If It Exists (1)
“So we’re finally leaving?”
They had never lingered in any city this long on the journey, and yet the only things that remained of the stay were catastrophic memories. The moment the word went out that they would be departing Bemyurhen, Deathbringer lit up with open delight.
“Most likely. There’s no longer any reason to remain.”
Strictly speaking, the reason to stay had not vanished completely. A few months were hardly enough for a shattered city to put itself back together. The wounds left by this disaster would take at least a decade to fully heal.
“The people of the city won’t complain, either.”
“Of course they won’t. After everything we’ve done for them…”
Even if recovery was incomplete, they had passed the point where the city would collapse the moment they stepped away. It was no longer so precarious that their departure would tip it into crisis. Relief forces from several other cities had arrived and were staying on; reconstruction was proceeding at a healthy pace. That was enough, wasn’t it?
With that thought as his foundation, Deathbringer snorted and grumbled. The fact that his own share of “everything we’ve done” was not particularly large was, to him, an unimportant detail. At the very least the Inquisitor had devoted herself enough to earn the right to say such things, and as a companion Deathbringer was entitled to grumble on her behalf.
“…Are we really taking him with us?”
A sulky complaint that stopped short of outright refusal also fell within acceptable bounds. As long as the resentment did not grow into a life-or-death feud or escalate into sabotage, it was fine.
“He wished to come, and his diocese has already granted permission. What would you have me do?”
“Tch…”
If you dislike the temple, the priest should leave—or so the saying went. But if leaving was impossible, then all that remained was to accept it. Deathbringer ultimately acknowledged Daniel’s addition to the party.
“…I know the two of you don’t get along, but try not to take it too hard. Even without him, we would inevitably have had to replenish our numbers.”
That much was true. With the Demon Knight and Berserk—who had been the twin pillars of their combat strength—gone, filling the roster was a necessity. Both of them had been close-combat fighters as well as raw powerhouses, which made the need even more acute. What they required now were combatants. Close-range combatants, specifically.
“I know that much.”
In that respect Daniel was not a bad addition. He would never match the two who had left, but as a seasoned Inquisitor he would at least meet the minimum expectations.
“I just… didn’t like that it had to be him.”
The human heart, however, did not fold neatly simply because something was necessary. Deathbringer scratched roughly at his own head and stood up with a sharp motion.
Knowing that the words did not mean “I refuse to accept this,” the Archmage merely shrugged one shoulder.
“Where are you going?”
“Gotta get ready before we leave.”
A proper market had yet to reopen, but there were still ways to obtain supplies. Preparing as thoroughly as they had in other cities would be difficult, yet doing nothing at all would be worse.
“And the Saint seems in a thoroughly melancholy state…”
He also had someone he needed to check on. Familiar with Deathbringer’s way of speaking, the Archmage lowered the corners of his eyes.
“…It would be nice if she would at least tell us what the problem is.”
Deathbringer narrowed his eyes at the Archmage’s agreement, looking displeased. There was no rebuke directed at the Archmage himself; the expression simply appeared on its own the moment he recalled the Saint’s recent state. His tail flicked irritably against his cloak and thigh.
“…It’s the oracle, obviously.”
“So it is that, after all…”
What troubled the Saint was plain enough. Was there truly no way to save the Demon Knight? How was the oracle to be interpreted? Nothing short of questions like those would give a girl as straightforward and clear-minded as her cause for such torment.
“Anyway, I’m really going now.”
Because she was someone who normally found answers so cleanly, this particular riddle would be all the more grueling. Even he, long accustomed to being broken and defeated, found it hard; for her—who had only just tasted her first true failure—it would be harder still.
If the oracle truly points to him, and if the correct interpretation is that he must die… then am I really supposed to kill him?
Or perhaps it was not merely because it was her first failure…
With the life he saved, with these arms and legs that exist only because of him… am I supposed to kill him?
