Not for a Single Moment
"Not for a single moment have I ever thought you weren't a Falaon."
At those words, I stopped short and looked back over my shoulder.
What was this?
Is he serious?
The thought lingered only a moment before I shook my head vigorously. I remembered it clearly — that dawn, Vilheim slipping home under cover of darkness, his entire body painted in blood. Around that time, disappearances had been frequent throughout the territory.
Father said so, so it must be true.
People kept vanishing, didn't they? And yet, strangely enough, from the very day I witnessed Vilheim like that, the disappearances went quiet. Was that a coincidence? Of course, there was always the possibility that Vilheim had simply hunted down the murderer.
"Let's go in."
"...Yes."
I set my thoughts aside and started walking. But my mind remained a tangle of confusion. After all, the Vilheim I had seen today was nothing like the one I thought I knew.
How long had we been walking through that haze of doubt?
"We're here."
Vilheim and I came to a stop. At the end of the cave, a stone chamber neither too wide nor too narrow awaited us. And at its center stood...
A shield?
It was a white shield large enough to fully cover an adult man's upper body. As I stared at it, Vilheim stepped forward and spoke.
"Descendant Vilheim offers his greetings to the Ancestor."
Having paid his respects with formal courtesy, Vilheim looked at me.
"You do the same."
"...Yes."
I stood beside him and bowed respectfully.
"Descendant Khtun offers his greetings to the Ancestor."
Part of me wanted to drop into a full double prostration in the Confucian style, but I restrained myself. Once the greetings were done, Vilheim called me over.
"Come here."
"Yes."
"This is the Ancestor's armament — Kracion. A peerless shield that withstood even a dragon's breath. Originally it formed a pair with the greatsword Cresher, but I claimed that one."
"...Is it all right for you to just take it like that?"
"If the armament permits it."
"Ah."
So that was how it worked. But had this thing really blocked a dragon's breath? I examined the shield with a skeptical eye as Vilheim continued.
"Place your hand on the shield. This is the final rite for any Falaon bloodline who has completed the Blood Awakening Ceremony."
"My hand?"
"Yes."
He explained that, depending on the case, the residual spirit of the Ancestor dwelling within the armament might bestow a gift — the most common being an amplification of one's talent.
"You've awakened Death's Blessing, so your case may be a little different. But this is a sacred rite that every Falaon must undergo."
With that, Vilheim took a step back. Alone before the shield, I blinked.
I just put my hand on it?
The moment my palm met the shield —
Thoom—!
A strange vibration rippled outward. Was it my imagination? I tilted my head — and then:
Whoooosh—!
In an instant, my consciousness was sucked somewhere else.
"Where...?"
Before I knew it, I stood in a space of pure, absolute black. And then a voice reached me.
"What a curious thing. For my descendant to awaken Death's Blessing."
"...?"
I turned my head. There stood a knight — black hair, blue eyes, a young man who resembled Vilheim somehow. Yet he wore a mischievous smile Vilheim would never allow himself, and he put a question to me.
"Well then, what brings you here? Completing the rite and leaving would have been enough. What reason have you to wake me?"
There was only one being who could speak those words.
The founder of Falaon — Arch Falaon.
Him alone.
In the stone chamber of the ancestral tomb, Vilheim waited with a calm heart for Khtun's rite to end. And yet something felt off. Ordinarily the ceremony finished within five minutes at most — and that was only when a gifted candidate actually received a gift. But Khtun had not so much as twitched for a long while after the rite began.
Why?
Worried that something had gone wrong, Vilheim approached him. That was when it happened.
Khtun swayed.
"Khtun...!"
Vilheim caught him as he staggered and nearly fell.
"Are you all right?"
"Pardon?"
"I asked if you are all right. You haven't moved in a long time."
"Ah..."
Khtun blinked blankly, as if waking from sleep, then nodded.
"Yes, I'm fine."
"If something is wrong, you may say so."
"No, I'm truly fine."
Khtun insisted he was all right, but Vilheim could not rest easy. He had feared that the residual spirit of the Ancestor sleeping within the armament might have affected Khtun in some harmful way.
"Truly..."
Just as Vilheim was about to press him again —
Shiiing—
A clear, pure ring of metal echoed through the stone chamber. In that instant, Vilheim's body went rigid. Something he had believed impossible was unfolding right before his eyes.
...The armament of the Dragon Slayer Arch — Kracion — rested in Khtun's hand.
Vilheim could not trust his own eyes. Anyone without the right to hold it would be struck by agony as if lightning had torn through their entire body. How, then, could this boy—?
The shock lasted only a moment. Vilheim soon accepted the reality before him.
"You have been recognized as worthy."
"Yes."
Khtun answered carefully, watching Vilheim's face for any sign of displeasure. But Vilheim's reaction made those worries look foolish.
"Congratulations. From this day forward, no one will be able to deny that you are a Falaon."
The expression on Vilheim's face, as Khtun saw it, was brighter than anything he had ever shown.
After they returned from the ancestral tomb, Vilheim went straight to their father with the news.
"Father—!"
Vilheim raised his voice in a way so unlike him that the soldiers on guard froze solid, certain some disaster had struck. But those same soldiers were forced to gape a second time — because of Vilheim's face.
Young Master Vilheim is...
Smiling?
The soldiers doubted their own eyes. And so did Baron Falaon.
"Vilheim, what is it? Don't tell me..."
The words Did you eat the wrong mushroom up on the mountain? rose all the way to his throat — and then:
"Khtun lifted the shield."
