Interlude: Someone's Dream (3)
The Lancelot of today was a mass murderer.
Kirchhoff had said as much, and Najin had no intention of denying it. No matter what feats Lancelot had accomplished for humanity, the man he was now was one of the constellations who had destroyed a nation that rivaled the Empire itself.
If a hero who saved the world had killed one or two people along the way, there might have been room for consideration… but when the death toll climbed past hundreds of thousands, no such mercy remained.
Rondinel’s population had been several million at the very least.
Even the numbers that survived in the records said as much. Which meant that on that day, the people slain by the Star of Oblivion, the Revelry Emperor, and Lancelot numbered at least a million.
Several million. Not a figure the mind could easily grasp.
Something about the incident still snagged at him, but it was not a matter he could raise in front of Kirchhoff, so Najin kept silent.
“I trust you aren’t entertaining any foolish notions.”
Kirchhoff’s voice cut cleanly through the air.
“The Sir Najin I know draws clear lines—yet there are times you show a softer side as well. You have your own standards, I suppose. I can only hope those standards do not stray too far from mine.”
“…To ease your concerns a little, Sir, let me say this plainly: I have not the slightest intention of granting Lancelot mercy, nor of defending him.”
Najin spoke.
“However great a knight Lancelot once was, the man he is now is a mass murderer who annihilated an entire nation. On that point there is no disagreement.”
“And so?”
“He must answer for his crimes. Rather than shielding him because he once belonged to the Round Table, we should hold him accountable for staining the Round Table’s name.”
“Excellent.”
Kirchhoff gave a firm nod.
“I do not truly doubt you—yet this matter is more important to me than anything else, so I asked an impertinent question. I apologize.”
“I understand.”
“Having said that, it feels a touch awkward to add this… but whatever choice you make, I will never turn against you. Even if you chose to protect Lancelot, I would be disappointed—yet I would not raise my sword against you.”
“Pardon? Why not?”
“Why? Is it not obvious?”
He tilted his head as if the answer were self-evident.
“You helped my master, the Blue Spear, find his rest. You delivered his keepsakes to me. You helped me achieve my revenge. Without you, this conversation would never even have begun.”
He gave a bitter smile.
“Had it not been for you, I would still be wasting my days chasing the Revelry Emperor and the Star of Contempt. I do have a sense of shame. I am not so devoid of conscience that I would repay grace with enmity.”
Kirchhoff inclined his head slightly.
“I have said it many times, but I am grateful to you.”
“……”
“Is there anything else?”
“I will have the Special Operations Unit share all intelligence related to the Star of Oblivion. A schedule should be set soon. The operation will likely proceed with a small force.”
“Good. Anything more?”
Najin exhaled briefly, then spoke again.
“As I said, I have no intention of showing Lancelot mercy. But this much must be made clear.”
“What is it?”
“I will be the one to face him.”
There were things he had to confirm for himself.
When Najin declared it, Kirchhoff answered without a moment’s hesitation, his tone open and clear.
“That is not something that requires my permission. It is your right. The rightful right of the one who planned this operation and brought it this far.”
2.
After parting with Kirchhoff, Najin returned to the Continent. Yet he did not head straight for the Empire; his steps turned elsewhere.
A place far removed from the Briton Empire.
Using Camelot, the imperial capital, as the reference point, he walked north toward a frontier nation. By protocol, Najin was supposed to send a letter in advance whenever he intended to visit any country or domain… but this time he did not.
As long as he was not discovered, it would be fine. And if Najin truly set his mind to concealing his presence, there was no one on the Continent who could find him.
—Of course, from the perspective of the country you’re visiting, that would be a rather chilling thought, wouldn’t it?
‘What? Why?’
—Are you seriously asking because you don’t know?
Merlin sounded utterly incredulous.
—A transcendent is basically a walking one-man army. At your weight class, you’re something that surpasses an entire nation. You could wipe a country off the map if you felt like it.
It was no empty boast. Though such a thing would never happen, if the present Najin truly resolved himself, he could stand against the Empire as a whole. Put the other way around, only something on the scale of the Empire could hope to match him.
—A minor border kingdom? You could conquer it in the blink of an eye.
‘Not that I would, but… yes, you’re right.’
—So how do you think it feels when an existence capable of toppling a nation by himself just shows up without any notice?
From a ruler’s standpoint, it would freeze the blood in their veins. Not that knowing in advance would let them prepare for it anyway.
‘They won’t notice, so it’s fine.’
—You talk a good game.
Najin slipped off the Free Knight’s coat and turned it inside out. The garment possessed a great many functions; among them was a concealment mode that veiled the wearer’s face and layered on a recognition-distorting glamour.
The method was simple: reverse the coat so that the inner lining became the outer. The moment he flipped it, the Free Knight’s coat transformed into the kind of shabby cloak any ordinary adventurer might wear.
‘It really does have a lot of features.’
—You said the Platinum Tower Master was involved in its crafting, didn’t you? When a grand mage takes a hand, this level of performance is only natural.
What he had once mentioned in passing to Yuel had not been a lie. Selling this single coat would yield enough coin to run a modest domain for several years.
Disguise complete, Najin set out once more.
The nation he sought was called Dulac.
A thousand years earlier it had been a confederation of cities; over time it had become a kingdom. Because its borders touched the boundary line of the Outer Land, it was famous for producing hardy knights.
It was also the country Najin had passed through when he first resolved to journey into the Outer Land in earnest.
The first knight he had met on that road—Graf, Knight of Kurtan—had been a Dulac man. So too had Schlein, the Holy Flame Guardian Knight he encountered later.
Dulac: the nation forever half-swallowed and half-reclaimed by the Outer Land’s boundary.
Why had he come here?
The reason was simple.
