The Beggar (3)
“Who goes there?”
Clang!
Feroc drew his sword, his expression hardening to stone. He had not sensed a single presence until the beggar—the Dark King—rose. To slip past the aura detection of an Upper Expert knight?
This is no ordinary man.
Had that been the reason Evan had been watching him all this time?
So he wasn’t simply eyeing him as a test subject.
Had he instinctively felt something was off?
Tension coiled tight through Feroc’s body. The aura in his dantian seethed and boiled.
A sinister pressure crept up over his shoulders—an oppressive force that weighed on the spirit just by existing. The knights beside him flinched.
…He’s unfazed?
One corner of Feroc’s eye twitched upward. The beggar took the full brunt of that aura head-on and remained utterly unmoved, as if this level of pressure were nothing at all.
“If you enter the forest today, the Angol Grand Devil will descend! You’ll all die!”
Angol Grand Devil?
Feroc chewed on the unfamiliar words for a moment. His face crumpled further.
“…A superstition fanatic.”
Superstition. The faiths that had existed before the Empire was founded—beliefs and creeds that had long since become empty nonsense. Groundless, unproven, hollow faith.
Frankly, it was laughable.
Superstition fanatics were forever babbling that some ominous sign meant the Angol Grand Devil would arrive that very day. No matter how trivial the trigger.
‘Write a name in red ink and the Angol Grand Devil comes!’
‘Gift shoes to a lover and the Angol Grand Devil will snatch them away!’
‘Write the number thirteen and the Angol Grand Devil brings misfortune!’
‘A black wolf is an omen of the Angol Grand Devil’s coming!’
And so on.
Just how idle a god was this Angol Grand Devil, that he was always ready to drop by at the slightest excuse?
Even the elderly no longer believed it—a forgotten scrap of history. And this beggar had dug up that scrap and was now shouting it at the top of his lungs.
So there are still people who believe that rubbish.
It was not the first time Feroc had met someone who clung to superstition. On the duke’s orders he had traveled far and wide. Minor superstitions were harmless enough—avoiding slippery foods the night before a knight’s examination, or never giving shoes to a lover before the trial.
But an actual “superstition fanatic” who invoked the Angol Grand Devil by name? That was a first.
Madman’s eyes.
Those two eyes were crystal clear—the gaze of a true zealot who never once doubted his superstitions.
“Stop interfering and get lost. Do you even know who stands before you?”
“I don’t want money! Material things can’t move me! If you go in today, you all die! I’m only delivering this oracle!”
Rattle-rattle.
Even as he spoke, the beggar rolled a pebble in his palm. A strange habit.
Feroc clicked his tongue.
“Who told you that?”
“The wisdom of the ancestors! The heavens themselves! Every current of air is speaking!”
Definitely insane.
Feroc clucked his tongue again. Now he almost felt pity.
Even the Starry Sky Maiden would be more credible than this.
The maiden who claimed to read “fate” from the stars of the night sky—even the Emperor sometimes summoned her. That level of reputation was one thing. This ominous superstition? Not even worth believing.
“Get lost.”
“I’m telling you, you mustn’t go in today!”
The beggar raved. The pebble in his hand clattered. His old, gaunt frame strode closer. A foul stench rolled off him.
Evan’s brow furrowed, just slightly.
Noticing it, Feroc’s own expression twisted.
He keeps poking the bomb.
If Evan lost his temper here, things would get ugly. The entire forest might become an experimental ground. The lives of the knights and hunters would no longer be guaranteed.
“…Hold—”
Before Feroc could raise a hand to signal the knights for a threat display, Evan spoke first.
“Would you step aside for a moment?”
Damn. Too late.
“…Yes, Young Master.”
Feroc bowed his head and withdrew. The other knights stepped back as well. The hunters took the hint and melted away.
Evan stood before the beggar.
“A noble young master, are you? The son of His Grace the Duke of Alcarte!”
That crazy bastard.
Feroc cursed inwardly. Please. Please just shut your mouth.
“….”
Evan regarded the beggar in silence.
Would he explode like this?
A hair-trigger situation. Feroc’s grip tightened on his sword hilt.
Meanwhile, the Evan standing before the beggar—no, the Dark King—thought to himself:
…Maybe I shouldn’t have stepped forward.
His face was stiff—no, locked in a cramp—while inside he clutched at his heart.
***
Evan stepped forward and soothed his racing heart.
Ugh! I’m shaking!
It was his first time seeing the Dark King in person. His heart pounded. Yet he had still come forward for a simple reason.
If he keeps this up and rubs him the wrong way, what then?
Outwardly the Dark King looked like a beggar—the lowest of beggars. But he was the Dark King: living history and legend of the current generation of assassins. Even Feroc could have been cut down in a single stroke.
Luckily we got off easy so far.
Of course, the Dark King had his own rules. That black pebble in his hand was a kind of fortune-telling tool. The Dark King used it a little differently, though. Whenever someone was rude, he rolled the pebble across his palm. The moment the pebble settled in the center of his hand with a crow—the symbol of ill omen—drawn on it…
—History has decided your fate!
…he would snick! and kill the offender on the spot.
That was the Dark King’s ideology—one of the few things a man of non-possession still kept.
One might ask whether non-possession meant discarding everything. It did not. Non-possession meant “not owning what is unnecessary.” Money, offerings, greed—those were discarded. The self was not.
Spirit, memory, technique, history. The Dark King treasured these four above all. His obsession with history, in particular, defied imagination.
—History is something everyone must remember!
Stories, knowledge, methods of survival handed down through generations—among them the superstitions that the world was forgetting. Those, too, were history.
“Even the Angol Grand Devil would look upon that countenance and feel fear!”
…Well, that part had gone a little wrong. But at least his intentions weren’t malicious.
This is exactly why I didn’t want to meet him.
Evan exhaled a silent sigh and steeled himself. No choice. For now, treat him with utmost courtesy. No need to pick a fight.
He simply disliked fighting. It was absolutely not because he was scared.
“How did you know I am the duke’s son?”
“That face overflowing with dignity, those eyes that look empty even though you own far more than this old man, that gaunt frame! Everything proves the young master’s station!”
“…I see.”
Evan simply agreed. Perhaps because he did not deny it and answered “I see,” the rolling pebble stopped. Curiosity lit the Dark King’s eyes.
Ah. I shouldn’t have answered.
“Might I ask your name?”
“Evan Alcarte.”
“A splendid name! But never write it in red ink. The Angol Grand Devil will grow wrathful and come for you.”
“I shall remember.”
Evan answered with polite formality. Feroc’s expression grew peculiar. Why treat this superstition fanatic with such courtesy? As if he were some great personage?
Don’t tell me Evan is a superstition fanatic too?
While that absurd misunderstanding piled up, the Dark King looked thoroughly satisfied.
“Haha! To think the young master would listen carefully to this old man’s words! No wonder today’s fortune felt good!”
“Good fortune?”
“The moment I woke this morning I heard magpies crying. Is that not a symbol of luck?”
“…Ah, I see.”
“Did the young master also hear magpies this morning?!”
“No. I heard a crow.”
“Dear me! That is a symbol of ill omen!”
The Dark King sighed, looking truly sorry.
“Be sure to sprinkle salt water before you sleep tonight. It will keep the Angol Grand Devil away!”
“…I shall keep that in mind.”
“And while you’re at it, refrain from entering the forest today.”
The Dark King’s voice turned serious.
“Black wolves appeared today. Fully three of them. Black wolves are omens of misfortune—especially for hunters who enter the forest!”
“….”
“I do not know your purpose, but it would be best not to go in.”
A subtle current of qi threaded through the Dark King’s voice. Evan’s expression barely changed. If anything, he looked faintly awkward.
…I wasn’t planning to go in myself anyway?
Survival Rule Number One: safety first. He had absolutely no intention of setting foot in a place that endangered his body. Still, he had to answer. Done right, he might even earn some goodwill.
“So as long as no person enters, it is fine.”
“For the moment, yes.”
“In that case—Number Four. Golem Dog.”
At Evan’s command, Number Four—long-armed, six-legged, long-necked—stepped forward from where it had been waiting.
Thud!
Number Five also strode forward, shoulders slightly raised as if it had been waiting for this moment alone.
“Number Five, stand by.”
Kii?
Kiiik…
Number Five retreated with a dejected air. Evan sighed in relief inwardly.
Where do you think you’re going?
In pure combat power, Number Five was the strongest single golem. Guarding Evan was its proper place. The living golem draped over his body radiated discontent. But what could it do? It could only defend. Attack was impossible.
I’ll remodel it later.
He would definitely install a chest beam like that one X-Man. A man’s romance, after all. Even if it was impossible for now.
“Golems? You are an alchemist?”
Surprise colored the Dark King’s eyes. Evan nodded.
“I still have much to learn, but yes.”
“To make golems your main craft! Astonishing. I heard the difficulty is extraordinarily high!”
“I was fortunate.”
“Might I ask under which master you studied?”
“I studied under no one.”
Evan shook his head.
“I taught myself.”
“Self-taught??”
At the word “self-taught,” the Dark King recoiled in shock.
“Good heavens! Today truly is a day overflowing with fortune! To meet a genius who mastered alchemy alone! A genius who will be remembered for centuries!”
The praise is a bit much.
This level of talent was nothing special. One slightly strong boss and he would die. Still, being praised felt good.
Maybe I really am kind of amazing?
“So you intend to enter the forest with these!”
“That is correct.”
“What do you plan to do with the golems?”
“I intend to gather medicinal herbs. There is something I wish to make.”
“Ohh! Do you mean to sell them?”
“I have no interest in money.”
Evan spoke as flatly as possible.
