Curtain Call (1)

On the stage the Star of Contempt had wrought—upon La Mancha—Najin could not unfold a stage of his own. Staging something atop a transcendent’s stage was not impossible, but even that required a gap to drive into.

The Star of Contempt, Quixote, left no gaps.

The paint-smeared stage offered no foothold for any other soul; it existed solely as a gallery for the Star of Contempt’s delusions.

And upon that stage, the Star of Contempt is the protagonist.

What, after all, is a protagonist—the lead?

Exactly what the word says: the master of the role. Stage machinery, narrative, narration, direction… everything on the stage exists to make the lead shine. The entire world might as well be arranging itself for the protagonist’s convenience.

A stage on which he stood as the hero.

Upon that stage, Quixote was guaranteed victory.

How, then, does one defeat him without shattering the stage itself? Najin already knew the answer.

“The Star of Contempt’s stage is a single play.”

“It looks dazzling, but in the end it’s little more than a form that unspools ‘his own story’ to strengthen himself.”

“Narrative. Narrative itself.”

“It means you have to hurl the story you’ve built against it.”

So his master, the Helmet Knight, had said.

“Obviously, it’s difficult.”

“I tried it myself and failed. The Star of Contempt’s twisted self-assurance leaves no room for anyone else to insert themselves.”

“So I smashed the stage instead.”

“I don’t claim that was the correct answer.”

He had chosen the easy path, he said—unable to find a gap to enter the Star of Contempt’s stage, he had simply broken it with the simplest means available. Hearing his master call that “easy,” Najin could only smile bitterly.

Yet he understood what the man had been trying to say.

Back then, as he spoke those words, the Helmet Knight had been clicking his tongue in clear regret. A man who preferred to break an opponent head-on at full power would have felt smashing the stage as a kind of foul.

So I…

What had been impossible for his master was possible for him. Najin made his decision.

Boom.

Body restored, Najin kicked off the ground and ran. Turning over the method of dismantling the stage that rose in his mind, he sprinted.

Kaaaaaaaaang!

He caught the Star of Contempt’s spear as it sought to pierce Sancho and drove one step deeper.

At the same time the stage’s narration rang out.

Listening to that narration, Najin exhaled.

“Yes, milord—you pierced the giant.”

And then he cut in.

“I remember. The moment you burst into laughter before the giants surging like a tide.”

Najin spoke with a smile.

“Come, let us ride—those giants bar our path······.”

The Star of Dalso shone.

“Yet who would dare—”

Najin smashed the Star of Contempt’s spear aside. The stage’s narration began to waver. Without hesitation he drove another step deeper. The Star of Dalso engraved upon Excalibur blazed furiously.

“—to stop the ingenious gentleman of La Mancha, Don Quixote?”

Crack! The trajectory drawn by the Star of Contempt’s spear shattered. Caught in Najin’s rising sword-stroke, the spear’s path bent and struck empty air. A spear that should have been certain struck wide. At that fact the Star of Contempt’s eyes flew wide open.

Najin smiled.

“How could I not know?”

Standing with both feet planted on the stage, Najin cried out.

“I was there too.”

Najin had traveled La Mancha as Sancho. Though in the final moment he had appeared as a free knight, he had also been the one who walked every step of that journey beside them.

Every step of that journey was held within the Star of Dalso.

No matter how fiercely the Star of Contempt’s stage refused outside interference—would it also refuse an actor who had once stood upon the same stage? Everything on the stage exists for the protagonist, yet sometimes the stage lights fall upon a supporting role as well.

And Najin—

“They were glorious days.”

“You—”

“Weren’t they, milord? Think on it. You dismiss all of this as delusion, but······.”

He was an existence that could not be explained as a mere supporting role.

“How could all of this be delusion?”

Najin posed the question to the protagonist.

“When I stand here.”

Creak, creak, creak. The stage machinery whirred and clattered in noisy confusion. He could feel the stage’s narrator panicking. The Revelry Emperor could never exclude Najin from this stage.

