That Is a Knight's Duty—No, His Privilege! (1)
Ramming. Najin’s lance was a single step faster than Don Quixote’s. A storm howled from its tip.
BOOOOOOM!
With a deafening roar the hut exploded. Amid the flying shards Don Quixote was hurled across the ground, tumbling end over end. He had never imagined he might be counterattacked; struck square by the Ramming, his body convulsed.
“Sancho.”
Don Quixote creaked as he lifted his head.
“What in the world do you think you’re doing?”
Even after taking the Ramming head-on he looked unharmed. Najin had meant to drive the thrust clean through him, yet it still wasn’t enough. He exhaled sharply and swung the lance in a wide arc.
Whoosh.
The wreckage of the hut and the clouds of dust were swept aside. Najin spun the lance once more and drove its butt into the earth.
“What is going on…?”
Rocinante, drawn by the uproar, came running late. His eyes flew wide the moment he saw Najin. He tilted his head.
“Who are you, stranger?”
Until now Najin had stood upon this stage as “Sancho.” No longer. He had been cast in the role of free knight. He stood here not as Sancho but as Najin. Only the clothes had changed, yet to Rocinante’s eyes he must have looked like an entirely different man.
Najin said nothing. He simply glanced back—toward the place where Sancho ought to have been. If he himself had been given a different part, then Sancho too should exist here as a separate being.
But Sancho was nowhere to be found.
Which means…
He understood well enough. And he understood what Sancho desired as well.
“Rocinante.”
Najin’s voice was clipped.
“That isn’t what matters right now, is it?”
He jerked his chin toward Don Quixote, who had been laughing like a madman the entire time.
“Right now the priority is restoring our master to his senses, wouldn’t you say? At least that’s how it looks to me.”
“I… can’t deny that.”
Rocinante groaned.
“Why must Heaven lay such trials upon us? Truly a harsh sky. Still, I take your meaning.”
He dragged a hand down his face and gripped his staff.
“What would you have me do?”
“I like a man who gets to the point. Since we’re already moving quickly, let’s keep everything quick.”
Najin pointed at Rocinante’s staff.
“I’ll be counting on you.”
A brief exchange of glances. No long conversation was needed. Rocinante tapped Najin once on the back with the staff—tap. Najin closed his eyes and opened them again. He drew a breath and let it out.
Quickened breathing, quickened pulse, then a single second of stillness.
No time to adapt was required.
Months of travel had already made him familiar with Rocinante’s acceleration. Even so, Najin opened his eyes slowly. From a pocket of his coat he drew a hair-tie and bound the locks that had come loose, sweeping them neatly back.
The violinist, Violet.
The moment he fastened the hair-tie she had left him, her voice whispered in his ear. That laughter was foul, she said. Such an unpleasant sneer did not suit him at all.
She was right.
This laughter suited no one—not him, not anyone present.
“Rocinante.”
Najin raised his sword.
“I’ll leave the rear to you.”
Always Don Quixote had taken the first blow, Sancho had followed, and Rocinante had supported. Little had changed. Only the direction of the blade’s tip was different now.
Creaking, Don Quixote rose and charged. With a crash that tore open the plain he came hurtling like a beast. Najin fixed his eyes on him and lifted one foot.
Thud.
He stamped the earth and dropped into a low stance.
Can you do it?
When have I ever done something only because I could?
Merlin’s question drew a dry snort from Najin. He did not act because he could. He acted because he must.
Eyes narrowed, he watched Don Quixote close the distance with terrifying speed, lance leveled. The transcendent was strong—horribly so. Najin knew that fact well.
Star of Contempt, Quixote.
Even if he had not yet fully become the Star of Contempt, that was no comfort. Before he was the Star of Contempt he had been the Star of Chatter—Don Quixote—and that version had never been weak either. In some ways the Star of Chatter was the more troublesome foe.
The man who led dozens of stars all the way to La Mancha.
Dozens of constellations had regarded him as their captain and poured their respect and support upon him. That was the ingenious gentleman of La Mancha, Don Quixote.
Even if the Revelry Emperor had meddled in the journey, not every part of it had become a lie. Her interference had been only partial. The feats Don Quixote achieved and the adventures he lived had all been real.
Which is why even the Revelry Emperor waited until the very last moment to intervene, wasn’t it?
A transcendent of that caliber. Though he was slipping into madness, his strength had not faded. The lance charge he had repeated thousands upon thousands of times on the road remained as devastating as ever.
Sssshhreeeek!
Don Quixote came tearing through the wind. Faced with the same lance charge that had once skewered giants and demons in a single stroke, Najin did not yield an inch. There were places a knight could not retreat from, and this was one of them.
Lance and sword met.
The repulsion of aura and sword-light, the sudden gale of pressure, gouged a crater into the plain. The ground split; the earth shook as if in an earthquake. When the dust settled, the result of the clash was not what anyone expected.
