Chapter 141: A Cracked Dam (6)
Chapter 141: A Cracked Dam (6)
He was blinking blankly when Stigma, who seemed to have been observing him the entire time, quietly called out to him.
"Junior, do you realize... that your presence oscillates between extremes?"
"Excuse me?"
"You look considerably precarious. I'm asking if you can confidently guarantee there's no problem."
"Excuse me?"
"......It's not my domain to interfere, so whatever answer you give, the result will be the same."
Having said that much, he reached out and lightly brushed the corner of Deon's eye.
"Still, you're not crying right now. That, at least, is a relief. Since frequent recurrences of today's events would be troublesome, I hope you resolve this within the near future."
"......."
He saw everything.
A brief silence passed.
Amidst the medical officers' hurried movements, the nagging he thought had ended, as if the earlier conversation had been treated as if it never happened, continued.
"Clearly, you could have dodged back then, junior. Couldn't you?"
"......Yes."
"Naturally, killing an enemy commander is important. However, if the method involves throwing your body onto the enemy's weapon and accepting injury to kill them, I'd have to give that the worst possible score. You should have dodged instead, junior, back there."
The brown eyes scrutinized the wound still under treatment once more.
He was anesthetized so he couldn't really tell, but just how serious was it for him to say that? Just as he was subtly turning his head to inspect the wound, Stigma firmly pressed his head down.
"Don't move, child. It could interfere with the treatment. More importantly, junior, when you killed the demon-race commander, do you know why the enemies retreated?"
Well... because the commander was killed?
"It was because I was nearby. If simply killing the commander had been the whole of it, there's no way they'd just retreat and leave behind a good piece of wounded prey. Even if they retreated, they would have killed you and then retreated."
"......."
"Do you understand? The judgment you made today was the worst."
He really doesn't pull his punches...
He knew it already, but it still stung.
"You killed a commander, but you yourself were gravely injured, and you failed to boost allied morale. Neither did you manage to lower the enemy's morale. Consequently, our forces had no choice but to let the retreating enemies go. Why? Because you, a person of high rank and status here, were gravely wounded."
"......."
"We had to quickly stop the battle and tend to your wounds, but the fight wouldn't end if we kept blocking their retreat path."
A common soldier could die or not, the battle would continue. But the higher the rank, the more sensitive people become to that person's death or injury. That influence was enough to even dictate halting a battle and retreating.
"I'm not saying your action itself was the worst. It was just that your judgment was poor. That kind of action should only be used when you've carefully examined the situation and truly have no other options left."
"......."
"There's no way you'd have made such a foolish judgment without reason...."
I wish he'd just let everything go without mentioning it.
It was simply because I had no confidence in fighting in this mental and physical state, so I tried to grab a commander and take the credit.
"It seems your abnormal state was the cause, and that led you to make a wrong judgment, right? Since rational thought seemed impossible. In a way, wasn't this shoulder wound also caused by you completely zoning out during the war?"
I was definitely disoriented when I came to my senses and found the war still raging.
'Damn, thinking about it again makes me crave the stuff.'
"......You've zoned out again."
"Ah."
"Enough. You must be tired too, junior. It'd be better for you to get plenty of rest. As it happens, the treatment looks finished, so go inside. I'll take care of the tidying up."
He left his seat. Even the medical officer announced the treatment was finished and departed. Deon fiddled with the bandage on his treated shoulder before getting up.
Dan, who had rushed out upon hearing the news of Deon's injury and had been pacing nearby throughout the treatment, quickly approached and draped a coat over him. The chilly air had been touching his bare skin and he was cold anyway, so he promptly accepted it and fastened the coat.
"......I notice it every time, but the individuality of each knight order is quite distinct, isn't it."
"Hmm?"
He'd expected him to guide him straight inside, but what was this sudden, random statement?
Deon glanced at Dan, then followed his gaze and turned his eyes.
'...Ah.'
Dan's gaze was resting on the three knight orders lined up under Stigma's command. Precisely, on the attire of the three knight orders.
The Murderers drenched in blood from head to toe... the Lofty Knight Order.
The Nameless Knight Order in attire moderately splattered with blood as if they'd fought an ordinary battle.
Stigma's knight order, who had maintained an eerily spotless appearance.
'Wait, Stigma practically tears enemies apart when he fights, so how can he keep such a pristine appearance?'
His knight order was the same.
Those who resembled their master absolutely did not possess a calm combat style. Quite the opposite, really.
Wild beasts off the leash.
Yes, that one phrase defined it perfectly. And yet, such cleanliness without a single drop of blood spatter...
Just as he was standing there quietly admiring it, Dan, who had been busily scanning the three knight orders with his eyes, muttered quietly.
"......The three stages of a person drenching themselves in blood...."
"Pfft."
"......."
"......."
Let's go in.
* * *
He wondered if his junior knew. That among them, there were people constantly seeking his life whenever they got the chance.
On the battlefield, and even in the military tent that served as a place of rest.
"Urk—."
"Shh, I don't want to cause an unnecessary commotion, so be quiet, child. Everyone's already tired from fighting; it'd be a waste if they couldn't rest because of just one you."
Your life isn't worth that much.
Stigma tightened his choking grip and raised the corners of his mouth.
"Who sent you?"
His junior certainly had many political enemies, but not so many that people would come this relentlessly without pause. So it wasn't that several people were sending one or two each; it must be that one single person was persistently sending many. If he just found and killed that one person, the matter would be neatly resolved.
