The Knights of La Mancha (1)
There exists a nation called Rondinel.
If the Empire stood as the heart of humanity, then Rondinel was its bulwark. In cooperation with the Empire, Rondinel held the front lines, barring those who sought to cross the boundary of the Outer Land.
Though Rondinel itself has long since crumbled into a mere handful of ash.
From the embers left in that ash heap, a single flame was kindled. One lone star, forged by gathering every element that had composed Rondinel into a single Great Synthesis. A vivid blue star resembling Rondinel’s national flower, the blue hydrangea.
Great Synthesis, Kirchhoff.
The sword of a transcendent who possessed only a single star flashed. Kirchhoff smiled. Wearing the most magnificent expression he could manage, he swept his blade through the air in a brilliant arc.
Had his liege not said as much?
Fight for humanity, just as Rondinel always had. As the last knight of Rondinel, swing your sword with flair and glory, so that the bards might sing of the final knight of Rondinel’s deeds.
Of course, there were no bards here.
No stars watched this battle either.
Yet that mattered little to Kirchhoff. Who said no one was watching? Right now, they filled his mindscape to the brim. Kirchhoff looked inward. Countless souls were watching him there.
Their faces were blurred; the memories would not come. But his liege’s face remained sharp and clear. So did the face of his master, the Blue Spear. Both of them were smiling at him.
Splat.
The Revelry Emperor tried to smear paint across their faces, but how could mere paint ever blot out the sun of Rondinel? Kirchhoff snorted and charged.
“Come, then. Come as many as you like.”
Paint surged like a tide. Jesters cackled. Fallen stars rushed at Kirchhoff. And Kirchhoff never once broke his stride.
A little farther forward, until the sun rose.
To buy the time remaining until dawn, Kirchhoff swung his sword. Even if he could not cleave the dark night itself, he could at least raise a small lantern.
Blue flowers bloomed across the battlefield.
Najin ran across the paint-stained wasteland.
The Revelry Emperor’s voice still rang in his ears, but it was bearable now. Her power was focused on Kirchhoff. Through the gap the man had carved, Najin drove the tip of his blade.
Then, slash.
Parting the paint, Najin steadied his breath.
From this moment, he had to find Quixote, the Star of Contempt. If he could bring down the one who had unleashed the Revelry Emperor’s authority in her place—she who never left her own domain—then he could smash this entire stage to pieces.
But how?
On a wasteland overpainted with color, vision was limited. Widen his sight to gather more information, and he would fall prey to the Revelry Emperor’s power. Worse, dozens of star tombs overlapped here.
In the truest sense, a Graveyard of Stars.
Through this tomb, Najin could vaguely grasp what the Revelry Emperor intended. The case of Icarus, the Wandering Star, made it simple.
The stars that entered Icarus’s ancient fortress, the Great Labyrinth Labyrintos, wandered the maze until they met their deaths.
A star tomb. A place where the memories of constellations lingered.
A tomb a transcendent raised for himself alone fundamentally gnawed at the souls of those who entered. A short stay was harmless enough, but linger too long and one became one with the tomb.
Memories tangled. The boundary between reality and stage blurred. In the end, the stage itself swallowed them whole.
That was the Revelry Emperor’s aim.
Using the Graveyard of Stars as a vast camouflage, she would digest every transcendent who came to attack her and make them her own. Before they even entered the tomb she had poured paint into their minds, so the speed of their erosion would be all the faster.
The Revelry Emperor is a schemer.
The more time you give her, the more troublesome she becomes.
Recalling that assessment, Najin exhaled a long breath.
…This was why he had rushed the campaign against the Revelry Emperor.
She was a schemer by nature, and the more time she was granted to prepare, the more difficult she became. The instant her plan had been disrupted, Najin had formed a subjugation force at once and pressed her hard, denying her any chance to ready herself.
But.
The Revelry Emperor had responded.
Even with her scheme ruined, even in a situation she could never have imagined, she had answered—almost as if she had known it would come to this all along.
Cackle, cackle.
He thought he heard her laughter in his ear. She was whispering to him. Did you think my plan had failed? Do you truly believe I have failed?
You understand nothing!
Ignoring the voice crawling through his mind, Najin let his sword hang low. Yes, he had fallen into her trap—but nothing was finished yet.
And…
Najin’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re just as ignorant as I am.”
He raised his hand.
The Star of the Funeral Procession blazed in his palm.
