Nothing Has Ended Yet
“El—will you truly be all right?”
“To what, precisely, do you refer, Father?”
“The speculation that something foul clings to Cariel, and that it was through that thing we were stricken. And as for the manner in which you addressed your master—afraid as I am that it will narrow the ground beneath your feet, it leaves me with regrets.”
The Emperor and the Imperial Princess. The Empress and the aging chamberlain. Thus the four of them made their way down a corridor at once lavish and vast, over which a profound stillness had settled like a second skin.
Light and shadow lay in stark contrast between the windowed stretches of the hall and the windowless ones—but the elderly chamberlain, walking ahead with a mana lamp held aloft, spared them any discomfort or unease on that account. A vague, undifferentiated brightness only dazzles the eye, while too weak a glow fails to make anything around you stand out in clarity. The optimal intensity, the very character and composition of light that never grates upon the senses—such trifles, too, might be called the handiwork of the era's foremost arcane art.
“I took a hard line because a hard line needed to be taken. You know this as well as I do—a wounded beast is all but certain to find itself watched, at every hour, in every place.”
“And as for Cariel?”
“You mean the possibility that someone schemed against him? A curse? A calamity? Or the suspicion that someone may have laid their traps on every front, targeting Cariel himself—is that what you mean?”
“…That is far too vague a guess. It is not something one could use to persuade anyone, or make them understand.”
“It doesn't concern me.”
“So it was, after all.”
The Emperor let out a long, slow breath. That breath sounded like a lament, the Empress thought.
“Father. You know better than anyone that such things are not what matter. If someone truly did scheme against him—so what, and if they did not—so what? Our past deeds will not vanish either way. That is why I said it did not concern me which it was. In the end, the need to atone and to beg forgiveness does not change.
But if some unknown outside pressure, some meddling hand, had even the slightest part in this—then I will use it as my pretext and burn it all to nothing. Not a fleck of ash left behind. Everything bound to it, consumed without a single hair's breadth of error, without mercy.”
And then—
For Cariel. And for Rueld and Ermina alike—for every one of those who had clashed with him again and again, stood against him, torn at him and gnawed him raw.
…It was a kindness wrapped in cruelty. And yet, perhaps, it was the most terrible truth of all—packaged and paraded under the name of honesty.
“After all, does not every soul in this world seek only what it wishes to see, and hear only what it wishes to hear?”
“…….”
The Emperor let out a groan that was half a sigh.
“And it would be unwise in every respect for outsiders to carry themselves as though they intend to pass judgment upon us over this matter.”
If problems arose, they were the Empire's to bear. The manner of resolving them, the apology, the judgment—whatever form they took, they were the Empire's as well.
“We must see it ended within our own walls.”
The Princess laid out her thoughts with dispassionate calm.
“Even the time spent regretting is wasted. And so we must stop matters from worsening any further—for the sake of a better future, as well.”
“…Do you believe it can still be undone?”
“That is…”
There, for a moment, the Princess let her words trail off.
“I do not know. Not as things stand now.”
At the very least—had Rueld not shown her that letter, the Princess would no doubt still be swollen with vain hope. She would have believed it had gone smoothly. That even if all was not well, at least the knot at the end had not tangled. But the moment she read what Rueld had brought her, the Princess understood anew that she had labored under an enormous delusion.
“I will simply strive to protect both sides.”
The Hero and the Saintess who had saved the world. And…
“If we find Cariel, we're taking him back to our own land.”
When Geornia said this while picking at her long ear in the guest chamber, Hameln's brows twitched with unease.
“Will that truly be all right?”
“Rueld won't go throwing his weight around over some trifle like this. And raising an army? However brilliant his strategy, however peerless his command across the whole continent—the Emperor himself couldn't manage it with a pretext this flimsy.”
“Pretexts can be manufactured, though. That's rather the point of them.”
“Which is exactly why Elhermina is the problem.”
Geornia had seen it. And she had shuddered all over again—the overwhelming spectacle of it, dyeing and blanketing the entire room in white.
“So she's gone and made the Legacy of the Great Demon King entirely her own.”
“But weren't you the one who handed it over, Lady Geornia?”
“Not I—that girl snatched it up in time. That's all there was to it.”
The demonkin who had surrendered to the human alliance had delivered three Legacies of the Great Demon King in total. But did merely possessing one make its bearer its master? It did not. And in the review of qualification, Elhermina had claimed it for herself, openly and without apology.
“To swallow poison knowing full well it is poison—what her heart must have felt.”