The Lancelot he had seen in his dreams—this had been the man’s homeland. Of course, back then it had still been a city confederation rather than a kingdom… but still.
Lancelot had served here in a penal unit.
To fill an empty stomach he had turned to plunder, and in the process he had killed. By rights he should have been executed on the spot, yet his skill had been too extraordinary for simple disposal.
While fleeing he had beaten down several soldiers.
Confirming that talent, the city’s mayor had sentenced him not to death but to the penal corps.
It had been an age when manpower was precious.
If a man could swing a sword, he was pressed into service as a soldier.
Najin walked toward the place where Lancelot had once served in that penal unit. As he walked, he sifted through memory—the dreams of the past few days.
「Why not rest a little, Lancelot?」
In other words—
「I cannot rest.」
—the image of Lancelot as seen through Arthur’s eyes.
「Because I am a sinner.」
Matching his steps to the Lancelot who had silently swung his sword even while everyone else rested, Najin walked on. With one eye closed he watched the memories from the dream; with the other he watched the present world.
3.
Lancelot had been a steadfast knight.
Judging solely by the outward face he presented, that was true. Helm pressed down to hide every feature of his face, Lancelot always stood at the very front and charged the enemy.
He always took the vanguard.
He never feared injury or the shedding of blood; he hurled himself at the foe like a man with nothing left behind him. He did not spare his own body. He fought with fierce courage.
Whenever Najin read such passages in heroic tales, he had thought Lancelot magnificent. Seeing the scenes with his own eyes changed the impression somewhat.
Crunch. Crack! Grind-grind-grind!
He drove his shoulder into the enemy; when he lost his sword he seized the opponent’s weapon and fought on. Even when an arm broke and armor was torn away, he never stopped. It looked less like bravery and more like desperation—less like a man unafraid of death and more like a man who longed for it.
Always Lancelot spilled the most blood.
And still he always stood at the front.
“This is atonement.”
That, Lancelot answered, was his own form of penance.
“The filthiest man must shed the most blood. Only then can he hope to be forgiven.”
Watching him, Najin felt a tangled knot of emotion. Lancelot’s past—killing so that he would not starve—resembled Najin’s own.
Of course, Najin had stolen more often than he killed, and he had killed only those who tried to kill him first…
But I did kill. That much is true.
If one counted the murders of childhood, Najin far outstripped Lancelot. On orders, because someone tried to kill him, because rules were broken, because of betrayal—countless reasons had stained his hands with blood.
The difference between Najin and Lancelot was only this:
In the city where Najin lived, such things had been ordinary. In the city where Lancelot lived, they had been crimes. Najin watched in silence as Lancelot, regretting his sins, drove his body to ruin.
“Hold.”
Najin’s lips moved.
More precisely—Arthur’s lips.
“Stop.”
“……”
Lancelot halted at once and stared at Najin—at Arthur. His eyes demanded an explanation.
“This one is a witch. She ought to die.”
Lancelot’s blade was leveled at the throat of a witch who knelt before him. Without withdrawing the sword, he continued.
“Witches are sinners.”
“To my eyes she offers no resistance at all. Almost as if she meant to die by your hand from the start.”
“……”
“And it seems you are thinking much the same.”
Even before Arthur intervened, Lancelot had been hesitating—unable to settle on a choice. Arthur had merely made the decision for him.
“In that case…”
Arthur stroked her chin, hummed thoughtfully, then spoke.
“You will take charge of her.”
“I, my lord?”
“To my eye she looks as though she wishes to atone. A face full of regret. Not the sort of expression witches usually wear, and besides…”
Arthur jerked her chin.
A brand was seared into the witch’s nape.
“A witch abandoned by her own kind.”
“……”
“We will reserve judgment. If she does anything suspicious, you may punish her then. Merlin?”
Merlin wore a look of clear dissatisfaction, yet she said nothing more. Arthur’s choice was Arthur’s; she would respect it.
“I… am to take this one?”
“Yes.”
“I am not suited to judging others. Please reconsider—”
“No. There is no one better suited to judging someone than you.”
Arthur’s tone brooked no argument.
“You will take her.”
“…Understood.”
Still holding the blade to the witch’s throat, Lancelot asked,
“Your name?”
“……”
The witch did not answer. Only after a long silence did a voice emerge from the lips of the woman with the hollow eyes.
“I don’t know. I forgot.”
“You forgot?”
“I don’t know my name. I don’t know why I was here. I don’t remember anything.”
Lancelot looked to Merlin.
Merlin nodded.
She is not lying, that nod said. Lancelot’s expression grew more complicated still.
“Is there another name by which people call you?”
“The people of this city called me this. It isn’t my true name, but…”
“What did they call you?”
“White Ghost—Gwenhwyfar.”
Gwenhwyfar: White Ghost in the tongue of this place.
Rendered into the language of the Continent’s heartland, it became—
“Guinevere.”
Guinevere and Lancelot’s gazes met.
In her empty eyes Lancelot felt a strange familiarity. In the eyes of the witch he had just met for the first time, he saw the same eyes that always looked back at him from the mirror. Then the woman who resembled him so closely asked a question of her own.
“What’s your name?”
“Lancelot.”
He lowered his sword. Taking the hand he offered, the witch rose to her feet. Watching from a distance through Arthur’s eyes, Najin thought:
So this is what they wanted me to see in the end.
She had erased every record that concerned herself, leaving nothing behind anywhere—yet even she had been unable to erase Arthur’s memories completely?
“…Witches are born with a Mystery. That Mystery is also their name. What is yours? You cannot have forgotten that as well.”
Merlin posed the question.
The witch answered.
“Oblivion.”
And so Najin learned it.
The true form of the Star of Oblivion.
And her name.