Because the stars Sancho had led were supporting Najin’s existence.

That was precisely the difference between the Helmet Knight and Najin. The story Najin had built opened a gap in the Star of Contempt’s stage. Standing with his foot in that gap, Najin lifted his head.

“Milord.”

Najin asked again.

“What is a knight?”

A question cast at the protagonist.

If this place was a story, the protagonist had no choice but to answer. This time, brushing it aside with mockery would not be permitted. The knights of La Mancha were watching the Star of Contempt.

Now the stage lights no longer shone on the Star of Contempt alone. Across from the protagonist, they began to illuminate as well the trial he absolutely had to overcome.

Because a chivalric romance must contain a trial.

Because an adventure without trial holds no worth.

Even if it was smothered in paint, stained, and distorted, the essence of the stage called La Mancha was still “chivalric literature.” In accordance with that essence the stage machinery began to move with noisy purpose.

“If you do not remember—”

The free knight leveled his sword.

“—I shall make you remember.”

That was a free knight’s role, after all.

2.

The aspect of the stage changed.

The structure of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠story shifted.

Boom—the instant the narration tried to continue, Najin charged the Star of Contempt. Then he snorted. Trying to cast me as the devil, are you? Cast away. As much as you like.

Excalibur shone.

The free knight’s coat flared.

Najin turned over the meaning of the role he had been given. Not merely swinging a sword—he began to draw out, one by one, the stories he had built. The stage’s narration and Najin’s narrative collided.

When they tried to reverse the direction of the narrative to attack Najin—

“That is the spear art Sancho taught you. Milord, your spirit was fine, but your technique was lacking. The one who filled that gap was······.”

Najin flung Excalibur skyward. In place of the soaring Excalibur he swung the Cross-Star spear.

“—Sancho. Your squire, and your one and only friend.”

Najin swung the spear as Sancho would. Because he had adventured as Sancho, and because mimicking another’s movements had never been difficult for him, imitating Sancho’s spear art was no hardship.

“Sancho was also your teacher.”

The spear that had been drawing everything in with the force to pierce all things was weakly deflected by Najin’s spear. He had overlaid the story of “the days of sparring with Sancho” rather than a blood-duel meant to kill.

Spear and spear crossed. No blood flew.

Najin traced his memories. Just as the Star of Contempt unspooled his story, Najin unspooled his own.

Now Najin no longer needed to speak lines with his mouth. The Star of Dalso, with the sound of laughter, took over the narration for him. Merlin tuned Najin’s star and carried the narration onward.

In Sancho and the Star of Contempt’s first adventure, Don Quixote, clashing spear and blade, suddenly tumbled from his horse. His spear stabbed empty air as he rolled across the ground.

Because on that first adventure Don Quixote had fallen from his horse.

Unaccustomed to riding, he had tumbled in an undignified sprawl. And the same held for Najin, who had called the story forth.

Thud!

Najin, too, failed to master the spear’s weight, lost his balance, and rolled across the ground. After one full revolution over the paint-stained earth he rose.

The corner of the Star of Contempt’s mouth—filled until now with nothing but mockery—trembled. Najin laughed aloud, brushed the mud from his face, and charged.

Merlin intercepted the Revelry Emperor’s narration. Under ordinary circumstances it would have been impossible, but so many gazes were watching this stage that it became possible.

Sancho. Rocinante. The knights of La Mancha.

Continuing their own battles, they watched the collision of Najin and Don Quixote. The narrative Najin had drawn forth was not a story that belonged only to the two of them.

The Star of Contempt did not laugh. Neither did the jesters who followed him. But Najin smiled, and the knights of La Mancha each added a word of their own.

“When you suddenly came racing up to the very top of the tower, I nearly jumped out of my skin. That tower had held me for hundreds of years—who knew it would be broken so easily.”

“Haha! Princess of the lonely tower, you should have seen the way milord climbed. Do you know how he did it? He just stuck himself to the wall like a spider and scrambled up!”

“Truly? That’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Don’t even start. That was far from the only eccentricity.”

Clashing with the jesters, bleeding, limbs twisting and breaking, they still laughed and traded banter. Even in the midst of brutal combat the knights of La Mancha never lost their laughter.

“Leaving out the time we broke through the domain of the Heavenly Wandering Star would be a crime.”

“Don’t forget the story of when the garden accidentally caught fire and the gardener screamed and yanked on milord’s beard. I still think of that one.”

“What about when the barber played that prank?”

“Or the time Sancho declared, ‘I am different from milord,’ and boldly dove into the labyrinth—only to get trapped right alongside milord.”

They spoke, laughing.

Of magnificent adventure tales. Of the journey they had shared with Don Quixote.

The Star of Dalso shone even more fiercely.

Narration was unnecessary. Sometimes a play proceeds solely on the lines of the actors who have taken the stage, without commentary. Between the actors’ lines there was no room for narration to insert itself.

“They were joyful days.”

“Moments you couldn’t endure without laughing.”

The Star of Contempt clamped his hands over his ears against their laughter. Najin followed them in recalling the past. He had been present for every one of those moments.

Boom, kaaaaaaaaang!

Najin and the Star of Contempt no longer fought only within the pit. They shoved each other, hurled each other, flung each other, and crossed the entire battlefield.

Ramming.

The storm raised by Najin’s spear was torn apart by the Star of Contempt’s spear-first charge. Reaching Najin’s front by shredding the storm, the Star of Contempt found waiting for him—

Thud.

—Najin, feet planted, driving his sword downward. He had compressed sword-energy capable of being released across dozens of meters onto the blade. Excalibur, sheathed in that compressed energy, no longer merely shone—it looked like a star itself.

With a flash of searing light the descending sword shattered the Star of Contempt’s charge. Crack—the Star of Contempt tumbled from his mount and slammed into the earth. A stretch of ground several meters across caved in and cracks raced outward.

It was an impact that should have broken every limb.

Thwack!

Yet with a surge of paint the Star of Contempt immediately rejoined his body and, with blood-smeared hands, seized Najin’s ankle. He yanked. The instant he meant to hurl the unbalanced Najin to the ground—slash—the Star of Contempt’s arm was severed.

“Uha, uhahahaha, hahahahahaha!”

The Star of Contempt roared with mad laughter and stretched his remaining hand toward the severed arm. The moment he grasped it he rejoined it. The motion of rejoining the arm and the charge were indistinguishable.

Bare-bodied, the Star of Contempt slammed into Najin.

The instant Najin was shoved back with a thud, Rocinante came racing from behind and struck Najin’s body again. Mounting his beloved steed in the same motion, the Star of Contempt accelerated.

“Run, run, run, run!”

Becoming a single streak of light he charged; every time the spear forged from Sancho’s flesh touched him, Najin’s body festered and crumbled. Yet Najin’s eyes remained calm.

A linear attack. An attack repeated any number of times.

Najin’s gaze did not follow the Star of Contempt. He moved toward the position the man would reach one second later. The grasp was complete. The analysis was finished. Excalibur flashed.

They collided.

The first exchange he received; the second he deflected; the third he countered. Crack—the Star of Contempt tumbled from his mount. In the very moment of falling he thrust his spear at Najin instead of rolling.

As if he meant to use even the act of being unhorsed.

Najin, prepared to sacrifice a part of his body, swung his sword as well.

······Pierced, cut, collided—an exchange no ordinary eye could follow unfolded. Sparks flew several times within a single second. At every impact a heavy boom shook the earth.

Merlin blocked the Revelry Emperor’s narration. As if reinforcing Merlin’s narration, Sancho directed the knights of La Mancha. Clashing with the jesters, they slowly moved.

Curtain call.