Ssshhhrrrak—Don Quixote was driven backward.
It was Don Quixote who had been forced back, Najin who still stood in place. Unexpected as it was, that did not mean Najin had won the exchange.
“Kh—cough.”
Najin spat blood-flecked phlegm. The arm that had swung the sword was split open, blood streaming. Don Quixote, shoved away, remained unmarked; Najin bled. Yet instead of showing pain he twisted the corner of his mouth upward.
“Huu.”
And rather than retreat, he took a step forward. He did not stop at one step; he charged straight at Don Quixote. That the opponent was stronger, that victory was impossible—such trivial talk was unnecessary.
Kaaaaaaaaang!
Don Quixote’s lance and Najin’s sword crashed together. They crashed again and again, filling the air with noise, and Najin refused to let that noise die.
Kang! Kaaaaang!
He clung like a leech. He smashed the lance aside, scraped its flank with his blade, ripped free sword-light in violent bursts so the sound would grow louder still.
Kagagagak! Kang! Kaaaaang!
The swelling din buried Don Quixote’s laughter. The grotesque cackle he spewed, the Revelry Emperor’s mocking sneer that echoed across all of La Mancha—Najin drowned them both beneath the collision of steel.
Thud—Don Quixote’s swing caught him and flung him backward, yet Najin rolled once across the ground, rose, and charged again.
Being pushed back was only natural.
The opponent was a transcendent; at this moment it was impossible for Najin to defeat Don Quixote. He knew that. Of course he knew.
If this were not La Mancha…
If this were not a star tomb…
Then that would certainly be true.
But this was a star tomb.
This was the La Mancha Don Quixote himself had found.
And the one fighting Don Quixote here was not Najin alone.
Acceleration.
Rocinante’s magic climbed another tier. Confirming that Najin could still keep pace, he poured on a higher level of haste. Behind Najin light flashed again and again; magic rained toward Don Quixote.
Sssshhreeeek!
Watching Don Quixote punch straight through that barrage, Najin gave a thin smile. To need support merely to match the man’s movements—yes, a monstrously strong foe.
But…
He had no intention of simply taking the beating. Catching the lance, Najin slid backward in a long skid.
Thud.
Where he slid, the Cross-Star Lance stood planted in the earth. He seized it, wrenched it free, and in the same motion spun a full circle while still sliding.
Ramming.
The spin flowed straight into another Ramming. The storm that burst from the lance tip slammed into Don Quixote, yet the man showed no sign of yielding. As though he knew nothing but the charge, trusting his armor, he drove through the gale.
Yet beyond the scattering storm waited
Triumphant Sword.
Najin stood with his blade hanging low, waiting. Exactly as if he had known the man would pierce the storm, exactly as if he had been waiting for this, he swung.
The fundamental stance of the Empire. Neatly ordered sword-light drew a single stroke.
Slash.
Half of Don Quixote’s helm sheared away. The sword-light did not stop; it continued and cut across his face. For the first time since the battle began, blood flew from Don Quixote. Caught in the blade-wind he was driven far back.
“Ahahahahaha!”
The flung knight burst into laughter.
Then he fixed Najin with a straight stare.
“Do not bar my path.”
A madman’s eyes. The eyes of a patient lost inside delusions rather than reality locked onto Najin.
“I must go to her. She waits for me! She—the most beautiful and noble woman in all the world!”
The symbol of a transcendent, the exclusive domain of a transcendent.
Through Sprouting, Blooming, and Full Bloom he had reached transcendence; now his mindscape unfolded across La Mancha.
Around him the scenery warped, twisted, and began to birth grotesque landscapes.
From here on.
Najin steadied his breathing. He took in with both eyes the nightmare that once more overlaid the La Mancha that had already become hell, and he planted his center.
So he would not be swept away by the rising tide.
So he would not lose himself.
Don Quixote, transforming into the Star of Contempt.
The domain he unfurled looked exactly like a child’s scrawl. Multicolored windmills stood here and there, stained in garish hues; tens of thousands of sheep bleated with eerie cries. And above it all a laughter far more grotesque than anything else echoed from the sky.
Sneering laughter, laughter made only for mockery.
When one looked up, a pair of eyes hung in the heavens—eyes smeared with paint. The eyes of the Revelry Emperor.
Kekekeke! Kyahahaha! Ahahahahaha!
A world stained with paint. A world as if a child had daubed color wherever its hand wandered—an utter mess. Don Quixote had taken the grotesque mindscape the Revelry Emperor had ruined and made it his own stage. Upon that stage he was nothing more than a clown.
“Ahahaha, ahahahahahahaha!”
Laughing until his lungs burst, until his throat went raw, he raised his lance. Onto the lifted shaft poured blue, red, yellow—every color of aura, slapping on like wet paint with wet, meaty sounds.
Bang.
The instant his foot left the ground. Even with Rocinante’s support accelerating every reflex far beyond normal, Najin’s eyes could not follow the motion.
