The One Whose Self Is Absent (2)

Yuel Razian lifted her head without thinking.

When had it begun? Only an instant, perhaps — the moment a Calamity Star had settled over that night sky.

From that instant, the entire domain of the Revelry Emperor began to quake. The buildings that had filled the territory melted into paint and ran, and the laughter and dissonance that had rolled along the city's streets collapsed in a single breath into mere noise.

A few constellations screamed that it was one of the Revelry Emperor's traps, but Yuel saw it differently. To her eyes, this was a signal that the Revelry Emperor no longer had any room left to spare.

She can no longer afford to maintain her false paradise.

That was the right way to see it. Shattering the magic formula that had reinforced the domain had played its part, of course — but the decisive factor was surely the constellation who had just now thrown himself into the Revelry Emperor's high castle.

The heart of the domain. The Revelry Emperor's high castle.

When she raised her head to look, paint was gathering there. Flooding pigment surged over the fortress, and a vast black curtain descending from the sky wrapped the high castle entirely. It was a perfect severance from the outside world.

What lay within was now another world entirely.

Yuel could not know what was unfolding inside. She only knew that her instincts were sounding the alarm. And she was not the only one who felt the unease.

The eyes of the constellations watching the high castle narrowed.

Even as they swept aside the thronging jesters, their gazes remained fixed on the Revelry Emperor's fortress. They had no choice. Power enough to overturn the entire battlefield in a single moment was swirling within those walls.

Yet contrary to their fears, that power never turned outward.

It only raged through the interior of the castle, behind the curtain.

Because this stage had been raised for one opponent alone.

Kriiikkkkk—!

A tearing sound rang out. Paint whirled, lightning flashed, and space itself groaned. Even the stars of the night sky shrank from approaching that place and shifted their positions, leaving a vast emptiness at the center of the heavens.

Two constellations claimed that void.

The Dawn Star and the Revelry Emperor's star churned as though each meant to devour the other.

Mana was swirling.

Najin could see the mana being sucked toward the Revelry Emperor — not because his eyes were special, but because the sheer volume of it was so immense that even flows normally invisible had become plain to see.

A being who had lived at least eight hundred years.

A demon who had transcended the limits of her kind and touched transcendence itself.

An eleven-star constellation was revealing every last scrap of her power. The stage the Revelry Emperor unfolded as her first step was closer to the creation of an entire world.

There is no end in sight.

The Revelry Emperor's stage stretched past the horizon. Najin knew instinctively that even if he ran to the edge of that horizon, he would never leave the stage behind.

And upon that stage…

The Revelry Emperor became something like a god. Not as a figure of speech, not as exaggeration — a god in the truest sense. Every rule and law of this world would be rewritten by her hand.

There were not many ways to resist that.

He was neither vast enough to reach past the horizon like the Revelry Emperor, nor great enough to rewrite the laws of the world — but Najin, too, had a stage of his own, one that could hold him steady against the torrent without being swept away.

There was no need to spread it wide. Doing so would only thin its strength until the Revelry Emperor's stage ate it through.

The space where I plant my feet.

That much was enough.

A flash.

Starlight from Excalibur stretched Najin's shadow long across the ground. Within that elongated shadow lay the landscape of the subterranean city of Atman. Najin's past, the story he had built, bore witness to his existence.

Excalibur held upright, Najin moved.

How long had he waited for this moment?

How long had he dreamed of this day — the day he would face that damned demon's true body?

And so he honed his senses all the sharper. As though he would tolerate not a single mistake, not a single opening, his eyes settled colder than they ever had before.

And then the Revelry Emperor's voice rang out.

Arms rising from graves, withered arms clutching their objects, began to shine. Swords gleamed, spears glowed, instruments struck up their music, and books fell open.

The lives she had stolen and collected began to tell their stories. Najin understood how the Revelry Emperor's stage operated.

It was nothing less than a vast tomb of stars.

