lifted, he recalled himself. He still could not recall his name. Everything has its proper order. The first things that surfaced were the words "hero of the empire," "pillar of the empire."
The hero who had saved the nation from chaos.
The first pillar that supported the empire.
Originally the pillars of the empire had been called with the character for pillar, but in high evaluation of the achievements of the man who had been commander of the Golden Horn Knights, the empire broke an eight-hundred-year tradition. From him onward, the pillars of the empire came to be called with the character for horn rather than pillar.
Imperial First Horn.
The first pillar supporting the empire, and the first horn that pierced the empire's enemies. If the empire were a ship, he was its prow—the sharp horn that smashed with ramming anything that blocked the path.
The feats he achieved while living as the Imperial First Horn were truly endless. He hunted fallen stars, slew demons that crossed the boundary of the Outer Land, prevented the empire's civil wars, and saved the empire from crisis time and again.
"Hero."
"It seems King Arthur has returned alive."
"That man is truly the master of Excalibur."
"Hero! Great, truly great!"
"The first pillar of the empire."
Every citizen of the empire knew his name. Not only the empire. Everyone on the continent knew his name. Every time he carved a star into the sky, the whole continent cheered. For the world always raves about the existence of a hero.
He lived hearing praises that King Arthur had returned, that he had achieved feats rivaling King Arthur's. He strove to become someone worthy of those praises.
When he had nearly drawn Excalibur in truth, on the day he pulled that sword halfway from the rock—had not even the old heroes of the night sky been astonished? He could never forget those glorious days. They had been truly happy days.
He always won and always shone.
He thought it could be so forever. Having grown up reading the biography of King Arthur, he believed he himself could write the "next story" that King Arthur had not been able to write. Like so many heroes, he dreamed.
The Outer Land too is full of enemies of the empire. Full of those who threaten humanity. So, as a hero... as a knight, I shall cut them down as is proper.
That was the role given to him.
I shall win honorably, proudly, gloriously.
The price for the praises he had received.
"You are a hero. You must be a hero. Between the empire's hero and my lover, you chose to be a hero. Then you must pay the price."
"I love you. I love you, ■■■."
"Please, may you have no regrets in this choice. May you die as a hero to the end. If that is your dream, may you achieve that dream."
"My life will now be placed upon that dream. That it is you who tramples my dream—I think myself fortunate."
Having sacrificed so many things to be a hero, he had to pay an exorbitantly high price for it.
I—
Defeated by the Revelry Emperor, losing his comrades, forgotten and forgetting, he lost everything. Yet he still wished to be a hero. Wished to be a knight. He had to. Having sworn before so many, before the lover he himself had killed.
I must be a knight.
That resolve made his life painful.
The self in his mind shone, but the self in reality was pathetic and shabby. The armor was rusted, the horns of the horned helmet broken, and soul and body rotted and crumbled.
I, I······
He endured. Endured and endured again.
Regarding himself as a knight.
Yes, I am a knight. A knight who knows honor and pride. He had to act as a knight.
What am I?
But the self as a mere human posed the question. What value is there in that? Can you accept such an end? it retorted.
What is the end waiting for you.
An end of being forgotten by all, even the fact of having existed forgotten, finally falling to a mere beast. Can you accept that end? Is wishing to be a knight more valuable than such an end?
He could not answer that question.
Indeed, that was far too terrible a thing.
The brilliant days, the achievements he had built—all of it was forgotten. The moment he died, even the remaining records would all disappear. For that was the curse laid upon him.
That was the denial of his entire life.
If the feats and stories he had built all vanished, was he a knight? Could he be remembered as a knight? Unable to answer the question he posed himself, he wandered the Outer Land.
Ah······
The stars all crumbled. Soul and body, unable to gain new stars, rapidly eroded. The empire's emblem engraved on the armor wore away. The body gradually transformed grotesquely. Becoming something other than human. In the same form as the beasts wandering the Outer Land······
Becoming undead, a fallen star, a Fallen Star.
Ah.
When he removed the helmet and looked at his face reflected in water, there was one hideous monster.
An appearance that could not possibly be called human, or a knight. It was not only the exterior that changed. He felt his interior also distorting hideously.
Someone kept whispering in his ear.
Kill the young stars. Kill the new stars that have just set foot on this land, and take those stars. Hunt the weak stars. Then you can postpone the terrible end given to you. Perhaps you might even regain glory.
Yes, is there not a proper justification?
The honor of my comrades hangs on these shoulders. If I die, they become jesters. That cannot be, can it? Discarding my honor and pride for them... is that not rather something worthy of praise?
Even the Holy Flame Guardian Schleinn is doing so. I, I too if I do so······
Persuading oneself is easy. Self-rationalization is all too easy. Performing it was also easy. For he was still a strong being.
Moreover, it is a matter of only gain if done.
Then what reason was there not to do so? Simple. Because it was not knightly. Because it was a matter without honor or pride.
The self of his youth would have firmly said such actions must not be done, but the aged and exhausted self could not so assert.
Honor, pride······ what do I gain by protecting them?
There is nothing to gain by protecting them.
When violating them, there is much to gain.
Then is there no need to foolishly cling to useless things like honor and pride?
If I kill young stars and take the stars, can I not live longer. Can I not prolong life a little more?
When the thought reached that point, he opened his eyes wide. What am I thinking right now. At the thought that suddenly arose, he felt disgust for himself.
Not only the exterior but now the interior too is becoming a monster. You are truly discarding honor and pride, trying to become a monster rather than a knight.
Clack.
From that point, he pressed the helmet on firmly.
