The Declaration of War
From that day on, Father immediately set about preparing for war.
"We've bought ourselves some time by removing Administrator Pervil, but it won't last long. Everyone, make haste."
The knights toured the territory, conscripting every able-bodied man.
The age range for conscription ran from fifteen to fifty.
In my previous life, fifteen would have seemed far too young—but in this world, fifteen was the age of adulthood.
Meanwhile, I pressed on with my hellish training.
"Even if you hide behind the shield, keep your eyes locked on your opponent to the very end! Watch the shoulders—if you can't manage that, watch the tips of the feet. Never block your field of vision!"
I forced my breath, already clawing up to my chin, into some semblance of order and raised the shield.
Kang! Kaaang!
Golgol's sword hammered against it!
"I said don't block your vision!"
Gol!
If that were easy, do you think I'd have become a necromancer?!
How was I supposed to keep my sight clear while blocking with a shield this massive?
And the conditions themselves were stacked against me.
Just look.
"Golgol, you little bastard. In a situation like this you shove with the shield. That's it—just like that!"
I had only a single shield, while Golgol held a sword in the right hand and a shield in the left—two weapons!
Why call a shield a weapon?
One look at the way Golgol used it would answer that.
Gol! Gol!
Kang! Kaaang! Thud!
It would cheerfully batter away with the sword, and the moment the defense looked solid, it would put its entire weight behind a shield bash!
Sometimes, if a gap appeared, it even struck with the shield's edge.
"Ack! Aaagh!"
"That's it—well done! Descendant, Golgol is growing. Which means you are growing!"
It rankled, but I had no choice but to admit it.
When it came to physical talent, Golgol outstripped me.
How long did that bruise-filled sparring continue?
"Let's rest a little."
Yes, sir.
I flopped onto my back in the training yard and caught my breath.
Aching arms and legs, throbbing shins and forearms.
Even a body reinforced by physical remodeling could not endure this daily grind without protest.
"Still, your growth is certainly rapid. Putting a shield in Golgol's hands was worth it."
Is it? I couldn't really tell.
"Swordsmanship aside for the moment—every time Golgol's shield technique advances, I can see your own movements changing. It is clearly helping you."
Handing Golgol a shield had been the ancestor's decision.
Once you stood on a real battlefield, you rarely held nothing but a shield, so he had us train in sword-and-shield technique.
Of course I had asked whether I shouldn't train in it as well…
He told me that since my offensive methods would accumulate proficiency through Golgol anyway, I should focus on defense.
I stayed sprawled on the training ground and stared up at the sky.
White clouds drifted across a clear blue expanse.
"Endure even if it is hard. One day this pain will save your life."
Yes, sir.
They said patience was bitter and its fruit sweet.
I always thought patience tasted plenty bitter.
And it wasn't as if it always placed a fruit in your hand afterward, either.
"Let us resume training. You have rested enough."
"Ugh."
I pushed myself up and gripped the shield once more.
At least the training had not been entirely fruitless; the shield that had once felt so alien now settled snugly against my arm.
"All right. This time we will practice defending within a limited radius of movement. Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart, fix one foot in place, and draw a circle with the other. Yes—just like that. You must not step outside that circle. And Golgol, you…"
Following the ancestor's instructions, I scratched a circle into the dirt and took my stance.
Kwa-deuk!
A massive blade slammed into the earth.
Chwaaaak—!
A fountain of crimson blood sprayed skyward.
As scarlet spread across the green of the leaves, Vilheim wordlessly withdrew his sword.
Cheol-keok, cha-rak—!
The broad face of the greatsword Cresher folded with a metallic rasp.
Vilheim sheathed the weapon, now reduced to the size of an ordinary longsword.
"I have to say, that sword never stops being fascinating."
"…Ren."
"Anyway—you've already cleaned everything up?"
Bioren—more commonly called Ren—surveyed the surroundings with a faint smile.
The heart of a dense forest.
Earth stained red.
And the corpses of the ambushers strewn across it.
That monstrous strength never gets old.
So this was the bloodline of the greatsword and divine power.
For a moment the memory of their first meeting flashed through his mind, and a chill ran down his spine.
If he had not cleared up the misunderstanding right then and there, what would have happened?
He would not have died easily himself, but even if he had survived, he would have lost a great deal.
"So."
"Hm?"
Vilheim's voice pulled Ren from his thoughts.
"What about the ones who tried to run?"
"All taken care of. A few of them were a little troublesome, but… well, just troublesome."
"I see. How many left, then?"
"Hard to say… I've identified three bases?"
"Three. Not many remaining. Lead the way."
Vilheim mulled over the number and started walking.
He looked like a man from whom emotion itself had been excised; watching him, Ren could not help but feel a flicker of curiosity.
"So what's this sudden whim about?"
"What do you mean?"
"I'm wondering what brought on the change of heart. Normally you wouldn't lift a finger even if I sang for help."
"Back then I had no connection to Falaon."
"And now?"
"I already told you. Their agents have infiltrated the house."
"I heard that much. When was it again?"
"The day I went looking for a necromancer."
"Ah."
Only a short while ago.
He had been spending the day with drink as usual when the man had shown up out of nowhere and asked:
—Do you know anything about necromancy?
—As much as the next person.
—Enough to teach someone, then?
—Not that much.
—You're both mages, aren't you? You really can't teach it?
—I told you I can't.