The place where the stars she had gathered over more than eight hundred years lay buried was her stage — and upon that stage, the Revelry Emperor was a bard singing their tales, an actress performing their roles, a novelist and a playwright all at once.

A necromancer's tale unfolded. Trailing behind her came her family and friends — rotting, festering, fallen to pieces, become the walking dead.

Fruit hung from a thorn tree that bore no fruit. The fruit were human heads. Together with that thorn tree strung with human heads, Arta the Tree Guardian rose to her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠feet.

Kinburga Alzen the Guardian.

Safia of a Hundred Blossoms.

Lekdir the Conqueror.

Heroes whose lives the demon had stolen rose again as jesters. Upon the black curtain the Revelry Emperor had cast across the sky — a false night — their constellations were hung. Lighting their own stars, they began to unfold their individual stages.

Countless stories unfurled.

Countless heroes sang.

Their lives, the tragedies that had met them at life's end — and in every one of those tragedies, a certain god had intervened, and that god had only urged them to laugh.

"…"

The lives of transcended beings that had ended in tragedy spread out before him. Watching those who came charging toward him, Najin fell silent.

…Merlin's voice did not come.

Najin felt a sudden emptiness. Ever since he had left the subterranean city, one corner of his mindscape had always held a space reserved for Merlin.

But now that place was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠empty.

Merlin had left her post to suppress the Witch of the Abyss that the Revelry Emperor had drawn in. With Merlin gone from him, Najin stood alone on the battlefield. Even as he felt the strangeness of that fact, he thought:

Perhaps this was necessary.

Najin had always had a "next." No matter if he made a mistake, no matter if he was defeated, no matter if he found himself on the brink of death — there had always been a hidden trump card that could resolve everything in a single stroke.

Merlin's true-body descent.

Of course, certain ruin waited on the other side of that option, so he had always treated it as good as nonexistent, and he had approached every moment with the resolve to stake his life — and yet…

Even so, it was there in a corner of my mind.

The knowledge that, should the worst come, there was insurance that would save him once. As long as he remained conscious of that fact, he could never truly become independent. He would be no different from a child nestled in a guardian's arms.

…He could not go on like that forever.

Thud.

Najin took a step forward. He kicked off the ground and began to run. His inner world was quieter than it had ever been.

The one who had always shown him the path.

Who had pointed him in the direction he needed to go.

Who had pushed him from behind — she was not here.

And so Najin, alone, thought: if he fell the moment Merlin left, he would never be able to face her again. He could not add the clause "got his ass handed to him by a demon while holding Excalibur" to the long sentence that always ended with him shouting at her, Who am I?

A snort of laughter escaped him, entirely unsuited to the situation.

Yeah. That just wouldn't do.

He filled her absence with confidence in himself. Hadn't his finest guide told him as much? That he could afford to trust himself a little more. Recalling Merlin's voice, Najin steadied his breath.

A young star that had touched transcendence by shortcut, with Excalibur's aid, began to molt.

The experience of thrashing to survive his deathmatch with Mordred. The impression left ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠by witnessing Icarus's end. The fragment he had seized in his duel with Quixote. The optimal sword-path he had found in his bout with Alderan…

Everything he had learned through life after life.

Taking all of it as nourishment, Najin's soul prepared to leap one stage higher. He had already accumulated more than enough experience.

What remained was to make it his own.

One step forward.

Eyes wide open, Najin plunged into the torrent the Revelry Emperor was creating.

Gradually.

Things that had been invisible began to come into view.

Upon the stage she had raised, the Revelry Emperor's gaze was no longer bound by her physical body.

The countless actors dancing upon the stage were her eyes, her ears, her mouth. The sun and moon and stars floating in that sky could become her pupils as well.

"…"

As though she had become a god, the Revelry Emperor looked down from the heavens upon the world she had made.

Six hundred and fifty-six stars buried here.