His junior's condition had been so poor lately, and now these gadflies were buzzing around on top of it.
"Fools who don't even know the dangers of this war."
Were they just dying to bring the human world to ruin?
Crack.
"......Oh dear, a slip of the hand."
He ended up just killing him.
His strength control had slipped momentarily. Shrugging his shoulders, Stigma dropped the still-warm corpse with a thud and raised his head, fixing his gaze on a certain spot.
"Do you know where these ones are coming from?"
"......."
"No answer. If you hadn't been handling the assailants targeting my junior, you would have died by my hand as well."
Although, his junior probably knew that and was keeping this person alive for that reason.
He felt a shadow tense up sharply in the darkness. Stigma let out a scoff and turned his back as if he'd lost interest.
"I trust you will protect my junior well."
* * *
Having arrived at his office as usual, Cruel opened the door and momentarily hesitated at the scene unfolding before him. A familiar sense of déjà vu reared its head.
"Why aren't you coming in?"
"......Your Grace, the Duke."
When was it? Not that long ago. The Duke had been inside his office back then too.
Perhaps because he'd already experienced it once and had gotten used to it, he wasn't that surprised. However, the small round table placed in the middle of the room, as if the layout had been arbitrarily changed, was a bit unexpected, so his eyes naturally drifted to the altered furniture.
"Sir Cruel."
"......."
At the brief prompt, Cruel, who had been alternating his gaze between the chessboard placed on the table and the Duke sitting before it with a smile, wordlessly closed the door the rest of the way and stepped inside.
For whatever reason, the Duke gestured for him to take the seat opposite him with a grin.
He was always smiling, but whether it was his mood or not, this smile felt particularly out of place.
"I see you enjoy chess. Would you care to play a game with me?"
It was ominous. The instincts honed as a swordsman were warning him of danger.
But it was a situation he couldn't avoid.
"......Gladly."
Cruel obeyed his words without argument.
Click. Clack.
As if throwing hesitation to the wind, the chess pieces were placed without faltering. Turns switched rapidly without any time lag, and each player's eyes busily scanned the board, assessing the opponent's movements and the changing formation.
They were too busy concentrating on the small, relentlessly turning world for conversation between the two orchestrators from above to be a luxury. So much so that their last exchange had been before the game started.
[Which color will you take?]
[...I'll take white.]
[I see.]
Cruel was white, the Duke was black.
—Clack.
'.......'
The flow was broken. Violet eyes lifted from the board and slowly swept over Cruel. Eyes concealing all emotion thoroughly surveyed the opponent as if trying to lay bare their ulterior motives.
A white piece was placed in an odd spot. Not bait, still less an attack. A place too clumsy to even be called a feint.
"......I happen to have obtained a rather interesting missive."
The board state was clearly in Cruel's favor.
Acting oblivious, the Duke slowly picked up a piece and moved it as he broached the subject.
"I thought you should see it too, sir, so I came here in person."
"......."
Click.
The board state flipped. It would have never happened if it weren't for Cruel's mistake.
—No, was it truly a mistake?
The once-dominant white formation collapsed. The black pieces, not missing the opening, gradually tightened their stranglehold, and finally.
"Checkmate."
The Duke had won.
Reaching out to pick up the white king, the Duke rolled it in his hand before tossing it down with a thud. More than just a chess piece was thrown before Cruel.
A single small missive, fluttering to a stop beside the chess piece.
Cruel, who had been staring quietly at it, reluctantly reached out at the Duke's silent prompting to open it.
"......."
It was a report memo that normally came.
The problem was that it was a report memo on a matter Cruel had personally commissioned, not the Duke.
A report on how many people attacked Deon Hart just today, how many were dealt with, regarding the commission to protect Deon Hart.
The Duke waited patiently until green eyes were fixed back on him, then matched his gaze and grinned.
"Regrettably, the client's name was absent."
Even while already being certain.
The very fact that he had obtained the missive meant he already knew everything. It wasn't something you could get without knowing the route the messages traveled.
Cruel quietly kept his mouth shut, even knowing that the Duke was toying with him, tightening his grip like giving a cornered mouse a moment of reprieve. Now that the missive was discovered, he was in a position where he had to bow.
The Duke fixed his gaze on Cruel and tapped the missive with a finger.
"Sir Cruel. Is this missive yours?"
What answer should he give?
Cruel felt he knew what answer the Duke wanted.
"I know nothing of it."
"......."
"......."
There was no further conversation. As if something terrible would happen if one broke eye contact first, the two quietly stared into each other's eyes, and the subtle tension was broken when the Duke curved his eyes first.
He picked up the missive again and spoke in a completely normal voice.
"As expected, isn't it?"
Flare.
The missive thrown into the fireplace instantly burned away to nothing. Cruel's gaze turned toward it only briefly.
"Kneel."
At the words so ill-fitted to the Duke's neat posture, legs crossed, leaning against the chair back with his folded hands resting neatly on his knee, the green eyes returned to their original target.
Having been looking calmly at the Duke without a word, Cruel rose from his seat and slowly knelt on one knee. The Duke, who had been silently watching him, let out a single flat utterance.
"More."
"......."
The cold, expressionless face, having discarded the mask of a smile, stared at Cruel. Cruel, who had been meeting his eyes for a moment, lowered his gaze and bent his remaining knee as well.
"......."
There was no response even after both knees touched the floor.
At that, two palms touched the floor, and his head bowed. His lowered head only stopped when his forehead touched the floor, waiting for some kind of answer.
A perfect prostration.