The Path to the Graveyard (5)

A constellation that holds many stars diversifies itself.

With the elements that compose it — the core one might call its very foundation — set down as roots, it stretches its branches high into the heavens. The growth of a transcendent was no different from the growth of a single tree.

Here stood the Demon of Revelry.

Her essence was revelry. Revelry was her starting point, and over long ages she had expanded the meaning of that word. What is revelry? Pleasure. What is pleasure? Laughter. There are many kinds of laughter, and among them the Revelry Emperor had chosen mockery.

Mockery. Ridicule. Pleasure. Ecstasy. Rapture.

And where does mocking laughter ring out? In a ridiculous farce. The word revelry and the word jester were intimately bound. Those who live their entire lives by laughter! Those who live to be laughed at by others — are they not jesters?

Jester. Mask. Derision. Comedy. Fable.

And from there, one step further.

Stage. Dream. Falsehood. Illusion. Actor. Performance…

The Revelry Emperor had broadened herself without end. The tree that bore the name of revelry had become a giant, driving its roots deep into the earth. From branches spread wide enough to blot out the sky hung every kind of concept.

From where to where it stretched.

How far, and by what paths it had grown.

A giant tree of which nothing could be known.

That was the essence of the constellation called the Revelry Emperor.

"A dreadful power."

Back-to-back with Najin, Kirchhoff spoke.

"The first contact is trivial. It begins with the corner of your vision going just a little hazy. A blur that would vanish if you simply blinked. From that kind of haze, the Revelry Emperor's power begins its invasion."

Impose a powerful suggestion from the start and it gets shaken off. If you thought of a person as a bucket of water, her power was like dissolving pigment into it. Dump in a fierce color — enough paint to stain the entire bucket — and wouldn't they notice?

An ordinary person might notice and still be unable to change anything.

But transcendents, especially the powerful among them, had the strength to overturn the bucket entirely and draw fresh water at once. Or to purify the water altogether.

"At first, something trivial."

And so the Revelry Emperor used a different method.

"From the corners, slowly — very slowly — it stains. It swallows you at a crawl. Drop a frog into boiling water and it will leap straight out, but raise the temperature by degrees and the frog dies without ever knowing it is being cooked."

It gnaws from the edges. It widens its sphere of influence. Even if you sense something wrong, it does not matter. Slowly, so very slowly, as you are eroded, even the sense of wrongness turns into familiarity.

"That is what happened to Rondinel."

Still back-to-back, he swung his sword as he spoke. Kirchhoff smiled bitterly. The power of oblivion hanging over his mind was not perfect.

With the Blue Spear, the Red Spear, and the Golden Spear at their head —

the desperate wishes of every citizen of Rondinel were lodged in Kirchhoff. Completely erasing the memories of a being who was a walking nation unto himself was impossible. Clear fractures remained, and whenever he witnessed a landscape resembling the past, Kirchhoff felt the fog that had filled his mind begin to lift.

They rose. The memories.

Because those memories existed, Kirchhoff had been able to break free of the Revelry Emperor's power. Of course, it was thanks to the young man at his back having opened a crack — but still.

"At first it was the beggars in the alleyways. It started with the vagrants. Then the slaves, then the merchants in the marketplace, and from there the common folk."

Recalling the past, Kirchhoff went on.

"By the time I came to my senses —"

He looked ahead.

"— everything in every direction was stained with paint."

"Like now, you mean?"

"Yes. It seems she's grown stronger since then. Even though I'd been caught by this power once before, it still took me a long time to break free."

Kirchhoff smiled bitterly, as if ashamed.

From his perspective, though, Najin was the remarkable one.

The Revelry Emperor was scattering power enough to swallow an entire nation, pouring her full strength into a single human being named Najin — and still Najin was holding on.

Of course someone like that would be the one to draw Excalibur.

Kirchhoff steadied his breath.

"There will be one."

"…"

Najin did not ask what.

Swinging his sword, Kirchhoff continued.