Deathbringer lowered his eyelids against the breath that kept catching in his throat.
When the Saint had spoken those words she had not been seeking an answer from him, and he, lacking the confidence to give one, had pretended not to hear. Looking back now, though, it had been a cruel thing to leave unanswered. All he would have needed to do was scold her for even considering it or rebuke her for repaying kindness with betrayal. But she stood in a position where even that was impossible.
“…Damn it.”
A faith she had upheld her entire life, or a bond forged short but fierce—even if that bond was one-sided. He himself was not particularly devout, so between the two he would always choose the latter; but if he placed Emit in the position of a god, the comparison would become equally agonizing for him as well.
And whichever he chose… he would regret it bitterly. Both Emit and his lord held equal weight in his heart; the moment he discarded either one, there would be no returning to who he had been.
“Shit.”
For that reason Deathbringer said nothing about the Inquisitor’s inability to choose. She was already suffering enough. As long as he could not ease that suffering, he had no right to add careless words.
His knees, which had carried him all the way outside the tent, folded again. Both hands came up to cradle his head.
It had been an unbearably hard day.
“My, my, young man, you’ve got quite the appetite! Shall I bring you another bowl?”
The sudden, laughing call of the inn-and-restaurant proprietress made me set down the spoonful of soup I had just lifted.
I had thought her approach looked ominous, and sure enough—
Whap! Whap!
Her thick hands smacked me hard across the back.
“I like a man who eats with gusto.”
“Hahaha…”
I was not particularly fond of casual physical contact from strangers—especially the kind meant to force a sense of familiarity—but I simply laughed awkwardly and let it pass. In an era this rough, making a fuss over a few hearty thumps would only earn me a reputation for being overly sensitive. (Truthfully, even in the modern world that still tended to be the case.)
More than that, I was rather pleased by the very fact that people felt free to hit me. It was not that I wanted to be hit; it was the vivid confirmation that they no longer felt enough fear of me to treat me carefully. At this level, at least, I would not stand out as someone who failed to blend in. Being struck was still unpleasant, but the benefit was more than enough to endure it for.
Whap! Whap!
“Eat more, eat more…!”
“W-wait— ugh.”
Enduring it was one thing; preventing a body plastered with debuffs from coughing up blood after a few back-slaps was another matter entirely.
A stream of blood spilled from my lips. The proprietress blinked several times.
“Wh-what?! Young man, are you all right?!”
“I-I’m fine.”
Even granting the severity of the debuffs, this was excessive. A civilian’s back-smash seven times in a row should not make someone vomit blood.
I swallowed the complaint and dabbed at the blood with a handkerchief. The proprietress, pale as a sheet, brought me a cloth, allowing me to clean up a little more neatly.
“Y-you haven’t caught some disease, have you…?”
“Nothing like that. I’ve simply always been frail by nature…”
Naturally I cleaned every drop of blood from the table as well. Whether it was fortunate or unfortunate that none had gotten into the food was hard to say; re-ingesting it might have returned at least a little iron to my system.
“Oh, I see…”
At any rate I had avoided being mistaken for a plague carrier. I was glad of that—because the moment people believed you had a contagious disease, being driven out of a city was the least of your worries—and resumed eating. The proprietress no longer interrupted me, so I could move my spoon in peace.
“Want a little more of this, at least?”
“Ah—if you’re offering, I’ll gratefully accept.”
In exchange, a measure of pity and charity was later added to the bill. The feeling it left me with was complicated, but if I had to classify it, it was not a bad thing.
I gratefully accepted the freshly served potato salad and shoveled it into my mouth. Mashed potato mixed with corn kernels and seasoned only with salt made a surprisingly decent palate cleanser.
“Hey, Saint. You really think you can travel with a body that coughs up blood like that?”
Just as I was finishing it, however, new customers arrived. A lounging pack of adventurers.
