Free Knight (2)
Free Knight, Najin.
At the youth’s introduction, Jowell’s eyes went wide. He knew that name. In truth, there was no way he could not have known it. Word of the new star that had set the Continent alight had reached even the distant battlefields of the Outer Land.
Remember that fellow who became the youngest Sword Seeker?
How could I forget? The unparalleled genius who reached Sword Seeker at eighteen.
I hear the lad took two stars this time. At once, no less.
Come now. That can’t be right. Even a lie needs to sound plausible before anyone will swallow it. Talk sense.
······.
······You’re joking, aren’t you?
Only a few days earlier he had traded those words with a comrade.
The Free Knight part was unexpected, but after achievements like that, Jowell thought, a Free Knight’s title was only fitting.
While that memory was still surfacing, a gust of wind stirred Jowell’s hair. Forgetting even to run, he glanced back without thinking.
Just now—something went past me, didn’t it?
Only a beat later did Jowell realize Najin had brushed by him. The youth was already charging straight into the throng of undead that had been chasing Jowell.
“Wait, you—”
Jowell’s hand shot out toward Najin on pure reflex.
He meant to stop him. Yes, the youth was the unparalleled genius who had claimed two stars at eighteen, but he was still only a Sword Seeker, same as Jowell himself. There were simply too many undead for a single Sword Seeker to face.
At least thirty of them.
And mixed among them, demonic beasts and monsters besides.
No foe a lone Sword Seeker could hope to handle. Jowell’s gaze wavered. Should he join in? Should he throw himself in as well? The knight in him shouted that he must, yet the bare human Jowell—stripped of armor and sword alike—could not bring himself to move.
He hesitated, torn, only to realize a moment later that the conflict was unnecessary.
A flash.
For an instant Najin’s figure vanished among the undead—then light flared. Light the undead bodies could not hide. In the same breath that light blazed—
Shaaaaaaaaaak!
The undead came apart.
In a single stroke, a full ten of them were cleft clean in two. Those halves split again, then again into quarters. By the time the flash had struck five times, the undead were reduced to dozens of ragged pieces.
Blade-light trailing luminous afterimages—sword-flashes—blinked several times within a single second. With every blink, the carved remains collapsed.
Jowell’s eyes bulged.
What am I looking at? That youth was supposed to be a Sword Seeker, wasn’t he? To Jowell’s eyes this was no Sword Seeker. He himself stood at the same realm, yet even following Najin’s movements was almost more than he could manage.
Fast. Far too fast.
And not merely fast—every motion was ruthlessly efficient.
By nature the undead could be slain only by piercing the heart, and they knew it; they protected that one place with desperate care. When warriors who had been Sword Seekers in life devoted everything to guarding a single point, breaking that defense was never easy.
Yet as if he understood that perfectly, Najin never forced a cut where a cut was hard. He sliced the gaps between joints, ripped open calves, scored legs until balance failed—then drove his blade into the heart.
The finish was nothing more than a simple thrust: extend the sword, pull it back. Against a foe whose defense had already collapsed, that was enough.
And the entire sequence happened so quickly that if you lost track for even a moment, it looked as though the undead were simply being butchered into fine pieces.
What in the world······
Slaughtering nearly thirty undead and monsters took less than a few minutes. Having literally carved the horde to pieces, Najin gave his blade a casual flick.
“Hah.”
A short breath, then he sheathed the sword.
He turned toward Jowell—then stopped midway, bent, and picked up the sword lying on the ground. The same sword Jowell had flung away while fleeing.
Najin looked at him.
A silent question: This is yours, isn’t it?
When Jowell slowly nodded, Najin gathered both the sword and the armor Jowell had discarded and brought them over. The moment Jowell took them, he could not meet the youth’s eyes.
“Ah—thank you.”
Shame and wretchedness had already settled over him. Looking down at the dirt-smeared blade and armor, Jowell’s gaze darkened.
“I, ah—”
“Najin.”
“No, I know the name. How could I not? And I just heard it a moment ago, besides······”
Then? Najin’s look invited him to speak if he had something to say. Managing at last to meet those eyes, Jowell’s lips moved.
“For saving me—my thanks. I am Jowell. A knight of the Nost Unit, charged with guarding the Northern Boundary Line.”
“···The Northern Boundary Line?”
“That’s right. Where it meets the frontier of the Outer Land.”
Najin’s expression turned thoughtful.
Then he nodded as though everything made sense.
“I see. A pleasure, Sir Jowell.”
“That—you, no. Forgive me. Sir Najin, what business brings you to a place like this? If there is any information you need, or guidance, speak freely. I will help however I can.”
Even as he said it, Jowell felt the shabbiness of the offer.
He knew. The youth before him had simply saved him; he would want no payment, and he certainly needed no help from Jowell.
Still Jowell forced the question—was there anything he required, anything Jowell could do? A scrap of pride had put the words in his mouth.