"Even the Revelry Emperor cannot project this much power without revealing her true body. Somewhere in this place, her apostle will be."

A being capable of activating the Graveyard of Stars all at once.

One who could wield the Revelry Emperor's power.

One who could remain certain of their own self while standing atop the paint.

"The Star of Contempt."

Najin murmured. Kirchhoff nodded. Of course, there was a chance the Revelry Emperor's true body had descended here — but if that were so, things would not have stopped at this level.

More than anything else…

Kirchhoff's eyes turned toward Merlin, who hovered at Najin's side. The Revelry Emperor would be afraid of that great mage.

"The Revelry Emperor won't descend here."

As if sensing Kirchhoff's gaze, Merlin nodded.

"Because if she moves carelessly, she might have to fight my true body. What that demon truly fears is me — the one beyond you."

Najin nodded. Of course, that was a last resort. But from the Revelry Emperor's position, facing Najin, she naturally had to keep that last resort in mind.

The moment she tried to kill Najin —

Merlin would appear on the spot, without fail.

Even the Revelry Emperor had no chance of victory fighting Merlin outside her own domain. She knew that.

"So she won't leave her territory."

Najin recalled something Merlin had once said.

If the Revelry Emperor ever stepped outside her sanctuary, Merlin would win ten times out of ten — but if they fought on her stage… Merlin might lose one or two times out of ten.

"She figures that only by fighting in her own sanctuary can she manage even the worst-case scenario."

Merlin snorted.

But she knew as well.

"…"

That had been when the Revelry Emperor held ten stars. And now, the Revelry Emperor possessed eleven stars — the same as Merlin. She had her own sanctuary, a place where she had gathered stars collected over hundreds of years.

But that was not a problem for now.

First, they had to smash this stage to pieces.

"Then first let's clear these —"

"No. There's no need."

Just as Najin was about to suggest sweeping away the surging paint and the jesters rising from within it together, Kirchhoff cut him off. He stepped away from Najin's back and took one stride forward.

Forward for him.

Backward for Najin.

Taking that step behind Najin, Kirchhoff said,

"In the end, if you don't bring down the star that forms the heart of the stage, the stage will go on. We'll be forced into a war of attrition. And that is the Revelry Emperor's surest path to victory."

That must not happen.

That simply must not be allowed.

"I will open the path."

Kirchhoff drew up his star.

"I will show the way to those buried in the graveyard. You find the Star of Contempt and bring it down. And…"

Kirchhoff gave Najin's back a light shove.

As Najin glanced back, Kirchhoff grinned.

"Become the lighthouse. Dawn Star."

Dawn Star.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

The star that lights the dark.

"Tell them the long night is over. That it is time to wake from this ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wretched nightmare. That dawn has come."

Tell the stars wandering lost in the nightmare of the Graveyard of Stars that morning has arrived. So declaring, Kirchhoff raised his sword. Azure sword-aura rippled like flower petals scattered on the wind.

"And the one who opens the path for that — is me."

Kirchhoff cried out.

"The Last Knight of Rondinel, Kirchhoff!"

Great Synthesis blazed.

The moment Najin nodded and sprinted forward, Kirchhoff advanced backward — toward the wave surging in on Najin. Their paths ran opposite, but their purpose was the same.

Sword raised, Kirchhoff smiled bitterly.

The memories were returning.

Things he had forgotten were beginning to surface.

"Ah…"

Not everything came back. Until the Constellation of Oblivion was cast down, he would never recover every memory. But even so, there were things he could recall.

The landscape of the moment Rondinel fell.

That day he had been running through a Rondinel stained entirely in paint. Kirchhoff had been a man of constant lies, swollen with bluster and forever inflating himself — yet even for such a Kirchhoff, there had been one person to whom he could never lie.

The lord who had taken him in.

The last king of Rondinel, Yuria.

The benefactor who had made a true knight of a mere vagrant — of a boy who had only been impersonating a knight. The lord who had gifted something genuine to a life that had been nothing but falsehood. Even in the moment the nation was falling, Kirchhoff had torn through the paint and raced for the top of the royal castle to protect her.