He fixed the seams of the helmet tightly. He never removed the helmet again. For if he did not cling to "things visible on the outside"—the helmet, the armor, the knightly demeanor—he felt he could no longer call himself a knight.
Thus he became the "Helmet Knight."
Hiding the interior that had become ugly, he wandered.
For ten years, fifty years, a hundred years, a hundred and fifty years.
He simply wandered endlessly.
And at the end of that wandering, around the time when even armor and helmet could no longer hide the festering insides—
"Knight of Atanga, squire of Ivan. I am Najin. I accept the challenge to a duel. This is a duel, is it not?"
The Helmet Knight faced a boy.
The boy was a young star. Still young, but possessing a star that shone more than anything. A star so dazzling that the eyes looking this way hurt.
The boy's star illuminated the Helmet Knight's star.
"Did you say honor and pride are pure liquor?"
It illuminated a star that could no longer shine on its own.
"Have a drink. I'll be your drinking buddy at least."
He got drunk. Drunk on honor and pride. While with the boy, the Helmet Knight could be a knight. Holding the forgotten dream, the lost things in hand, with the boy the Helmet Knight set out on the final journey.
To the knight groaning under his duty, he gifted a knightly end. He performed a funeral solely for him so that the fallen star who had lost himself could shine one last time. Sometimes chased by the undead, sometimes hunting the undead, and sometimes exchanging trivial stories before a campfire.
Then the Helmet Knight ruminated on the story the boy had told.
The story of a certain knight who had shone in a place without stars.
The Helmet Knight deeply immersed himself in the life of the knight named Ivan. Because he thought it resembled himself. And the one word Najin spoke at the end of that story pierced deep into the Helmet Knight's heart.
"If he wishes to be a knight, is he not already sufficiently a knight?"
Yes, indeed as those words said.
Recalling those words, the Helmet Knight laughed.
"I wish to be a knight."
Laughing, he opened his eyes.
"Then I am a knight, no?"
To that question Najin answered.
Of course. You are already sufficiently a knight. At those words the Helmet Knight laughed more pleasantly than anything.
Clack.
The seams of the helmet came undone. The seams locked for long years fell away. Still without removing the helmet, he looked at Najin. Meeting the gaze of his disciple, the Helmet Knight opened his mouth.
"The third request, Najin."
The last wish he had saved.
A wish for himself, or for the boy before him.
"Duel with me."
The Helmet Knight made a wish upon the stars.
"Grant me an honorable end."
To that wish Najin gladly answered. Leaving the fiercely burning campfire behind, they prepared for the duel. In a duel, the challenger must first reveal their name. The Helmet Knight did not forget that rule.
Now I can reveal my name.
The fog had cleared. The memories had all returned.
Having recalled himself, he had confidence.
"I am."
He gripped his helmet.
Gripping the helmet, he recalled his name.
"I am Alderan Basaglia."
He recalled all the names that called him. Recalling the words with which he could introduce himself, he laughed.
"Imperial First Horn, Sword Master of Briton, commander of the Golden Horn Knights, and······"
Now he remembered.
Even the name of the sword he had wielded.
"Founder of the Triumphant Sword."
Having recalled everything, he cast off his helmet. For now even without the helmet he could regard himself as a knight.
By casting off the helmet, the Helmet Knight became a knight.
What was revealed upon casting off the helmet was the face of a monster. The hideously distorted face could not be called human even as flattery. There were eight eyes, several mouths attached to the face, and the head burned like black flames.
What had been hidden by the helmet was the face of a monster.
But Najin did not regard him as a monster.
Najin raised his sword and shouted.
"I am Najin."
If the opponent has revealed name and affiliation, revealing one's own is courtesy to the opponent and the rule of the duel. Najin knew that rule well.
"Squire of Ivan, knight of Atanga, disciple of Imperial First Horn Alderan Basaglia, and······"
Najin planted the spear he undid from his back into the ground.
"Apprentice knight of the Golden Horn Knights."
At that answer Alderan laughed with satisfaction. Toward his disciple and junior, the rising star, Alderan shouted.
"To an honorable duel."
Please, grant me an honorable death.
With those words as the last, death caught up to Alderan. The reason he had barely been holding onto blurred. Flames swallowed his head and paralyzed his reason.
But he did not become a beast like the Silent Knight. Because to the end he wished to be a knight. Because a knight cannot commit the disgrace of crawling on four legs and howling like a beast.
Even though half of him had become undead, Alderan was still a knight.
He took his stance.
Standing on the boundary line of undead and human, of unconscious and conscious, of beast and human.
He gripped the sword bound at his waist. The sword that was like his symbol. A single sword that had been the symbol of the empire's hero. The sword he could not draw because he could not regard himself as a knight—Alderan Basaglia drew it.
Triumphant Sword.
The swordsmanship that had made him a symbol of victory by winning and returning from numerous battlefields. A sword that was like his symbol, one that had led an era. The moment he drew the sword, stars fell from the sky.
The stars Alderan Basaglia had possessed.
Eight stars fell.
The already crumbled stars all fell, scattering brilliant light one last time.
In that moment Najin's eyes widened greatly. Information that could not possibly connect, puzzle pieces that had been obstructed by something—all of them fit together.
———Najin intuited.
What stood before him now was not a wandering knight roaming the Outer Land. Nor was it an undead fallen to a beast. What stood before him now was the empire's Sword Master. A hero who had led an era.
Clench.
Najin gripped his sword.
"Come."
Probably the last teaching.
To give that teaching Alderan Basaglia raised his sword. To receive that teaching Najin gripped his sword.
The fallen star and the rising star—two stars shone.