All he managed was to twist his body.
Thud.
Because he had twisted on pure reflex, the lance-tip that had aimed for his heart punched instead through his side. Don Quixote slid past him across the plain. Though he rode no horse, the field rang with the absurd sound of a steed snorting—Heeheeheeheehing!
Ridiculous noise, exaggerated gestures.
Yet Najin could not laugh. Blood erupted from the hole in his side, and the blood that poured out was mottled with paint.
“Run, run, run!”
Don Quixote wheeled and charged again. This time a thigh, then an arm—each time the lance tip flashed in from a new angle, more holes opened in Najin’s body. Paint bled from the gaping wounds and dyed his clothes.
To a constellation, a domain is a stage made for oneself alone.
Why do transcendents treat those who have not transcended as mere commoners? The reason lies here. Upon the stages they create—stages that exist only for them—transcendents possess strength on a completely different order.
A domain that materializes their mindscape.
A domain dyed entirely in their own color.
Given that a transcendent’s power springs from absolute self-assurance, this stage is as good as a world that exists solely for them.
And Don Quixote was a master of the art.
He had never known refined technique, ultimate secrets, or the principle that pierces and cleaves the heavens, yet he had still ascended to transcendence. He had possessed an unshakable self, and his specialty had always been dyeing everything around him in “his color alone.”
The world lacks laughter!
Let us set forth on adventures worth laughing over and telling!
So he had cried, and he had painted his surroundings with laughter. The stages he unfurled were ridiculous, yet watching them one could not help but smile.
Twisted and broken though it might be, weakened though it might be—
his domain remained powerful. Powerful enough that no one who had not transcended could hope to resist.
“Ghk…”
Skewered on the lance like meat on a spit, Najin was shoved along. Don Quixote drove the weapon straight into one of the windmills that stood like stage scenery.
KRAAAAAASH!
The windmill collapsed under the impact, and Najin with it, tumbling across the ground. Even though five stars had amplified Excalibur’s regenerative power, that regeneration could not keep pace with the wounds he now carried.
Lightning flashed behind his eyes. Agony made his vision flicker again and again.
“Cough, kh…”
Swallowing blood, Najin forced himself upright.
…
Unlike usual, Merlin kept silent. She watched him with worried eyes, yet she said nothing—as if this were a trial he alone must overcome.
For that silence he was grateful.
It allowed him to focus inward.
“Huu…”
He released the hand that had been pressing his pierced side. Caring nothing for the blood that continued to flow, he closed his eyes. Even as Don Quixote charged, he simply let the sword hang and concentrated on the inside of himself.
“Aha, ahahahahaha!”
Don Quixote’s laughter thinned.
By the time that laughter could no longer be heard,
Najin opened his eyes.
Crack!
For the first time since the stage had unfolded, Najin’s swung sword smashed Don Quixote’s lance aside and forced its path to change. Eyes wide, Don Quixote reeled backward.
“Master.”
At the tip of Najin’s blade a star was shining.
Unyielding.
His body was in a state where collapse would not have been strange, yet his fourth star—his excessively strict teacher—refused to permit him to kneel.
“Master, did you not tell me yourself?”
Next the stars of Challenge and Breakthrough glittered. The space in which the stars shone was no longer Don Quixote’s domain. It was only enough ground for a single human to stand, yet for Najin now that was more than enough.
“A knight,”
Najin recalled,
the journey he had shared with Don Quixote while wearing Sancho’s name,
the words Don Quixote had shouted upon that road.
A knight, Sancho, is this!
It was the phrase Don Quixote had muttered like a habit. The chivalry he had read about until he was sick of it in knightly romances—he had proudly shouted it wherever he went.
“Dreams the impossible dream.”
An ideal so pure that even the author who wrote of it, let alone most knights, could never keep it.
“Defeats the invincible foe.”
Don Quixote had believed in that chivalry. He had not stopped at belief; he had put it into practice. No matter who laughed, he had pressed stubbornly forward.
“Endures unbearable pain, and dies for a noble ideal.”
He had forced the impossible dream into reality.
“Holds faith and reaches the stars.”
Toward the knight who at the end of that journey had finally touched a star—yet who had forgotten every one of those truths—Najin raised his sword.
“Is that not the knight you spoke of, Master? Is that not the knight you dreamed of becoming?”
“Sancho.”
“Have you forgotten?”
“Sancho, let us adventure! A joyous adventure awaits us. Come, there is no time to linger here!”
Najin let out a breath.
“If you have forgotten,”
Within the hand-span of space created by the stars he possessed, starlight Sprouted. The star held far too many stories to stop at merely putting forth a shoot.
After Sprouting, Najin had broken through countless hardships.
He had never yielded before trials.
Nor had he ever stopped challenging.
Fed by those stories, the starlight bloomed into flower.
“I will make you remember.”
The stars Najin carried Bloomed.