Ninety-eight constellations.

Stars she had collected across nearly a thousand years — stories, actors she possessed. Or, in another sense, herself.

Rustle.

The Revelry Emperor's garments and the mantle draped over her shoulders became a night sky and flowed down. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Six hundred and fifty-six stars were pinned into her clothes and shone, and upon the false night sky she had woven, ninety-eight constellations flashed.

Ninety-eight actors each told the story of their lives.

They sang of lives reduced to nothing more than a laughingstock.

From behind the black curtain, the Revelry Emperor moved the threads draped over their bodies. Ninety-eight puppets danced according to her will. In this moment she was a Sword Master, a great mage, a divine archer, a saintess, and a knight all at once.

Through ninety-eight pairs of eyes, the Revelry Emperor looked at Najin.

That human scattering the detestable light of Excalibur. Watching the human who swung his sword as though he meant to face ninety-eight constellations alone, the Revelry Emperor's eyes narrowed.

The Revelry Emperor assigned Najin a role. She granted him a narrative, and endlessly staged scenes that put him at a disadvantage. This was a single stage, and she was its playwright.

Ninety-eight stories.

In those stories, countless villains.

The protagonist's nemesis, the target of revenge, the purpose, the enemy who blocked a dearest wish, the foe who must inevitably fall within the tale.

Designating Najin as such an enemy, she poured power into the actors' stories. Ninety-eight stages began to crush down on him as one. An ordinary constellation would have been unable to withstand that pressure and would have fallen to their knees.

…The Star of Indomitable Will shone.

But Najin did not kneel.

He shattered the role assigned to him, tore through the stage that sought to pin him down, and took a step forward. With a heavy thud he stamped the earth, drew his arm back, and hurled his spear.

A spear wrapped in a storm scoured the stage.

Golems summoned by a great mage and countless swords slamming down from the air blocked the cross-star spear Najin had loosed. The spear shattered thirty-one greatswords before it stopped. Behind the wall of blades crouched a mage.

The spear aimed at the mage was intercepted.

But a hunter never loses his prey.

An instant later, with a deep boom, the wall shielding the mage shuddered. Through another field of vision one could see Najin — having crossed hundreds of meters in a single breath — seize the spear lodged in the wall once more.

He swung the spear.

He swung it with the wall still impaled upon it.

Wind pressure scoured the area. The mage's body was shredded to pieces, and a hole opened in the middle of the battlefield. Constellations rushed to fill that hole, and Najin became a storm and began to rampage.

…Watching it, one could only find it absurd.

Even to the Revelry Emperor — eleven stars, collector of countless constellations — Najin's existence defied common sense. A hollow laugh escaped her lips.

Eight stars was no small number, true.

Among transcended beings it placed one in the upper ranks, true.

But there were still lines that ought not be crossed. If every eight-star constellation could do what that boy was doing, the Revelry Emperor would long since have been reduced to a handful of ash.

Crack. Crunch. Crkkkkrkrkrk—!

Watching that human tear through the ranks of the transcended, one could not help but be reminded of someone. In Najin, the Revelry Emperor saw Alderan Basaglia.

"You think something like this can stop me?"

Alderan Basaglia, who had smashed every one of her jesters and walked toward her. Arms severed, body pierced through, half his head aflame, legs cut away, every comrade lost — and still he had not stopped, until at last he stood before her and drove his blade through her heart.

That knight's form, a nightmare made flesh, flickered before her eyes. A smile spread across the Revelry Emperor's lips.

One hundred and fifty years since then.

For one hundred and fifty years she had feared the existence of another Alderan Basaglia. Even though she had failed to make Alderan into one of her jesters, she had learned something from that battle.

Rustle.

The threads wound about the Revelry Emperor's hands moved in a restless tangle.

Yes, I admit it. You are strong. Horribly strong — so strong that even if this fight continues as it is, you will endure and endure again.