The star that stood at the opposite pole from the Revelry Emperor. Where she had broken things, Najin had mended them; where she had trampled people, he had made them knights again. All those stories were held whole within the Star of the Funeral Procession.
What makes a star shine is the narrative it carries.
The narrative of the Funeral Procession was the path Najin had walked, the life he had lived. Humans always find their answers in their own lives.
The Star of the Funeral Procession illuminated the wasteland.
The earnest wishes of those who desired a proper death became slender threads that entered Najin’s sight. Slender threads. Among countless branching strands he had to find Quixote’s. Under ordinary circumstances, picking Quixote’s thread from tens or hundreds would have been impossible.
“Merlin.”
If Najin had not had Merlin.
“Now.”
And if he had not possessed the narrative of having rescued the Star of Laughter, it would have remained impossible.
Beside the Star of the Funeral Procession, the Star of Laughter rose.
Two stars lit the path. Merlin gathered the tangled ways into one single road. Without hesitation, Najin stepped onto the path that opened before him.
Splat.
His senses tangled.
Splat…
He could not tell up from down, whether he was walking or swimming, falling or soaring—yet Najin did not stop. The road he had to take remained perfectly clear.
And the laughter ringing in his ears grew louder with every passing moment. It no longer rose from within him. The laughter he heard now began outside and struck his eardrums.
Closer.
The instant he stepped into that nearer place, the voice of the Stage Narrator rang out.
You may not enter this place.
You lack the qualifications.
This is La Mancha, a utopia that does not exist. Only the Knights of La Mancha may set foot here. You are not a Knight of La Mancha.
The Narrator denied Najin’s entry. It declared, with perfect clarity, that he possessed no right to take the stage.
You are the audience.
A spectator watching the stage from the seats.
The audience cannot intervene in the story.
That is an all-too-obvious rule.
You cannot become an actor.
Listening to those voices, Najin laid his hand against the opaque wall that barred his way. Then he snorted.
“I lack the qualifications?”
It was not the Narrator who answered. The lord who rested upon Najin’s shoulder burst into laughter—laughter thick with contempt—and settled into him.
I am entering my own domain.
Who dares speak of qualifications to me?
The Lord of La Mancha, Sancho Panza. The moment the rightful master of La Mancha took residence in Najin’s body, the curtain could no longer refuse him. He possessed more than enough right to take the stage.
And so, when the curtain was drawn aside and he stepped onto the stage—
A ridiculous, paint-smeared stage stretched away into the distance. And there he stood.
A being from whom every emotion but laughter had been castrated.
One whose story had been fouled by a jester.
And thus, one who looked down upon all things in the world.
The Star of Contempt, Quixote.
He looked upon Najin, who had climbed onto his stage.
Najin regarded the master of the stage.
“A new guest has arrived upon the stage! What kind of knight would fail to welcome a guest?”
Things he had not seen when he first faced the Star of Contempt now became visible.
Snort, snort-snort…
Quixote sat astride a donkey that brayed with comic absurdity. As if trying to portray the horned steed of a fairy tale, a wooden stick had been jammed into the donkey’s forehead. Najin recognized it at once as the staff Rocinante had once held.
“Onward, Rocinante!”
The donkey still resembled Rocinante. Even as a demonic beast, he remained Quixote’s legs.
“Who are you?”
Closing the distance in an instant, Quixote reined in right before Najin. From atop the donkey he looked down. The original Star of Contempt would have attacked any trespasser upon his stage without discrimination… yet now he felt a strange familiarity toward Najin.
As if greeting an old friend.
That gave Najin a brief window. In silence he studied the lance Quixote gripped.
Creak, creak-creak, skreek.
Something twisted and groaned inside the lance. At first it seemed mere noise, but knowing the weapon had been fashioned from Sancho’s own flesh, Najin heard the scream. Neither dead nor alive, Sancho was shrieking.
Lastly, Najin looked at Quixote himself.
Upon his back fluttered the banner of La Mancha, painted with a ridiculous sunflower. His armor was stained with paint. The corners of his mouth had been ripped back to his ears, and from that torn grin mockery leaked without cease.
“….”
His eyes looked down upon everything. In Quixote’s gaze the world was trivial. Everything in existence was petty and contemptible, as if it existed solely to be mocked… those eyes held nothing but contempt.
“Quixote.”
Najin spoke while meeting the Star of Contempt’s stare.
“What do you believe laughter is?”
A simple question.
The Star of Contempt answered with a sneer.
“Why, mockery of course. Ridicule! Derision! Laughter of scorn! The world is full of ridiculous, worthless things that exist only to be laughed at.”
