The Empire's First Horn (7)

Two swords pierced his heart.

Alderan gazed down at his own heart. He saw the two blades that had run him through, and he turned over in his mind the sword-paths those blades had drawn.

One was a sword that seemed cast in the mold of his own life; the other was the sword he himself had helped to bloom. Both were beautiful beyond anything he deserved.

At that realization, Alderan smiled.

Regrettably, his smile made no sound. Though his soul had been awakened, his flesh still lay under the demon's dominion. The Revelry Emperor had no intention of granting him so much as a handful of laughter or a single spoken word.

How contradictory, that a demon who measured the world by laughter should command him not to laugh. Alderan's soul mocked the Revelry Emperor with every ounce of its strength.

Yes. He understood the situation well enough.

He could neither utter any fitting words nor even smile. If asked whether he felt regret at that fact—well. Alderan would have shaken his head. He closed his eyes, content with his end. To wish for more than that would be greed.

Besides, had they not already shared conversation enough?

A swordsman's conversation is conducted with the sword. By clashing blades, Alderan had seen the growth of the disciples he had raised. He had seen the answers they had found. If so, what further words did a master need to leave his disciples?

"······."

He reached a hand toward Najin, who was still gasping with the sword driven through his heart. Even now the Revelry Emperor tried to restrain Alderan's body, but Alderan snorted and severed the strings draped over his flesh.

Did she mean to stop even the last words of an actor leaving the stage? Do not interfere. This is my stage.

As if speaking those words, Alderan moved.

Tak.

Alderan flicked Najin hard on the forehead. Najin, who had never once flinched while taking the raging storm and sword energy on his bare body, was startled for the first time. His shoulders jerked.

Looking at those wide eyes, Alderan smiled.

The Free Knight's coat and Excalibur. It suited him rather well. Of course—if not you, who would draw that sword? If not you, who turns even a monster like me into a knight, who else deserves to be called a Free Knight?

It was fun being with you.

You damned brat.

After the startled Najin stepped back, Alderan turned to a certain old man. Looking at his first disciple, grown far too old, Alderan smiled bitterly.

Good grief. I told ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you to take your time—did you have to arrive this ancient? Always the same inflexible bastard.

Alderan gripped his sword in a reverse hold. He did not mean to swing it. He simply extended the reverse-gripped blade toward Gerd, as if telling him to take it. The paint that had coated the sword had already been washed away in the clashing of steel.

The symbol of the Empire's hero, Alderan Basaglia.

The one sword that had walked his life beside him.

That sword, Alderan handed to Gerd. Gerd's eyes went wide; he swallowed hard, then laughed as if the whole thing were absurd, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠took the blade as if he understood his master's will without a single word spoken.

"So I'm next, then."

At that answer, Alderan smiled.

Seems your wits have sharpened over a hundred and fifty years. Though he had spoken nothing, Alderan had conveyed everything he meant to convey. If so, he had no lingering attachment left.

At last, Alderan burned his own soul.

His story was already finished. Was his soul not far too radiant to dwell in a vessel like this? The body that had held him, and the medium that bound him, had been carved apart by Gerd and Najin until even the heart at its center was pierced through.

The moment the vessel crumbled, Alderan's soul scattered through the gaps—as if he had no regrets remaining. It was the complete annihilation of a soul.

In that instant of vanishing, Alderan felt it: the Revelry Emperor who had bound him here was flustered. That damned demon was reaching out, desperate to hold onto him somehow.

The demon whispered at his ear.

Did he not still have regrets? Did he not feel the ache of leaving like this? Did he not still have work left unfinished? Through the medium of lingering attachment, the demon sought to pin Alderan to the living world.

······Had he never met Najin, he might well have been caught by that hand.

He would have had regrets. At the thought that he could leave nothing behind; at the conviction that his life had been worthless; at the honor of the comrades he had failed to protect; at his pride, ground into the dirt—he would surely have clung to them.

But now—well.

Was he not still a knight? Had that boy not said that if one wished to be a knight, then one was a knight? If so, he had no regrets about life. Though there were things left unfinished, those were no longer Alderan's share.