Gritting his teeth before that smile, Kirchhoff had laid out the situation. They could hold no longer. She must evacuate. He would help her. He would save her even if it cost him his life. He seemed to have poured out words of that sort.

And his lord had only smiled.

Kirchhoff had known. His lord had already made her choice. The girl who had ascended the throne so young had chosen, in her final moment.

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It was a heavy burden. He would have to live long years carrying it, and he could not even know whether a day would come when he might set it down. That was why it was a request.

Crying out that the impossible was possible.

Smiling that of course he could do it.

She had watched Kirchhoff charge the enemy with absolute confidence, and she tilted her head toward him. Her hair spilled aside, revealing her eyes.

Trembling with fear.

Her lips quivering —

and still, for the sake of her knight, she accepted to the very end the life of a king with composure.

Saying so, she had touched his heart — just a light tap — and Kirchhoff remembered the touch of his lord's hand. Remembering, he opened the eyes he had closed.

Ringing in his ears was his lord's voice.

As if answering that voice, Kirchhoff smiled bitterly.

"…As if I could ever have refused."

The voice of the lord he had forgotten, and the voice of his master the Blue Spear whom he had also forgotten, circled in Kirchhoff's ears. Before he knew it, a blue spear rested in his hand.

The blue spear that only the noblest knight of Rondinel could hold.

He had received that spear from Najin, yet Kirchhoff had never been able to grip it. He had believed himself unworthy. What right did a knight who had failed to protect his nation have to wield the blue spear?

But not now.

Raise your head.

Square your shoulders.

You are already a knight, Kirchhoff.

The Blue Spear's voice lingered. Kirchhoff swung his sword in a great arc and hurled it high into the sky. While the thrown blade spun through the air, Kirchhoff seized the spear.

Now he could remember.

The spear arts he had learned from that man.

"I am —"

With a heavy thud, Kirchhoff stamped the earth. Staring down the surging paint, the waves, the jesters, and the Revelry Emperor's dead, Kirchhoff smiled.

For a knight, after all, must be magnificent.

"— the Last Knight of Rondinel, Kirchhoff."

He swept the spear. From the tip of the blue spear, flower petals bloomed.

"So long as I draw breath, the history of Rondinel does not end. Rondinel exists, right here."

A star lodged in every petal. The stars that composed Great Synthesis scattered, riding the petals out in every direction.

The national flower of Rondinel scattered across the battlefield.

Swinging his spear, Kirchhoff remembered. The Blue Spear had always said: even if we meet a wretched death and leave behind no proper tale, all of us can become someone else's stepping stone. It is for posterity to decide the value of our lives.

Kirchhoff looked.

There, a young man was pressing forward. Watching Najin's back, Kirchhoff willingly offered himself as that stepping stone.

"Come, Revelry Emperor."

Tens, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of jesters surged up from the paint. Sensing that things were going strangely, the Revelry Emperor had begun committing her forces.

Stabbed, slashed, and broken by them, Kirchhoff never lost his smile.

Wearing a splendid grin, he stamped the earth again. The petals bloomed even more gorgeously. The cascading petals settled upon the paint-stained Graveyard of Stars. They were flowers offered to the graveyard — a floral tribute.

Blue flowers in full bloom.

Blue flowers that would serve as guideposts for those wandering the Graveyard of Stars. Kirchhoff gathered those flowers together. Following the wind raised by the sweep of his spear, everything in the area was drawn toward him.

Blue Hydrangea.

The technique left by the Blue Spear.

Amid the cascading petals, having drawn in demons, the dead, and jesters alike, Kirchhoff released the spear. Then he seized his own sword as it fell from the sky.

"I will show you that three hundred years have changed things."

Kirchhoff swung his sword.

"That you failed to break Rondinel."

Deep azure sword-aura swept the battlefield.

Great Synthesis dyed the field in blue light.