He flung both arms wide like an orator.
“Laugh! Everything is nothing but a farcical play, so what reason is there not to laugh?”
Najin smiled.
“Is that so.”
“Yes, so answer my question. You—”
Najin swung his sword. A sudden strike, yet Quixote reacted. A tremendous clash rang out; both were driven backward. Clearing the billowing dust, Najin and Quixote locked eyes once more.
“Laughter is not that.”
In Najin’s hand the Star of Laughter shone.
“The laughter you speak of is not that at all, is it?”
The laughter I spoke of? Quixote’s eyes narrowed. Looking upon that star made his head spin. His thoughts turned to chaos.
But only for a moment.
Someone’s voice reached Quixote’s ear.
It was the voice of his beloved lady, Dulcinea. In a sticky, sweet tone she whispered to the Star of Contempt. Bring me that villain’s head. Make a flower of his skull and gift it to me. Then I shall smile for you.
In an instant Quixote’s tangled thoughts ordered themselves.
He rejoiced. He exulted. A knight’s love offered to his lady could be this pure. With a pure heart Quixote declared:
“Villain that you are!”
Quixote never judged for himself. Did not his lady Dulcinea show him the path?
“A villain must be punished by rights. I shall cast you down and present your head to my lady Dulcinea!”
The Star of Contempt, Quixote, raised his lance high toward the heavens.
In that moment his stage heaved.
The star relics he wore—the relics left by the Knights of La Mancha—blazed. From the paint surged the actors who had once performed those absurd adventures at Quixote’s side.
“Come, my dear companions.”
They wore jester masks and cackled.
“Glory to our noble lady, Dulcinea!”
They were no mere illusions.
The Knights of La Mancha whom Quixote had once led, countless transcendents, those who should have remained buried in La Mancha—all had become jesters and formed a single order of knights.
Beneath the banner of the Star of Contempt, the Knights of La Mancha gathered.
Dozens of transcendents fixed their gazes on Najin. The instant their spears and swords leveled at him, a burst of cackling laughter rose and the Stage Narrator spoke once more.
Behold the Knights of La Mancha!
Every one of them is a transcendent, veterans who once crossed the Outer Land at the Star of Contempt’s side.
They are powerful. Exceedingly powerful.
Beneath La Mancha’s banner they move as if of one body. They discovered La Mancha, which none had ever found, and revealed a utopia that should never have existed! Their feat rivals that of King Arthur herself.
Knights who found heaven in the desolate Outer Land.
They may even be greater than Arthur, who ultimately failed to reach utopia. At the very least, in this heaven they reached—La Mancha—they shall never be broken!
The bodies of the Star of Contempt and the Knights of La Mancha thrummed with power. The Stage Narrator had granted them narrative. Strength drawn from the stories that had originally been theirs. Upon this limited stage they could wield power beyond what they possessed.
Even if their opponent was Najin.
Even if he held Excalibur, even if he was Arthur’s successor.
Upon this stage the Star of Contempt stood greater than Arthur. That was how the Revelry Emperor had directed the scene. She was Narrator, playwright, and director all at once.
You stand alone.
Unlike the Star of Contempt, protagonist of this stage, you have no knights who follow you.
You cannot defeat them!
Just as the Revelry Emperor prepared to place the final period, Najin burst into laughter. He could not help it. His prediction had been perfectly correct.
“As expected—you know nothing at all.”
Najin raised his hand.
If you knew what happened in La Mancha.
If you knew what I obtained there.
Whom I met, what promise I made.
If you had known all of that—
Revelry Emperor, you should never have staged it this way. You should never have allowed me to meet the Star of Contempt. By any means necessary you should have barred me from this stage.
Rip.
Najin reached out and tore free the banner bound to his pauldron.
The hidden banner.
The blade he had prepared in La Mancha to bring down the Revelry Emperor’s final court jester.
He tied that banner to the spear of the Cross Star and raised it high. The crest of La Mancha was embroidered upon it. It was the military standard the Lord of La Mancha had bestowed upon Najin.
The instant the banner unfurled, Najin felt it. High above, the gaze of the Revelry Emperor that had been fixed upon him wavered. For the first time since the subjugation began, she had been caught off guard—and Najin sensed it.
Of course. This was a situation she had never anticipated.
Who could have expected that even within a hell painted over for centuries, there remained a soul that had never been stained?
“Sancho Panza.”
Najin called the name of the Lord of La Mancha.
And the master of La Mancha answered his call.