“I am capable enough of looking after my own person…”
I offered the three adventurers a vague smile. It was the third option—neither claiming I was strong nor admitting I was weak.
Even if I went around pretending to carry no sword in order to erase any connection to the Demon Knight, that did not mean the combat ability I already possessed had simply evaporated. And even with the Disguise skill active, I was hardly so weak that I could not subdue a cat.
“Aw, come on. Don’t you need an escort or something?”
These people, of course, did not know that. Their ignorance was precisely why they approached like this.
A pity.
“I wonder.”
I adjusted the glasses resting on the bridge of my nose and watched them at work.
When I had been playing the Demon Knight, flies of this sort never gathered. Apparently a disguise that succeeded too well at making one look ordinary and unthreatening also created problems. It was somehow both funny and sad.
“I haven’t needed one so far.”
Separately, I tapped the table while considering how best to navigate this situation without earning a reputation for handling it poorly. How was I supposed to soothe them and send them away?
“Just ’cause you haven’t needed one till now doesn’t mean you won’t later. So how about it—wanna hire us? If you say yes, we’ll do this one at half price special.”
“Yeahhh. Opportunities like this don’t come around often, y’know?”
“And for the record, if you don’t have cash, goods are fine too! Earrings, glasses, that sort of thing.”
One of the adventurers who had been lounging while attempting the negotiation shifted around to the front of my table.
I had never given him permission to sit. Before that, was there some disease that selectively opened a person’s ears? The remark that nearly slipped out was far removed from my usual temperament.
“So, how about it? Half price—”
Ah. I had been role-playing the foul-tempered persona for too long. Snappish sentences were coming out as spinal reflexes. If I had kept it up even a little longer, my foot might have gone out next.
Crash!
“Whoaa!”
“B-boss!”
The moment that thought crossed my mind, the table I was sitting at flipped toward the other side. The array of dishes that had been sitting on it took flight and crashed down over the adventurer in a splendid mess.
Flying food—mashed potato—and airborne wooden bowls registered slowly in my vision.
…What? I didn’t use my foot. I really didn’t. I didn’t use my hands either. Don’t tell me I’ve reached the point where I can flip tables with pure imagination now? Is that it?!
“Truly marvelous. It is rare for life to be quite so base and so filthy.”
Thankfully, the one who had overturned the table was neither my foot nor my instincts. Hair the color of water—no, a clearer Tiffany blue than water—swayed softly.
“I praise you. You rank among the three filthiest things I have ever seen.”
It looked as though strands of jade had been spun into thread and set swaying.
“And just who the hell—”
“Proprietress.”
The person who had flipped the table on my behalf ignored the adventurers who had shot to their feet in outrage and turned smoothly around. Pale white fabric fluttered with the motion.
The clothing was neither a dress—there was no skirt—nor a uniform, given the abundance of ornamentation. Ordinary people did not wear such things. At the highest, nobility; at the lowest, someone of equivalent wealth.
“I will compensate you. Take the money.”
The way she tossed coins to the innkeeper was the same. Casually scattering silver like that? At the very least she was not of the class that fretted over every coin.
“Th-thank you. If you’ll wait a moment for the change…”
“Unnecessary.”
“Y-yes, ma’am.”
The real question was why this person had helped me at all…
I quietly studied the one who had intervened without so much as a word of explanation. Sensing my gaze, she turned to look at me in turn.
Her face was porcelain-pale, as though it had never once known sunlight. Set in it were eyes of a mysterious blue-green, like cracked ice or emerald that refracted light in strange ways.
“Th-thank you.”
Curiosity was curiosity, but gratitude was still gratitude.
I bowed my head hurriedly, before I could start guessing at her motives. The person who had been smiling—beautifully, like a porcelain doll, yet without a single trace of warmth—turned away again.
“No thanks are required. It was not an act performed for your sake.”
Whether decoration or a natural feature, the black bridge mixed into the blue-curaçao-colored bangs swayed with the motion of her head.