And the moment he spoke them he regretted it. I shouldn’t have said that. A simple bow and a thank-you would have been enough. Why this? Ashamed to accept help without price because I still call myself a knight?
Jowell’s face darkened a shade further.
And Najin—
“······.”
—simply stared at him in silence.
Najin’s eyes narrowed. After a brief pause he waved a hand left and right in front of Jowell’s face, then snapped his fingers twice, sharp and clear, right before the older man’s eyes.
As if testing a reaction.
“Hmm?”
At the odd behavior Jowell tilted his head. Only then did Najin answer, “It’s nothing,” and smile.
“Sir Jowell? You wouldn’t happen to have anything to eat, would you?”
“······Eat?”
“Food or drink. It’s been a while since anything passed my lips.”
“I have a little combat rations left.”
“That’ll do nicely.”
Najin nodded, then somehow produced firewood, struck a spark, and soon had a fire crackling. Watching him out of the corner of his eye, Jowell sat down opposite with awkward hesitation.
Crack. Crackle······
Over the rising campfire Jowell warmed the combat rations and something to drink. It was meager recompense for a life saved, yet Najin tore into the jerky as though it were more than enough.
“Salty—but the flavor’s rather good.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. This is decent enough as well······”
Jerky, rock-hard combat bread, thin soup. Najin savored them as if they were a banquet, then looked across at Jowell.
“How long have you been in the Outer Land, Sir Jowell?”
“A year or two, I think.”
“Not long, then.”
“True. I’m still a green recruit. Unlike the other knights of the unit, I’m not used to life out here. Still can’t quite adapt.”
Jowell gave a bitter smile.
“Truth is, I feel as though I’m wearing clothes that don’t fit.”
“Don’t fit?”
“I parade about in armor because I’m a knight, but this plate that never felt heavy on the Continent becomes crushing here in the Outer Land.”
The armor was heavy. Jowell had set the pieces Najin had returned beside him and made no move to put them on again.
“Mind if I unburden myself a little? I feel guilty for taking the time of so fine a knight as yourself······”
“We’re both knights, aren’t we? Say whatever you like.”
“Thank you.”
A long breath, then Jowell began.
“The truth is, just now—watching you, Sir Najin—I felt ashamed.”
Shame. Humiliation. And wretchedness.
“If I remember right, you’re eighteen. Is that so?”
Najin’s lips twitched once; then he nodded.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Young. No—more than young. A child, really. Embarrassing as it is to admit, I turn one hundred and twenty-two this year.”
A hundred-and-twenty-two-year-old knight felt shame.
Shame at pouring out his grievances before a boy a full century younger, and shame at his own state. To hide it, Jowell praised him.
“To set foot in the Outer Land at that age—what resolve. Honestly, I respect it.”
“Do you?”
“Of course! You’ve barely reached Sword Seeker and already stand at such a height—astonishing. A true model for any hero.”
“I’m grateful you say so.”
Jowell laughed hollowly and rubbed his own arm.
“Compared to you it’s nothing, but······”
Gazing into the fire, he let the past rise.
“On the Continent I made something of a name for myself. Earned a few respectable merits. Along the way I even claimed one star, and managed to scratch my name into a line of history.”
That was how it had been on the Continent.
There, Jowell had shone. He had never felt small, never felt ashamed. He could square his shoulders and call himself a knight without flinching.
“So when I volunteered for the Outer Land, for this battlefield, I still believed······ that I could shine here the same way I had on the Continent.”
He flung both arms wide and cried out like an actor on a stage.
“Who am I? Sword Seeker, knight of Drevy—Jowell! Before the young master who was to be the next head of Drevy I swore: I will live as a knight even here. I will raise the name of Drevy high and return.”
But—Jowell twisted his mouth into a cringing smile.
“Reality proved far less kind. On this soil I am less than a common foot soldier. Far from shining, I grow dirtier and more stained by the day. I can no longer even introduce myself as a knight of House Drevy in front of others. Instead of raising the name, I seem only to foul it.”
Crack. Watching the fire, he muttered,
“I am afraid. Everything in this land frightens me. The undead that will not die even when you sever their limbs or cut off their heads. The monsters that swallow starlight. Demons. The stars themselves in that night sky. And the Transcendents who may appear before me at any moment—I fear them all, again and again.”
Jowell groaned.
“Most of all I fear that in this place there is no such thing as a beautiful end.”
He pointed at the scattered corpses of the undead.
“Every time I think those things may be my final form, the terror is more than I can bear. If I had known, perhaps I should have met an honorable death back on the Continent. I regret it every single night.”
Jowell looked at Najin—
at the youth who shone where he himself did not.
“Just a little while ago it was the same. I declared I would become bait in my comrades’ place, spoke a fine line, steeled myself for a fine end······ and yet—”
He hung his head.
“I was seized by terror. I screamed like a coward, flung away armor and sword, and became nothing but a frightened man, no longer a knight. Truly a wretched sight.”
When he raised his face again, envy—or perhaps inferiority—clouded his eyes.
“I envy you, Sir Najin.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Because I too wanted to be a knight who shone like you—a hero whose presence could still be felt even on this Outer Land soil.”
At those words Najin was more than a little taken aback.
It was something he had never imagined hearing.
He had climbed to a height where others might look up to him, yet he had never been aware of it. Always he had run with eyes fixed only forward, only higher; he had never once looked back.
“I wanted to become a hero like you.”
But when he did look back—
he was already someone’s dream, someone’s goal. The realization felt strange to him.
“That’s··· a little unfamiliar.”
“Unfamiliar? What do you mean?”
“In truth, I used to envy titled knights like you, Sir Jowell. That was my dream.”
Jowell blinked.
“Me?”
“To eyes that had crawled at the very bottom, every knight looked radiant. Of course there were those among them who were unworthy of the name··· but you are not one of them, are you?”
“I am not. You saw it yourself—the way I screamed and fled like a coward.”
“So you screamed a little. What of it?”
Najin shrugged.
“Buying time for your comrades. Becoming bait so they could escape······ Isn’t that a noble choice?”
“I only did it because I wanted a fine end.”
“A fine end. If you acted because you desired a knight’s end, that makes you all the more a knight. Doesn’t it?”
Jowell let out a long breath.
“Did I not look contemptible?”
“Not at all. Not in the slightest.”
“I threw off my armor and ran. In the final moment I thought, what worth is there in honor or pride? I doubted the very value of a knight.”
“What worth is there in blind faith? Things become precious precisely because we doubt them, question them, and still cannot let them go.”
“Because we doubt and still cannot abandon them, they have worth······”
The old knight turned the young knight’s words over in his mind.
“A good··· truly a fine way of putting it.”
He smiled bitterly.
“I, who have lived a hundred years longer than you, ought to be the one teaching—yet here I am receiving the lesson.”
“Learning has no seniors or juniors.”
“That is true as well. Thank you for listening to an old knight’s grumbling. My heart feels a little lighter for it. May I ask one last thing?”
“Of course.”
“Sir Najin—in the eyes of a Free Knight, a knight among knights—how do I appear? May I still call myself a knight?”
Crack—the campfire flared high.
Looking into Jowell’s eyes, lit by the wavering flames, Najin smiled.
“Of course. You are a knight, more than enough.”
“Hahahaha! To be recognized by my own hero! Thank you. My heart truly does feel lighter.”
Jowell’s laugh rang free and clear.
“I’ve taken far too much of a valuable man’s time. I should gather myself and—”
“Sir Jowell.”
Najin stopped him as he began to rise. Platinum light shone in Najin’s eyes as they fixed on the older man.
“You said you feared what comes after death?”
“I did. To become one of the undead, to forget myself and turn into a beast—that is a terror beyond measure.”
“Then allow me to ease that fear a little.”
“How could you?”
Najin clenched his fist, then opened it.
Five stars circled above his palm.
Challenge. Dragonslaying. Breakthrough. Indomitable. And—
“Funeral.”
The Star of Funeral.
“That is the name of one of the stars I hold.”
“Funeral—the act of carrying the dead to the grave, is it not?”
“Yes. And also the meaning of guiding the departed to the place they ought to go.”
“Haha. Like a ferryman of the underworld.”
“The work is probably similar. The difference, if any······ is that I also arrange the final scene.”
In Najin’s hand the Star of Funeral glowed with a gentle light. Jowell found himself staring, entranced. The starlight felt peaceful, warm, and restful.
“Sir Jowell.”
“······.”
“Knight of Drevy, Sir Jowell.”
“Ah—ah, yes? You called?”
“I will carry you.”
“Me? Where?”
“To the place where you ought to close your eyes.”
Jowell struggled to make sense of the words.
Carry me? Why? What does that mean? Something refused to fit. Gears grinding out of alignment. And now that he thought of it, something had been wrong all along.
Stars—five of them? Why? Wasn’t it two? Only days ago I heard the youth had gained two stars.
A sense of wrongness. Frowning, Jowell glanced down at his own hand—and his eyes flew wide.
The hand he saw was rotting, crumbling.
Not the hand of a living man.
“······.”
Jowell’s pupils shook. Blinking hard, he looked at Najin. One of the youth’s hands still held the Star of Funeral; the other pointed at Jowell’s face.
“You may take the mask off now.”
Jowell’s fingers groped across his own features.
“You needn’t hide behind something like that any longer.”
A mask covered his face.
A ridiculous clown’s mask.
Still not fully fused to the skin, the mask shifted under his touch—and Jowell laughed.
Ah, he sighed.
“So that’s how it is.”
A bitter smile.
“I was already no longer among the living.”