Next is yours.

Next is your share.

Do well.

He had a disciple who had proven his life was not worthless. A disciple he had believed forgotten, yet who had remembered him. For all of it, Alderan was grateful.

No regrets.

Alderan put a period at the end of his life.

"You did splendidly."

In the final moment—in the fleeting instant when the Revelry Emperor's power wavered—Alderan moved his mouth and left his last words. With that single phrase, his soul crumbled and was annihilated.

Only the empty body remained.

In the end, what felled the Empire's hero was not a demon, but the Empire's sword.

Najin, gasping for breath, collapsed where he stood. Seated on the ground, he rubbed his forehead. In that last moment, Alderan had touched his brow without a word.

He had said nothing at all.

And so Najin found himself smiling as he rubbed the spot. Back when he had learned the sword from the Helmet Knight, the man had constantly corrected his stance by rapping his forehead or the back of his skull. Old memories rose unbidden; Najin pressed his brow hard with his thumb.

Alderan Basaglia was dead.

What the man had felt in his final instant, Najin could not know. He could not know—yet of one thing he was certain. His master had been satisfied with his end.

You did splendidly.

The voice that had spoken those words had been light.

It was not the voice of a man who still clung to regrets.

"······."

Gerd, too, was turning Alderan's end over in his mind. He looked down at the sword his master had given him. He was not so dull as to miss what it meant that the Empire's hero had placed his own symbol into Gerd's hands.

It was the result of a grading deferred for a hundred and fifty years.

Gripping the sword, Gerd smiled. It seems I managed to avoid a failing mark, Master.

The two disciples had each received their answer.

One had finally heard the verdict postponed for a century and a half; the other had finished a duel left incomplete. And so, with the master's death, one stage came to its close. The actor, satisfied with his performance, stepped down from the boards.

Just as the curtain was about to fall—

the playwright who had staged this drama moved the scenery. The story had not gone as she desired.

A twitch.

The corpse of Alderan, forced to its knees, moved. In that instant the eyes of both Najin and Gerd narrowed to slits. Both men settled into stance at once.

A body left an empty shell by the departure of its soul.

The paints pooled across the ground were sucked toward that flesh. The kneeling corpse of Alderan began to stir. The motion was grotesque—utterly devoid of dignity or pride.

A living corpse.

What settled into the body were souls the Revelry Emperor had dragged in at random. Even with the original soul gone, Alderan's flesh was a masterpiece in its own right. The Revelry Emperor began forcing the souls she had collected into the emptied husk.

Souls that did not fit the body. Collision was inevitable. Countless souls shattered—yet as if the solution were simply to pour in still more, the Revelry Emperor dumped paint without restraint.

—————!

The souls tangled and settled into Alderan's flesh. With a wet tear, his jaw split open and a howl erupted from him. A beast's scream rang out across the field.

Bloodshot veins stood out in Najin's staring eyes.

Just as he gritted his teeth and settled into stance, someone thrust an arm out in front of him, barring his way.

"······Sir Gerd?"

It was Gerd himself. He stood squarely in Najin's path, one step ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ahead of him.

"This is the Revelry Emperor's domain."

Gerd pointed at Alderan's corpse. Paint was stitching the body back together—forcing wounds closed, smearing them over, painting them shut.

While Alderan's soul still occupied the flesh, she had restrained herself against the rejection. Now that the soul was gone, she no longer needed restraint; she poured paint in as freely as she pleased.

"······."

Gerd then pointed at their surroundings.

The Revelry Emperor's domain was saturated with paint.

Najin understood at once what that meant. Just as Gerd said, this was her territory, and she had endless resources to draw upon.

······From here on, it would be a war of attrition.

Whether the Revelry Emperor's paint ran dry first, or whether Najin and Gerd fell first—Najin sensed a long, grinding battle waiting ahead.

But—

"This is not your stage."

Gerd quietly shook his head. He stretched out a hand and pointed past Alderan, toward the Revelry Emperor's fortress at the heart of the domain.

"Go. I will handle this place."

Najin fell silent at the old man's choice. Unlike Najin, whose wounds were already knitting swiftly under Excalibur's power, Gerd's recovery was slow. His body was already a ruin.

