The Hero Does Not Change
"It's you. No question. I believe in you. To me, the Hero is you."
Yeah. That was why he'd saved her life a full nine times.
They'd come too far for him to take that faith back now. His time was too precious to waste on second thoughts. After everything he'd poured into her, giving up at this stage would be absurd.
And with that, Rion set his hand on Enril's shoulder.
It was a statement he needed to lock in place — not only for Enril, but for himself.
Don't waver. Once you've chosen, you see it through to the end. Some people might call that a recipe for regret. He would never be one of them. This woman could do it. She could cut short a wait that had already stretched past a hundred years.
"So I'm counting on you."
Unshakable trust settled the heart and kindled a fierce will, and that stillness, that resolve, purified mana further still. He said the words because both of them needed it — he and Enril alike.
...Honestly, it was a little. No — it was extremely embarrassing.
Even he had to admit the line was painfully sappy. But what was he supposed to do? The payoff for both of them was too good to pass up. Of course he had to say it.
What the hell.
Enril's reaction was all wrong. This was not what he'd expected. A thank-you, maybe. A smile. Something in that neighborhood.
"..."
She stared straight at him — then whipped around without a word and broke into a dead sprint.
"Enril?"
He called after her in a hurry, but she neither answered nor so much as glanced back. She ran like a woman possessed, and in a heartbeat she had vanished from sight.
"..."
Rion watched her go, dumbfounded, then spat a curse under his breath.
"Fuck."
He'd overdone it. Yeah — even he could tell it had been painfully cringeworthy. And Enril, hearing that right in her face? She'd probably found him repulsive. He'd hemmed and hawed over whether to say it, then gone ahead anyway. Turns out that when you can't decide whether to speak, the right answer is to keep your mouth shut.
Maybe I shouldn't have bothered.
He scratched his head and headed for the training grounds, where the cadets would be waiting. Enril was his one and only Hero — but there was always a "what if." Preparing a reserve was the most basic of basics. If luck was on his side, he might even find a Hero Candidate with potential on Enril's level...
Find one, my ass. There's no dream. There's no hope.
A hundred years locked at the summit of the Tower. In all that time, every Hero worth a damn had been ground to dust. What remained were the fledgling juniors they'd left behind, chicks who didn't hold a candle to their predecessors. He was sure of it. Nothing else could explain how stifling this all felt.
By this world's standards, their mana handling looked excellent and their skill impressive. To Rion, the Tower Master, they were all much of a muchness. The only thing they had to recommend them was a vaguely Hero-like mindset. A temperament, at best.
Enril. You're my Hero.
A moment ago he'd been cursing himself for how sappy it sounded. Reality had a way of putting the words right back in his mouth.
"Hah—! Hahk—! Haaa...!"
Her heart hammered like it meant to punch through her ribs. After more than ten minutes at a full sprint, that was only natural. Yes. This was just being out of breath—
Ah. There it was again. She wasn't supposed to think about it. She kept thinking about it anyway.
"Haaaah...!"
Enril clutched her head and sank to the ground.
Hearing words she had never once imagined hit harder than she could have prepared for. He'd already been a good man. Hearing that from him made it a critical blow. She would stake her life on it: if she'd stayed there three seconds longer, she would have collapsed on the spot. Spinning around and running the instant those words left his mouth had been a stroke of divine genius.
W-why would the instructor say something like that?!
She had known Rion saw her as someone special. That, she had assumed, was because she was an excellent student. Because she had followed the Mana Cultivation Technique so well. Because a teacher had every right to pin high hopes on her. That was what she had believed, and she had worked herself to the bone so as not to betray those hopes.
But the words he'd spoken today were not a teacher's expectations for a student. They were something else. Not even the hopeful gaze people turned on a Hero. She wasn't so dense that she couldn't tell the difference. This was — this was clearly...
"Nngh..."
A small sound escaped her as she sat there, wrapping her arms around her knees. She had been sitting still long enough that her heart ought to have settled by now. It hadn't. It was still pounding, thump-thump, hammering against her chest with wild, relentless force.
No. No. Calm down. He meant he believes in you as a Hero. Don't jump to conclusions. The two of you cannot afford to carry more feeling for each other than you need.
She repeated it to herself again and again, trying by sheer force of will to quiet the commotion in her chest.
"Eeeep!!"
Thump-thump—
Enril tried to stand, and promptly sat right back down again.
"Instructor Rion? Do you have a moment?"
He was in the middle of walking the cadets through the fundamentals of the Mana Cultivation Technique when a man he had never seen before slipped up beside him.
"I'll have some time once this session is over."
"I see. If you do find a moment, would you be willing to accompany me?"
"...Yes. Well. All right. If you'd wait just a little."
The man nodded and settled into a corner of the training grounds. He closed his eyes, folded his hands, and offered up a prayer.
Why does everyone keep summoning me here and sending me there. I'm already busy enough to die.
Enril needed teaching in her own right, and as an instructor he had the cadets to look after as well. Still, it was better to pass this on to the Hero Candidates too. That was the only way some late-blooming prodigy might yet surprise him.
When the cadets' cultivation session finally wrapped and the training grounds fell quiet, the man rose from his place and approached again.
"You've worked hard, Instructor Rion."
"If I may skip the pleasantries — I'd appreciate an explanation of who is looking for me, and to what end."
He kept the words as polite as he could. The meaning underneath was simpler: which bastard wanted what, and he would like that explained properly, starting now.
"Ah. Well..."
The man hesitated, then very carefully rolled back his sleeve. He turned his inner wrist outward, and a mark inked into the skin came into view: a moon at the center, crossed by two swords.
He offered an awkward little smile, as if that ought to have been explanation enough.
From Rion's point of view, a stranger had just shoved a weird tattoo in his face and called it a day.
So what is this supposed to be. Is he showing off a tattoo?
Don't flash it and stop. Use your words and explain, for fuck's sake. How was anyone supposed to understand who you were if that was all you did?
Rion slid a pointed look toward the man, loaded with exactly that sentiment—
"Ah, ah. There's no need for that. Please, you needn't be so tense."
"...?"
What was this bastard even talking about. Tense? Why would he be tense.
"I'm afraid rumors about us have a tendency to... wander rather far from the truth. That we don't merely hunt Demonic Beasts, but also dispose of anyone who poses a threat to the Church. As I'm sure you know, however, the Church has no such thing as an inquisitor. Unconditionally rejecting and suppressing other faiths would hardly be in keeping with the doctrine of understanding and love."
"..."
"Except when we're hunting Demonic Beasts, we're simpler folk than anyone. Hahaha!"
So what, exactly, was this complete non sequitur supposed to mean. Rion let his expression curdle. The man, undeterred, was far too busy delivering his own speech to notice.
"Heavens. I've gone and said a great deal of nonsense, haven't I."
The man traced a careful sign of the cross. Not in front of just anyone — in front of the Tower Master. If God had been watching, He probably would have clutched the back of His neck and gone ghk.
"I am Priest Blon of the Combat Priest Corps — a faithful servant of God, and His sword."
Ah. The Combat Priest Corps. So that tattoo on the inner wrist was their crest. Would it have killed him to just say so from the start? Damn priest.
Rion was still grumbling inwardly when Priest Blon went on.
"If I have given any offense, I would like to apologize."
"Apologize? Suddenly?"
"Ah... you aren't uncomfortable, are you?"
Rion's face said he had no idea what the man was talking about. Being summoned back and forth was a nuisance, yes — but a nuisance and offense were not the same thing. He hadn't even worn the feeling on his face. All he'd done was ask for a proper explanation. And that was enough to get this?
"Y-you aren't uncomfortable with the Combat Priest Corps?"
"Is there some reason I ought to be?"
This time it was Priest Blon who looked startled. He blinked, as if he could not quite believe what he had just heard.
"Could it be... that you don't know what the Combat Priest Corps is...?"
"I know. Priests who fight Demonic Beasts in the hardest places there are. The ones who spend more of their hours on damp, cold ground, in the shadows, than they ever do in the warm sun."
Rion held the other man's gaze and finished the thought.
"In short — people who have it extremely hard."
"Ah... I see."
Priest Blon nodded, and a small smile tugged at his mouth. Anyone else might have asked him what was so funny. Rion did not. There was only one thing he wanted to know.
"Didn't you say someone was looking for me? You can fill me in on the way."
"Ah, yes. This way. If you'd come this way."
As he led Rion along, Priest Blon at last laid out the actual business.
"The truth is, the Saintess has asked to see you, Instructor."
"...Wait. Hold on."
The what? The Saintess? That woman had come all the way here? And how, exactly, was it this quiet?
No. That was the second problem. The bigger one was—
She's not going to see through me, is she?
Rion gave himself a discreet once-over. If so much as a trickle of his true body's power leaked out, things were going to get extremely ugly.
"It's quite all right."
All right, his ass.
"She's not the sort to care about appearances, you see."
...Is that so.