She could not have refused it. And if, by some carelessness, that bomb slipped beyond the edge of sight only to return later as an unthinkable calamity—how would anyone begin to contain it then?
“Sealing it was the correct answer… or better yet, we should have simply left it lying in the Demon Realm and walked away!”
“Isn't that its own problem, though? If someone learned to wield the thing, became a Demon King or the like, and came invading…”
“Whether it's fortune or misfortune that the remaining owners are still so half-baked, I can't say.”
Geornia clicked her tongue and flopped back onto the sofa.
“Cariel's whereabouts—those things probably know it too. The sheer nerve of them.”
“What will you tell the higher-ups about this news?”
“We watch a little longer.”
Unanswered questions still abounded. And if—truly, as the Princess's fear insisted—some outside influence had been mixed into all of this, then there would surely be a purpose behind it as well.
“Did the demons make their move?”
To deliver an offer that could not be refused? Or had human malice simply climbed to its very peak? She did not know yet. But she would know soon enough. For their sake—if nothing else—they had gone so far as to expose even the shames they might have kept hidden, all to lay hold of that truth.
His head felt as though it would split open.
Skreek—
Kiiik-kreek—
“Urk!”
He flailed for what felt like a very long time, half-convinced he was about to break apart—and found himself lying in a place he had never once seen before.
“Where… am I?”
A barren earth. A red sky. Not a plant to be found—nor even a single withered, twisted tree. The ground was not so much white as pallid, like sifted ash, like powdered bone. He wondered whether even a wasteland where everything seemed to be guttering out toward darkness could be more desolate, more bleak, than this.
“What in the…?”
Just then, a small light alighted in the distance. Without knowing why, he drifted toward it—and there stood a tiny winged angel.
'An angel?'
The angel, wearing the likeness of a child, glanced at him—then turned its back and flew away. Slowly. …As though bidding him follow.
Skreek—
“Ngh!”
The pain seized him again. No—it was something fundamentally different from any headache. He sank down gasping, groaning, for a long, long while.
“…….”
None of it made sense.
Why am I here?
He set off blindly after the baby angel, and it flitted away somewhere else again—toward the far end of the wasteland. And at the place he reached after following and following, there lay a pit.
“…….”
He could not have said why, but his heart dropped like a stone, and dread began to pool in him.
The angel was there, at the edge of the pit. He shouted for it to come away at once. He gestured. He cried out. But the angel only shook its head, weeping. Praying, with both hands clasped tight together. Without ever once raising its drooping wings, the angel did nothing—nothing but weep.
He… hesitated. And then he set his foot toward the pit.
…
A familiar place.
“……?”
And so he could not understand it at all. A shiver crawled up his spine—had all of that been a dream? Had he only dozed off for a moment? Then why was he here?
A familiar place. So familiar that the chill spilled over into gooseflesh. His whole body had begun to tremble without his consent. Sitting in a chair, before a desk—this situation.
'Why…'
This was his room, wasn't it? He had clearly left the house. He had left, hadn't he? It had all been a dream? All imagination?
An unbearable flood of feeling broke over him like a thunderhead. His hands shook—but a long, deliberate breath held the trembling down, just barely. Trembling in fear changed nothing.
'It isn't too late. Not even now.'
He steadied himself, and opened the window with the ease of long habit—
“…….”
Why was it this high?
This was the height he used to leap from without a second thought. But looking at it now, if he jumped… beyond hurting himself, he felt sure he would die. Looking again, his hands and feet had grown terribly small. The world had not risen—he had shrunk.
“How?”
No—too soon to panic. Focus on what needed doing now. Which meant, first… he had to go through that door.
From the mere thought of it, his chest tightened as though a wall had been raised against his throat. He hated even to approach it. That door was, for him, the exit of another nightmare entirely. Wondering who might come in the moment it opened, agonizing over it; forever tensing at the footsteps faintly audible beyond it, stiffening his shoulders, pretending to be at some task, pretending devotion, working hard, so very hard…
…And yet. If he did not step out, nothing would ever change.
He pressed his ear to the door and listened, quietly. …No sound. Truly, a silence like the grave. He eased the door open without a whisper of noise and stepped out into the corridor. …A chilling stillness greeted him. Anxiety and a strange, guilty joy crossed wires in him until his mind went hazy. His legs shook; his ankles would barely hold him. But—
'I just… came out because I was thirsty. For water. No one called me and no one was around, and so… I came out.'
That excuse would serve. And he readied a second one behind it—he had meant to stop by the washroom while he was out, naturally. Please, let no one cross his path.
Strangling his presence to the last thread, sharpening every sense, every sound, to its keenest edge—
Barely. Truly, barely.
…He reached the front door.
The great front door was another barrier standing between him and the world. He did not want to touch it. He hated even drawing near it. Some nameless fear whispered what might happen if he approached without cause.
But to leave this place, there was now only that way. The windows were sealed fast. He had tried them; they would not open. The front door alone, though, stood parted by the smallest of cracks. It was not even locked. And what did a lock matter, when it opened from the inside? …No—if this were a prison, that would be a different matter, but no. No. That wasn't the point.
“…….”
He swept his eyes over his surroundings, over the stairs and the landings as well, and then—muffling his footsteps to nothing—he drew up before the front door. Slipped his hand into the open gap. And just as he pulled, at last, to open it—
Grab!
—A hand closed on his shoulder.
“Karl.”
Right against the back of his ear, breathing stirred.
“And where do you think you are going?”
Cold sweat broke over him and his mind went white. The world drained to blankness at the edges. His jaw shuddered of its own accord, teeth clacking against teeth.
“Isn't it time you were studying?”
“…….”
The breathing. Steady, unhurried breaths—and threaded between them, something like the slow grinding of teeth. …No answer would come out of him at all.
“Why are you here? Answer me, Karl.”
“I, I was….”
“Don't stammer. Speak plainly.”
“I was… thirsty….”
“Then ought you not have come here, of all places?”
“…….”
“You lied, didn't you?”
“N-no, I didn't.”
“You lied, Karl. To your own mother.”
“I, I really….”
“All you ever had to do was tell the truth.”
I want to leave this house. I'm frightened. I can't breathe!
“And yet you lie! Why! To your own mother! How could you commit such shamelessness! Who taught you such vile habits!”
“N-no! I'm sorry! I didn't— I never meant to—!”
He belatedly turned and bowed his head as low as it would go—but still, her voice flickered just beside his ear, together with that wintry, cavernous breathing.
“Karl. Did you truly believe you could escape, from me?”
“?!”
“Give it up. You will remain here, always.”
You cannot escape.
“Because I am your mother.”
A hand closed around his throat.
“Urk!”
“So if you wish to go—leave this body behind.”
Sleepy? Die, and you may sleep forever. Tired? Why, that too is a blessing only the living are granted to feel.
“It seems you do not wish to live with your mother forever, after all?”
“Urk! I-I'm sor—!”
“Trust in me and lean upon me, and eternal life awaits! Even in heaven we are to be together, forever and ever! I do not wish to part! Never! And yet why—why will no one understand this earnest heart! Atone! You must atone! For this one small wish—that you live happily, together with your father and your mother! Why will you not understand! Whyyy!”
The air was gone. He thrashed and kicked, but against her grip such a small body could offer no resistance at all—
“I am telling you that I love you… so why won't you understand, Kaaarl!”
“Khk—!”
It felt as though his neck would snap. Hands, arms, everything—he resisted with all the desperation left in him. Every bit of it was meaningless.
I… am going to die… like this….
Gold shimmered before his eyes. The whole world was being buried beneath it. Like a passing squall—what came pouring down was a spectacle like countless petals flung skyward all at once by a single gust.
The great tree stood there, its golden leaves glittering, its trunk bent nearly double yet forced stubbornly upright. And beneath it, like waves of molten gold, coin-shaped leaves spread without beginning and without end—out to the very rim of the world, across that vast, vast wilderness, past the reach of sight and beyond it.
“……?”
Where was this?
“You said you would save me! You said it! Then why! Why must I alone! Why must I alone suffer like this!”
“A hideous, hollow, and altogether tiresome piece of vermin—that's what you are.”
While the black shape shrieked, the golden shape poured down mockery with a sneer to match.
“You dare! A mere ghost, daring to look down on me!”
“Do gaze upon me with due reverence, you wretched spawn of vermin. For all that I may look like this, I was once master of ten thousand demons. Strut and preen all you like, as though a vanished husk such as you ranked among peers—but you're about to die.”
“GYAAAAAAAAGH!”
“Ugh. My ears.”
The gold—openly miming the picking of its ears—suddenly tilted its head, peering at Cariel.
“…And what are you supposed to be?”
“?!”
The instant his eyes snapped open—
“Our handsome Brother? Back with us at last?”
The first thing he saw—and the first thing he truly grasped—was a presence that a single thin layer of cloth could never hope to conceal, radiating the very pinnacle of maternal warmth. A truly colossal woman's chest. And the reason he recognized it at once, without a moment's confusion…
…was that this was not the first time he had been gathered in, face-first, into that valley.