"What? The shield?"
"Yes. He lifted the Ancestor's armament, Kracion."
"...!"
The Baron was stunned. That child had lifted the shield? Being chosen by an armament was an entirely different matter from Vilheim simply claiming a sword — it was vanishingly rare. Across the long history of House Falaon, how many had ever been chosen by the armaments?
Aside from Vilheim, only three.
Brilliant bloodline talent did not guarantee one could lift them, nor did meager talent bar the way. In fact, the three before Vilheim had all been on the weaker end of the bloodline spectrum. Yet those three had shared one thing in common.
Every one of them... became a hero.
Their lives had been unusually short, so their glory never quite lifted the house into a true golden age — but that they had been heroes was beyond dispute. And now look: Vilheim and Khtun.
"Two in a single generation..."
Had there ever been such a thing? No. Absolutely not. The first time in Falaon history. The knowledge that he stood at that historic moment — and that the raw material of those heroes was his own sons — set the Baron's heart pounding hard.
Perhaps that was why.
"Where is Khtun? Where is he?"
"Father, first you should change into clean clothes."
"Clothes? ...Ah."
Only then did the Baron realize he was still spattered with blood. He had been interrogating an intruder moments earlier and had come running at Vilheim's call.
"I'll be there shortly. Tell Khtun as much."
"Yes. Take your time."
The Baron left to change, and Vilheim headed for Khtun's room. A short while later:
"My son, I've heard the news! You were chosen by Kracion!"
"Y-yes."
"Magnificent! Truly magnificent! You've grown up so well. I may not have raised you myself, but you've grown up so well!"
The Baron hoisted Khtun high in pure delight — and then, as if giving him a victory toss, flung him up and caught him again.
"F-Father—"
"Yes, my son!"
"I—I'm gonna— Bleeeargh—!"
"What a robust lad!"
With lightning-fast reflexes, the Baron dodged the disaster and laughed heartily. And so the time passed — miserable for Khtun alone, and happy for everyone else. Unfortunately (or fortunately), it did not last long.
"So this is where you were."
A voice came from the doorway of Khtun's room. The Baron stiffened.
"...My lady."
"What is all this commotion at such an hour?"
"Well..."
His buoyant mood vanished in an instant. Faced with Hella's cool expression, the Baron found himself unable to speak. Only then did the reality he had forgotten come rushing back. It was good news — that much was certain — but how was he supposed to tell Hella of it? A bastard born on a battlefield he had marched off to for the sake of the house.
When I think of all Hella endured holding this territory alone without me, a hundred mouths would not be enough to apologize.
It was his own failing. As the Baron stood there, mouth sealed shut, Vilheim stepped in.
"Mother. Khtun has been chosen by the armament."
"The armament...?"
"Yes. The shield, Kracion."
"..."
At those words, Hella's gaze settled on Khtun. He was sprawled out after thoroughly emptying his stomach, and as she looked at him, the corner of her eye gave a fine, almost invisible tremor. Then, after only a moment:
"Vilheim, go and fetch the servants. This place needs cleaning."
"Yes."
"And you — we will speak later."
Having banished the Baron, Hella cleaned Khtun herself and even helped him to the bed. Then she patted him gently until he fell asleep.
That night, Khtun slept deeply.
It was the first time since he had come to House Falaon.
The next morning, I blinked awake with a light heart. What was this pleasant feeling? It was as if I had been born anew.
Is this the power of a bloodline awakening?
I considered it for a moment, then shook my head. Physical changes from the bloodline awakening might play a part, but the psychological effect was far greater. And the reason for that was, of course...
Not for a single moment have I ever thought you weren't a Falaon.
Rest easy and sleep well.
Vilheim and Lady Hella. I had told myself otherwise, but over the past year I had been watching both of them carefully for any sign of rejection. Whether Lady Hella had fully accepted me remained an open question — but the warmth she had shown last night melted my worries all the same.
Perhaps that was why.
"Mm, it feels like my heart's warming up."
...I see things rather differently. My insides are boiling over with white-hot rage.
The Ancestor's voice from beside me confirmed once more that everything from last night had been no dream. Ah — for the record, the Ancestor had stepped out for a brief excursion. Now that he was awake, he said he wanted to see how his descendants were living.
But boiling with rage?
That damned Bastil! That dog of a man! How is this state of affairs even possible?! Huh?! After everything I did for that bastard, he left my descendants living like this?!
Excuse me, but who is Bastil...?
That scrap of a founding king, that's who!
Ah. So he meant Bastil, the founding king. He had spoken of him so dismissively that I hadn't imagined it could be the founding king himself. But the Ancestor's fury was a little hard for me to take in as it stood.
"I heard even this much only exists because Father earned merit in the war and rebuilt—"
What?!
Ah. That had been a mistake. I had only meant to cool his temper a little, but the Ancestor began huffing and puffing as if he might drop dead on the spot. And then:
I cannot leave things as they are. How am I supposed to lie quietly in the ancestral tomb after seeing this?
"Pardon? If you're not going to lie there, then what do you intend to...?"
The Ancestor spoke with the resolute face of a man who had made a great decision.
Let us form a contract. I shall personally become your undead and raise this House of Falaon myself.
Huh? That went against every Confucian principle I knew.
...The thought lasted only a moment. I quickly remembered that I was an uneducated resident of a medieval fantasy land.
There was just one problem.
How exactly was a contract supposed to work?