But how long do you intend to hold out?

This is my stage.

The jesters can be revived as often as I wish, replenished without limit, and even death cannot stop their stories. Do you mean to continue this fight forever? Until your guide returns? Or until those extras below the stage come to your aid?

Neither, I think.

You couldn't manage it that way in any case — and that is simply not how you move. You have a card hidden away as well, I'm sure. Something that will pierce my stage, pierce me.

I know you well.

You may look as though you act without a plan, on pure impulse — but behind it, there is always something only you are certain of. Of that I have no doubt.

…The Revelry Emperor's eyes curved.

And you are thinking the same thing. That I must have something hidden. That this cannot possibly be the end. That you must not lower your guard for even a moment. That you must not miss a single thing. That is what you are thinking.

Yes. Absurdly enough.

We know each other quite well.

You are strong. Horribly strong. Not only in force of arms — the way you hold confidence in yourself is rock-solid as well. No matter what role I assign you, you simply dismiss it — "That is not my story" — and smash it to pieces.

But tell me…

…Her mouth twisted into a grin.

Can you deny even this? Can you say this, too, is not your story?

…The Revelry Emperor's hand moved. The skein of threads at her fingertips drew something forth. It was not a star. It was not a constellation, nor even one of the dead. To become one of the dead, one needed a star — and this was a wretched existence that possessed none at all.

A being too shabby to stand upon a battlefield of the transcended.

A being that would be shredded by a single gesture from a transcendent.

And yet that being passed between the transcended. It stepped into the path of Najin, who was raging like a storm.

Ordinarily.

If Najin had not been watching his surroundings. If he had let his guard down even slightly. If he had not been confirming every face of the transcended that appeared before him, recalling their stories, calculating the optimal method of engagement.

In other words — if he had paid even a fraction less attention.

He would have swung his sword without checking that being's form and blasted it aside. He would have dismissed it as just another jester mixed into a battlefield of the transcended, and thought nothing of it.

But Najin, who had honed his senses to their limit, who kept his eyes wide and let not the smallest motion escape him, felt that this being was wrong — and looked closely.

And so Najin saw.

He saw, and could not unsee.

The existence standing there. The shabby man who had cut through the ranks of the transcended and blocked his path. He saw the sword that man swung. It was a familiar blade — and a dearly missed one.

In that instant.

The sword Najin swung was stopped. A blade that had taken more than a dozen transcended to barely hold back was intercepted by the edge of some wretched man's weapon.

Not because the man was strong. That shabby-looking man had no technique of the transcended; he had not even reached Sword Seeker — at best, he stood at the upper ranks of Sword Expert.

And still the man's sword stopped a transcendent's blade.

Not because of the Revelry Emperor's stage.

Because Najin's shadow, the ground beneath his feet, the stage of the subterranean city of Atman where Najin held confidence in himself, was lending strength to that man's sword.

Najin's eyes wavered.

Without meaning to, he spoke the name of the man standing before him.

"…Ivan?"

And then.

Kyahahahaha, haha, kyahahahahaha!

The Revelry Emperor's laughter rang out.

For the first time, Najin was shaken. His stage trembled, and in that opening the Revelry Emperor did not miss her chance.

I knew you would notice.

I believed that you, of all people, would not miss the gift I prepared.

Revelry. Theater. Performance. Role. Direction. Illusion. Fantasy. Comedy. Caricature. Tragedy. Stage…

The Revelry Emperor's own stars — or the stars she had collected — began to shine all at once. They flared violently, as though they had been waiting for this very moment.

And following them came her tenth star.

A story was being written. Dozens of flashing stars were woven into a single authority. The Revelry Emperor's threads settled over Najin's body. She unfurled a story titled Najin.

And at last.

Her eleventh star shone.

The Revelry Emperor's hand moved. Her pale, slender fingers became a fountain pen and began to rewrite Najin's story. The first sentence read as follows: