Water Droplets in Bloom
Water droplets blossom.
Like countless bubbles rising only to burst.
Surging up in an instant, sinking away the next. And within all those many, many bubbles—
A slender fingertip touches one single droplet.
And then.
It peers inside.
…….
A forest of bare branches grown thick and dense, deep in a mountain valley—that meant, for just as long, no human hand had ever reached it.
The wind, blowing through the darkness like a blade, soon snapped the branches that had only just begun to thicken, shaking them loose, and even bent the shallow-rooted trees until their very spines broke.
Inland it would have been spring; here, even that was nothing but weariness.
Gathering up the broken branches as if shouldering a heavy bundle, the man headed toward the innermost reaches of the valley.
Where he was headed stood a small cabin. After setting down the armful of branches he used for firewood, he made his way to a spot a little away from the cabin and scooped up river water—skinned over with ice here and there, half frozen in places—pressing it into a jar the way one might stuff something into a container.
Shouldering it back again, then filling yet another jar and repeating the process a few more times—
dawn slipped away.
Even so, it was still early morning. But the forest morning, as always, was bitter cold and utterly dark.
Having finished the basic preparations, he at last busied himself gathering his hunting tools. Moving through the forest paths and between the trees with practiced ease, he put an end to the faint breath of a small animal caught in one of his traps, then separated hide from flesh with the same practiced hands.
Draining the blood, pulling out the innards and scattering them about, resetting the traps with fresh bait—
he moved on again.
Roughly masking the scent of blood with snow, sand, and soil. If the wind blew hard, the beasts' noses would catch him without fail. So he moved with the downwind direction in mind as much as he could, but the fickle temper of nature never quite obeyed, and when it didn't, there was nothing to do but accept it.
Even so.
Of all the traps he had set, the only things caught were small ones. A few times, he even pried insects out of the stripped inner bark of certain trees—whatever it took to console himself for the meager haul. Only when the sun had begun to scorch even the depths of the forest did he return to the cabin at last.
Opening the familiar door and stepping inside, he looked around the hollow, almost empty interior and drew a slow breath.
Sitting down blankly, he pushed firewood into the cold stove and lit it. Then he sat in the chair nearby and simply watched the sight.
Then—
the door opened, and someone entered.
"I'm home."
The man quietly turned his gaze toward the voice.
But.
Nothing was visible. As if the world itself had broken—everything misaligned, everything warped, and so—
…nothing at all.
Something had certainly passed between them. He simply could not tell what.
"……."
No. It was not that he couldn't understand. It had simply become impossible to understand.
That was all it came down to.
Where, exactly, had it gone wrong?
He knew. He had muttered it to himself countless times—tens, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands—reminiscing, agonizing over it. And though the conclusion had always been glaringly clear, some part of him wondered if the truth had nothing to do with it after all.
"……."
Yes. Perhaps things had gone astray precisely from that moment.
He had accepted Alesia's offer. He had allowed her companionship. And perhaps because of that—
as the Demon King had pointed out, he had grown terribly weak. No—so weak he couldn't even recognize it in himself.
He had grown wretched.
Whenever crisis, trial, or hardship had come, he had managed—perhaps not with full mastery, but somehow—to overcome them all. And yet the decisive moment—
…in the end, the Sword of Grandeus had refused him.
That was the whole of it. A single, trivial failure. And yet somehow, from that point on, everything had begun to tangle.
All he could do in the end was go somewhere far away. Burying his original goal, his original contract, deep in the back of his memory, he threw himself wholly into flight.
But somehow, word had spread. That he had made a pact with the Demon King, that he was the successor—every story imaginable swirled around him, and those who hunted him only multiplied.
Of course, he felled every last one of them.
But even that had its limits. No—even so, he hid well enough. Made a life with Alesia somewhere far away. Lived on, telling himself they'd be happy.
Even if that life came with a future guaranteed to be wretched beyond words.
Back then, I was simply too exhausted.
"……."
He fed dry wood into the stove. Like an illusion, the flames devoured the logs the way a predator eyes its prey.
Years slipped by like that. He had seen the child born; he had more or less grown accustomed to living. And then, everything collapsed.
Alesia died, and the child was taken.
After that, truly, on nothing but a single-minded resolve to find his child, he tore through every place under heaven. In the end he became a slaughterer of terrible renown, piling infamy upon infamy, until there was no place left in the world where he could properly set his feet.
…That didn't matter.
But the child was still unfound. Not even a trace.
Was it always this crushing, to have nothing at all to lean upon? However hard he racked his mind, however he tried to seize some clue—
where was he even supposed to begin? He had already tried everything that could be tried.
"……."
He fed more wood into the stove.
Hunger gnawed at him. Outside, the light had already begun to fade. Blink, and half the day was gone.
What was he even doing?
Nothing. …Nothing at all.
The Demon King had left, saying it would take the child along, saying that side sounded like more fun. What had it said, back then?
No matter how thoroughly you deceive yourself with self-delusion, the sun still rises and the moon still sets.
"……."
He understood it now. It was because he had been careless, because he had let himself settle, that this calamity had befallen him.
Every tragedy, in the end, had sprung from his own weakness and foolishness. If it had not been for him, she would never have come to such an end. And—
that child would never have been treated the way it was from birth.
"……."
He had to find the child. But what, and from where? Once again, this was where he stalled.
This, too, was a thought and a torment he had repeated tens, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of times. And still—it was not easy. It was not easy.
The sun sank, the moon waxed full, and his body withered a little more each day. Yet no will stirred within him.
Where was there even left to go? Did it not mean slaughtering, yet again, everyone who barred his path?
…….
He… …llo?
The voice, sounding as if it came from far away, lifted his eyelids of their own accord.
"……."
Gripping the sword he had been holding—he couldn't remember when he'd picked it up—he stepped out the cabin door. Strange. He couldn't make sense of it.
"Huh?"
When he opened the door, there stood a youth and a girl he had never seen before in his life, and a man—three of them in all. And among them, one youth in particular—
his gaze was stolen away toward that youth before he could help it.
Hair white as the drifting snow, pure white. Silver, perhaps, would come close. And those two eyes, a firm, unmistakable gold. Even the contours of the face were… familiar.
"……."
To feel fate in this way—it was simply absurd.
"Are you the master of this place?"
The youth asked with perfect courtesy, but—
"What, here to pay your respects to some forest sage? We're here for a murderous butcher, remember?"
The girl beside him snapped in a prickly tone.
"Ahem!"
The man, as if to tell them to keep their guard up, cleared his throat and broke the tension.
"……."
As if he cared. One thing, however, was certain.
"A child of the Hero, are you."
At that, the red-haired girl smirked.
"My, my. You know all about it, do you? You've gotten ever so famous, our Hero's boy."
"…How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that."
The white-haired youth scrunched his face, embarrassed.
"Forgive the intrusion, but we wished to confirm whether you are, in fact, the one we seek."
The man had plainly seen through, to some degree, what he was—yet insisted on the full courtesies all the same.
"……."
He remained silent. What was he supposed to say?
Your father is my father too. And you there, little red-head—the way you carry those imperial airs, you must be born of that bloodline. …The man, though. He couldn't tell.
"……."
What was there to say?
"So. What's your business here?"
At that, the girl stepped forward and accused him.
"If you're the butcher from the rumors, then you deserve proper punishment. Razing a few territories, cleaning out the guilds and even the back-alley organizations—all fine and good, that. But you went far too hard on the innocent, didn't you?"
"……."
Innocent, was it. Perhaps some of them had been. But if he stopped to sort them out one by one—
when would he ever swing the sword? When would the search ever continue?
"How did you find this place?"
"Why should I tell you?"
The girl's attitude was sheer arrogance. And yet—why? It hadn't grated on him nearly as much as it should have. There was no familiarity in it, no sense of the familiar at all, and still—
strange.
"…So. What is it you want?"
"Do you really need it spelled out?! Either come quietly, or if you resist… we'll take your limbs off."
"Hey. You really… haah!"
The youth pressed a hand to his forehead, looking thoroughly pained.
"She phrased it rather harshly, but that is, word for word, our intent."
"Are you certain you aren't ransacking the wrong person?"
"Your physical description is simply too distinctive."
Long black hair, an unremarkable build, a beard grown wild and unkempt.
"Black hair is common enough in the Empire… but this isn't even Imperial territory, is it."
"…And you mean to take me in?"
"We were asked to."
The red-haired girl cut in again.
"It's an order from my sister-in-law herself. Can't exactly let that slide."
"…Haah."
Sister-in-law, was it. If he worked out what relation would make that little brat call anyone sister-in-law within the imperial family—
"…You're a daughter of Enjul's collateral line, aren't you."
The red-haired girl flinched, startled.
"Wha—?! How do you know that?! Did I ever give you my name or my status just now?"
"……."
That settled it.
"…Eras, is it."
It couldn't be Seras. Elhermina, even less so. Which meant… it was obvious, wasn't it? Even if he was wrong, it hardly mattered.
Even here, having come all this way—bad blood stays bad blood, does it.
A bitter laugh escaped him unbidden. And the youth standing there before him—
…he was his child, wasn't he.
"Can we not resolve this… with words?"
Perhaps the youth had read his killing intent. He asked, wary—but—
"Then withdraw. If you never set foot near here again, I'll let it pass this once."
"What?! Let it pass?! Is this lunatic serious?!"
The fiery girl had apparently taken that as a flat insult. Fire bloomed at once in her palm and she hurled it straight at him—
"Huh?"
It scattered, feebly.
"……."
So even now, he still had this much left in him. How ironic.
"You don't seem to realize that killing me would bring the Empire down."
And not merely the Empire. The man he was now was nothing more than a medium for the curse—a conduit, a carrier. Unfortunate enough as it was already—
the curse had not even activated yet.
"Do as you like."
He had to rescue the child. And even if he did—what future would remain for that child? Nothing but a vessel to receive the curse he passed down. Honestly—
…it might be better if it died sooner.
No. Hadn't the Demon King said it? That even death would lose its meaning?
"……."
He had foreseen this tragedy long ago. So why had he gone and done something he would regret?
He had only wanted…
to feel a little lighter. That was all.
That it had been such an enormous greed—
who knew he would have to recite it to himself every single day.
"Come at me."
All that remained now was a worthless sword. The task of felling Father had long since lost its meaning—Father was still the strongest on the continent, luxuriating in his prime without a hint of age. And what of him? His body was aging, his edge dulling. Far from any prime, his flesh and his mind alike—
were they not dying a little more with every passing day?
His fault. He should have shouldered it all alone. Instead he had grown drunk on that kindness—being propped up, having a shoulder lent to him.
…He had made too great a mistake.
I hate it.
Not even regret took shape. If he could return to those days—still less. What had happened had happened. And so he—
"—!!"
Whether he died at the hands of the ones before him, or was swallowed by some other trial and died—
his end would not change either way.
――
Pop!
The water droplet bursts.
Slender, beautiful fingers. The very tips of those nails had, at last, summoned the strength to burst it.
It might have been.
But the story of it never being—
burst apart once more, leaving no trace behind.