For a moment Ren had been speechless.
Just what did this man think a mage was?
True, a necromancer was a mage in the broad sense, but there was a reason they were classified separately and called "necromancers."
And yet he asked whether one mage couldn't teach another?
Ren had been about to snap something sharp when the man continued:
—Then do you have any books?
—What books?
—Necromancy texts.
Hand over the necromancy books, he meant.
Honestly, the man's a bandit in all but name.
Of course Ren had no such books either, and the conversation had seemed ready to end there.
If a useful idea had not suddenly occurred to him, that is.
—Ah, I do know a place where a necromancer might be found.
—A necromancer?
—Yeah. Taking him as a master might be a stretch, but you could at least get your hands on some necromancy texts, right?
One of "those people" who had recently crossed into the area happened to be a necromancer.
Ren had been planning to clean them up soon anyway—and now the opportunity had dropped into his lap.
—That necromancer is one of "them" as well? The ones hunting you.
—So, are you going or not?
—I am. Just give me the location. I'll be back quickly.
—Ah, then while you're at it, this box…
"Right, that was the day. But… hmm."
"What's the problem? If you have something to say, talk while we walk."
"Shall I?"
Vilheim strode forward, parting the undergrowth with long steps.
Ren glanced at the man ahead of him and thought.
Even so, until now he only ever cared about Falaon.
This was the same man who, no matter how often Ren had told him those people needed dealing with, had refused to act because it was outside Falaon's territory.
Well, as far as Ren was concerned, Vilheim's help was more than welcome.
Still, having spent even a short time with the man and come to understand his nature, Ren found the whole thing odd.
"Oh, while we're on the subject—did you handle that necromancer properly? Those people get messy if you don't finish the job cleanly."
"I handled it well."
"Well, I can tell you handled him from the head you brought back. But you have to burn the entire workshop to the ground or you'll have trouble later."
"I don't recall anyone telling me to burn it."
"Tsk. Honestly."
"Be quiet and just lead the way. The atmosphere in the territory has been strange lately."
"True enough. What was it—earlier in the village I heard talk that Hadion is about to declare a territorial war. Will you be all right not heading back?"
Hadion had not yet issued a formal declaration of war, but that a territorial war would break out was already a foregone conclusion.
The declaration itself was little more than formality.
Naturally, a man who cherished his domain as fiercely as Vilheim ought to have been fretting—yet for some reason he remained perfectly calm.
Why?
"Falaon is not so weak that it would fall to the likes of Hadion. Still… we should hurry."
With that, Vilheim fell silent.
Ren, for his part, thought:
I don't know… from what I've heard, Viscount Hadion is preparing thoroughly as well.
Well, they would find out soon enough.
A few days later.
A single mounted messenger reined in before the territory of Falaon.
Hiiiing—!
Startled by the abrupt halt, the warhorse reared and screamed.
The messenger patted its neck to calm it, then fixed his gaze squarely on the lord's castle.
"Baron Falaon, hear me—! This is a message from Viscount Hadion!"
The powerful voice rolled outward, drawing every eye among the townsfolk.
Women on their way to the laundry, children who had been laughing and running, farmers snatching a moment of rest after a hard day's labor—all of them turned as one.
Perhaps conscious of that collective stare, the messenger gave the flagpole a sharp flourish and unfurled the banner wide.
When the crest of Hadion blazoned upon it was revealed for all to see, the people sucked in a collective breath.
They sensed at once that what they had long expected had finally arrived.
Apparently pleased with the atmosphere, the messenger swept his gaze once more over the crowd before speaking again.
"'This Viscount has, over long years, proven to you all that among the lands known as the territory of Falaon there exist tracts handed down through the generations of our House Hadion. The rights to those lands already exist within ancient records, and they are as the very law of heaven. Yet what of you, Falaon?'"
The messenger's solemn voice poured out indignation.
"'You of Falaon turned your faces from the truth. Though the ancient records themselves bear witness, you averted your eyes from the truth and refused to relinquish your false claim. How brazen and shameful a conduct is this! How dare you trample the rights of Hadion!'"
Thud!
The messenger drove the flagpole hard into the ground and straightened his back. From the broad chest and the throat above it burst a harsh cry.
"'Hadion—this Viscount—has, for the sake of Falaon, our neighbor of many years, offered opportunity time and again. Mindful of the suffering that would befall the people of Falaon, we proposed peaceful solutions and strove to respect Falaon's pride. But we will remain silent no longer. How could we remain silent? To reclaim that land is our duty, a sacred charge we must keep for our ancestors and our descendants alike.'"
Flap—!
When the messenger wrenched the flagpole free and raised it high, a fierce wind seized the banner and snapped it taut.
There, upon the soil of Falaon, the flag of Hadion billowed.
"'Hadion hereby formally declares: if so much as a speck of honor remains to you, do not flee. We shall take up arms to reclaim our rightful claim—if you have courage, stand and fight. O Falaon—! Reclaim your hon—!'"
In that instant, a massive sword came flying from somewhere and buried itself in the messenger's body.
"…re, reclaim, re… ah…"
The messenger never finished the word.
As he crumpled with a soft thud, the Baron of Falaon—who had just thrown the sword—gave an order to Sir Valt.
"Retrieve the sword, and cut off the messenger's head. Send it back to Hadion."
"As you command."
That was Falaon's answer to Hadion's declaration of war.