Yet Gerd's eyes did not waver.

Nor did his stance.

And so the tip of his sword was as still as ever.

Gerd did not speak twice. As if opening a path, he charged the corpse of Alderan, which had begun thrashing like a monster. Najin, who had been silent, clenched his teeth and slipped through the gap Gerd created, brushing past the reanimated body.

Najin ran for the Revelry Emperor's fortress.

Watching him go, Gerd—already stepping into the path of the Alderan that lunged after the boy—steadied his breathing.

······One arm was broken.

One eye could not see. His breath came short, and his exhausted body cried out for rest. But the Empire had not yet won; he could not kneel.

Gerd changed swords.

He slid his own beloved blade into its scabbard. What he took in hand was the sword entrusted to him by the Empire's hero. He had never held it before, yet it felt as familiar as if he had swung it for a lifetime.

The hero's sword blazed pure white.

Come, enemies of the Empire.

The One-Horned Star, once stained with paint, fell. Where eight stars had fallen, what rose in their place was the First Star that followed after him.

So long as I stand, you shall not pass this place.

As befits an Empire's hero, Gerd Isabalt—the Empire's First Horn—stood in the path of the Empire's foes.

The Revelry Emperor's domain, Utopia.

Across the ideal world the demon had crafted, flares of light began to rise. They were signals—announcements that each of them had completed their task.

Caron, commander of the Second Legion, swept his sword toward the sky. The sword energy he loosed was the signal itself. He announced that, after a brutal struggle, he had shattered a magic circle.

In turn, Yuel Razian, the Star Incarnation, Lauren Arestes, and Cypria Gachevska each fired their signals.

Every one of them had succeeded in breaking a magic circle. Yet none of them could leave their posts. They were forced to pour sweat and blood into holding back the endlessly resurrecting clowns.

What shone in the sky were the Revelry Emperor's stars.

Eleven stars scattered their hollow light.

This entire vast domain was a single stellar domain—and a stage built for her alone.

Fallen clowns rose again. The dead returned to life. On a stage where even death became a punchline, the clowns laughed as if the world itself were floating away.

And then—

With a wet crack, Najin smashed the magic circle hidden in the First Sector.

Every circle broken, the path opened.

A straight road leading to the fortress.

While the Imperial forces pinned down the clowns, Najin began to run. He shattered the gates of the Revelry Emperor's fortress and stormed inside, sweeping aside the clowns that still lingered as he climbed. Then, at a certain moment—

"······."

The clowns vanished all at once. Their master had understood. Clowns of this caliber could neither stop him nor delay his steps by so much as a fraction. He would climb this high no matter what.

The Revelry Emperor had no interest in the tedious business of stalling the climax of her play ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with worthless clowns, of pushing it back again and again.

The fortress reshaped itself.

A long corridor unfurled before Najin.

At its end sat a single throne, and upon it she rested her chin in her hand. A long black dress spilled down from the seat to the floor below.

Their gazes met.

From that day, from that instant when the Revelry Emperor and Najin first recognized each other, both of them had known.

Each was the other's natural enemy.

They could never coexist. They could never compromise. Standing at opposite poles, they could neither understand nor be understood. Compromise, therefore, was impossible by nature.

In this moment—

the battles of constellations raging outside the fortress, the laughter of the clowns, their shouts—all of it felt as if it were happening somewhere very far away.

Their gazes, their breath, their every nerve stretched in a straight line toward the one standing opposite them.

This was no dream. It was not the Tomb of Stars, nor a chaotic battlefield crowded with constellations and clowns, nor an illusion. And so this might well be the first time the two of them had clearly, unmistakably recognized each other's existence.

One step. Najin advanced.

With a soft rustle of fabric, the Revelry Emperor rose from the throne, her dress trailing. As if greeting a guest who had come to her castle, she lifted the hem of her gown with pale fingers.

The leads of the stage faced each other.

Both were the protagonists of the stage—and, to each other, the most irreplaceable of antagonists.

"So it was you, in the end."

"So it was you."

And so the play raced toward its climax.