“Material things like money are not particularly important.”
That was a lie. Money? Great. The more the better. But in front of the Dark King it was vital not to show it. He hated nobles—more precisely, those who flaunted greed for money.
“Ohhhh… Then what do you consider important?”
Important… important…
Ah! Yes.
“Knowledge, would it not be?”
An answer that suited an alchemist perfectly.
“Knowledge…”
“Money can be earned even as time passes, but knowledge cannot. There is knowledge that can only be obtained at a certain moment.”
“Ohh… What knowledge can you gain from those herbs?”
“Even if I cannot obtain knowledge immediately, I believe they will at least serve as a foothold.”
That much was sincere. He intended to use this potion to forge a connection with the Dark King.
For a moment the Dark King’s eyes grew serious. Sweat beaded thickly on Evan’s palm. It trembled faintly from tension.
Then—
“Haha!”
The Dark King burst into laughter.
“This old man has learned a great deal. How am I to express my gratitude…”
“It is nothing…”
“I have received something good, so I must give something good in return. But this old man has so little… Hmmm…”
The Dark King looked ready to force something on Evan. Refusal was not an option. Evan kept his mouth tightly shut.
“This old man has nothing… Ah! Then perhaps the founding history of the Empire before its establishment…”
“Technique.”
Evan opened his mouth in a hurry.
“Would ‘technique’ be acceptable?”
“Technique?”
“If it is a technique containing the elder’s wisdom, would that not be sufficient reward for me?”
At Evan’s words the Dark King stroked his bearded chin. He seemed to ponder for a moment. Techniques were, after all, of high value—valuable enough that the Dark King had kept them rather than discard them.
Damn. Did I mess up by saying technique?
“…Very well. Haha.”
Nice!
“Then may I teach you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow… you say?”
“Yes. Tomorrow. I shall see you then.”
The Dark King gazed into Evan’s eyes. Evan felt it instinctively: the Dark King had known of him from the beginning.
…Was this how he intended to create a point of contact?
…Right. Better to meet him at home after preparing first.
Tomorrow the duke would remain at the mansion. Safer that way.
“Yes. Tomorrow.”
Evan emphasized the word “tomorrow.” Please do not come today!
“I shall see you then.”
“Hahaha, this old man will come find you himself.”
The Dark King smiled and promised the next meeting. Evan smiled awkwardly in return. The corner of his mouth twitched as if in a sneer.
…Ah. Cramp.
***
In front of the forest after the carriage had departed, the beggar squatted. Rattle-rattle. The pebble rolled in his hand and stopped dead in the center. A rabbit was drawn on it—the animal that symbolized good fortune.
A smile touched the Dark King’s lips.
“Interesting.”
He had been lucky. Originally he had only meant to kill time. By pure chance he had met the man who had saved his disciple. No ordinary figure.
The name was Evan Alcarte, was it?
An atmosphere hard to believe for someone who had not even held a coming-of-age ceremony. And sharp—extremely sharp.
“To think he would guess my identity to some degree.”
Evan had used polite speech without fail. A noble’s son to a commoner? To a beggar, no less?
“That no material thing holds any meaning…”
Heh.
Moreover, the words Evan had spoken. The moment he recalled them, a smile formed. A noble’s son saying such a thing? Not even as a joke. Not even when flattering someone. Yet from Evan he had sensed no such calculation. The boy had been sincere.
Realizing who I am was the same.
Evan was of the same kind as the Dark King. He carried the scent that only those of the same kind could detect. Just as the Dark King had abandoned his life for a single purpose and sworn to deceive for a lifetime, Evan was a similar sort. That was the intuition he felt.
The Dark King muttered as if humming.
“That’s right. Material things hold no value at all.”
It was the same for the Dark King. Non-possession. Not owning what is unnecessary. To him, that was “offerings.” Why? Because they no longer held value. Especially after the “attempted assassination of the Emperor.”
“And he was keeping something curious with him.”
The child who reeked of blood from head to toe. Not yet, but the future was bright indeed. Perhaps he would kill even more people than the Dark King. One who would devour humans if hungry. Whether such a being could even be called human was doubtful. And yet he casually kept such a one at his side?
It pleased him greatly.
He will become a great figure in the future.
Or perhaps he already has.
The Starry Sky Maiden was right.
—Go to the Alcarte Duchy. You will create a very special person.
A smile of joy formed. Tomorrow could not come soon enough.
Rattle-rattle!
The black pebble he had been rolling for a moment stopped. This time the crow pebble—symbol of misfortune—lay face up.
“Misfortune, is it.”
The Dark King smiled and tucked the pebble into his pocket.
“I am truly curious for whom that misfortune is meant.”
And so, the next day at noon, the Dark King visited the Alcarte Duchy.
“What is this beggar?”
Theodore stood before the Dark King, face twisted in displeasure. The moment he stepped out of his room and saw the scene, Evan thought:
Ah, life is shit.