The moment a play’s curtain falls, when the actors who appeared in the play take the stage once more and exit to applause.

“I’ll go first!”

Those who had traveled with Don Quixote—the actors who had appeared in this story—mounted the stage one by one.

“Take it!”

The gardener flung a great scythe toward Najin. The instant Najin caught the scythe he spun in place. He knew how the man handled ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this weapon. He had seen it while traveling together; therefore Najin moved as the gardener would.

The great scythe barred the Star of Contempt’s path.

Weapons that appeared from nowhere adorned Najin’s surroundings. They were weapons he had never handled before, yet when Najin’s talent and the stage’s direction combined, he wielded them with complete freedom.

He kicked a spear into flight. He swung a hammer. He swept a greatsword upward, flourished a dagger, and slammed forward with a shield.

Borrowing the equipment of La Mancha’s knights, Najin advanced.

Tap.

Someone leapt in at Najin’s side.

Rocinante swung his staff. With a sharp crack the feet of the donkey the Star of Contempt rode began to move at wildly different speeds. Unable to endure the mismatched velocities, the donkey collapsed in place.

The opening thus created.

Like a streak of light Sancho drove into the falling Star of Contempt and pierced his wrist. The spear fell from his hand. A spear spinning through the air, a Star of Contempt left defenseless.

Najin took a step.

It was the very moment they meant to bring the stage’s curtain down.

The Revelry Emperor drew her last resort.

3.

Just as she had once brainwashed Don Quixote.

The Revelry Emperor reduced everything to delusion.

A wave of paint swept the stage. Jesters, knights of La Mancha, their stars—all were swallowed by the wave in a single instant and sank.

Even for the Revelry Emperor this was a last resort.

Across hundreds of years she had forced the Star of Contempt to dream nightmares. She had made him believe those nightmares were real, and thereby strengthened the Star of Contempt’s stage.

And with her own hands she shattered it.

The price would be enormous.

The Star of Contempt might lose his rank as a constellation and become nothing more than a corpse. Yet the Revelry Emperor chose.

Even if it meant losing her final court jester in this place—

She had to kill the Najin before her eyes.

The surging paint reduced even Najin to a fictional existence. Seeking to tear that fiction apart, the Star of Contempt screamed and charged him. The corners of his mouth, torn wide, no longer spilled only mockery.

Despair, frustration, screams, agony, emptiness.

A laughter mixed with every emotion rang out. He was laughing while weeping. A stage that seemed ready to collapse at any moment tightened around Najin.

The final blow.

And Najin opened his mouth. He could no longer borrow the power of narration wrought by the Star of Dalso—but he had no need of it.

“What a knight is, milord—”

For it is the lines of the characters that must ornament the finale of a play.

“—is to dream an impossible dream.”

Najin took one step.

“To defeat invincible foes.”

He walked toward the screaming Star of Contempt.

“To endure unbearable pain.”

One step, two steps—now he kicked off the earth and began to run as well.

“To die for a noble ideal.”

Najin did not raise Excalibur. Excalibur, transformed into starlight, had sunk into Najin’s body. In his hand he held the Cross-Star spear.

A lance charge answered a lance charge—that was courtesy.

“To reach the stars with faith.”

A star shone.

The stage had reduced Najin to “fiction,” treating him as a delusion that would vanish if one merely waved a hand. Yet toward the lead who stood upon that stage, Najin smiled.

What of it if he was an illusion?

What of it if he was a dream and a lie?

Was there not a knight here who had carried dream into reality? To him, reality and dream had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠never held much difference.

“And never, at any moment, to lose one’s laughter.”

The Star of Dalso wrought someone’s vision.

“That is a knight’s duty—”

An actor who had been on the stage from the very beginning, who was as much the protagonist of this stage as anyone, yet who had not yet joined the curtain call, firmly gripped Najin’s spear with him.

Gripping the spear together with Najin, he cried out.

The Star of Dalso charged the Star of Contempt.