Trial of Ruel (6)

Just as I was seriously worrying about my own future, the scenery around me shifted.

This time, it was the corridor of the mansion.

Maids stood all around Lucy, each attending to her own work.

"Isn't our Lady Lucy's temperament just absolutely vile?"

"Right? I can hardly believe she's the daughter of a noble house."

"Well, it's that commoner blood running through her veins, isn't it."

"I mean, her mother was crawling around in the gutters to begin with. Why would the child be any different?"

They whispered and tittered, and it sounded so vivid it was as if they were speaking right beside me.

Wait. So Lucy wasn't a daughter born between nobles?

In that case, wouldn't the usual thing be for Lucy to be treated as a bastard while the family produced a proper heir separately?

That's how the noble houses I remembered from fantasy stories did things, I thought.

While I was still puzzling over it, the scenery changed again.

This time it was a sight I'd encountered plenty of times in the ordinary course of things.

The door to the office where Benedict always kept himself.

Though I hadn't pushed it myself, the door slid open on its own, revealing the office within.

The scene inside was desolate.

The ever-overflowing documents were still there.

The bookshelves that filled one corner of the room were still there.

Benedict, seated at the center, was unchanged as well.

And yet, from that office which had always carried an inexplicable warmth, I felt a creeping chill.

"Lucy."

The love that had always lived in Benedict's voice was, somehow, strangely hollow.

The moment I lifted my head at how wrong it sounded, I met a gaze brimming with hatred, aimed straight at me.

"I despise you."

Just like that, words Benedict would never, ever say came spilling out of his mouth.

The man who doted on his daughter to the point of absurdity would never say such a thing.

He was the kind of fool who would be shouting that he loved her even in the very instant he died on the edge of Lucy's blade.

I couldn't say for certain, but I was sure none of this nightmare had actually happened in reality.

In that case, both the public cursing I'd received at the social gathering, and the maids' gossip—could those too have been nothing more than fragments of the nightmare?

God, I hoped so.

Something similar had probably happened, though.

Considering the things Lucy had done and the reputation she'd earned, gossip was only natural, wasn't it?

But surely it had been more moderate than what I'd just witnessed.

At the very least, they would have made some effort to keep it out of Lucy's hearing.

They'd better have. Because if every one of those scenes had been true, my future was far too bleak.

"You are a worthless child. The only thing you know how to do is torment others."

Benedict's ice-cold voice dragged me back to reality.

"Your training. Your studies. Your etiquette. Your magic. There is nothing you can do. You are, quite literally, the shame of House Aln."

He really knows how to hit with pure facts, doesn't he?

If he'd said ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that kind of thing to the original Lucy before I transmigrated, she'd have wanted to die.

Unfortunately, I am Lucy, and yet not Lucy.

Whatever you say to me, it doesn't sting in the slightest?

When I simply stood there with a blank expression, Benedict rose from his seat and planted himself in front of me.

His massive frame cast a shadow over my face.

"Do you feel no pity for the mother who sacrificed herself for a wretch like you?"

At those words, the documents scattered around the room went swirling up and blotted out my view.

By the time every last sheet had melted away like snow, I was standing somewhere else entirely.

This time, the scene that unfolded was one of the bedrooms of the Aln estate.

"Lucy."

Standing beside the bed, I lowered my gaze at the sound of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a woman's voice.

There, a woman lay propped against her pillows, bandages wound about her.

Her health was clearly failing; she drew each labored breath with effort, and looking at my face, she spoke in a voice so small it seemed to crawl into the ground.

"Lucy. I regret ever giving birth to you."

So this was Lucy's mother?

Well, at least this one speaks normally.

I'd been half-convinced Lucy's mesugaki speech pattern was hereditary, but apparently not.

Then how on earth did Lucy ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠become a mesugaki?

Was she just born that way?

I tried picturing a baby who, instead of wailing "waaah," cried out trash and pathetic.

It was horrifying.

If a baby like that actually existed, shouldn't you call an exorcist to perform a proper rite of exorcism?

"From the moment I first held you in my arms, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠there was not a single day I was happy. If only you didn't exist—if only it hadn't been you—I could have lived so much better a life."

Lucy's mother coughed and broke off again and again, but she still forced out her grievances, wringing every bitter word from her throat.

None of that blame, none of that resentment, was aimed at me—so it didn't touch me at all.

And yet, strangely enough, tears were spilling from my eyes.

As I kept scrubbing away the tears that wouldn't stop falling, a single hypothesis came to me.

It was pure speculation, but perhaps this nightmare wasn't simply showing Lucy what she feared most.

Lucy—

She had been terrified of being denied by the mother who gave birth to her.

She had been afraid of being hated by Benedict, who loved her.

She had, in truth, been frightened of being condemned by the people around her.

Even as the other nobles heaped insults on her, she must have been crying on the inside.

What a boring story.

The thing an insolent, insufferable mesugaki feared most of all was the sight of other people denouncing her?

Isn't that just the most common, most predictable twist in existence?

There it is.

This poor child—if only she'd grown up in different circumstances, would she really have turned out such a terrible person?

Well. Maybe. Maybe not.

The odds would have been vanishingly slim, but it wasn't impossible that Lucy could have reformed and become a good person.

But it was a pointless question now.

Now that I've stolen her body, that is.

"Lucy. I resent you. You were the nightmare of my life."

I look down at the thin, withered hand clutching mine.

I watch the tears falling onto it.

I may not have meant to, but the fact remains that I took Lucy's place.

So for now, I'll have to play her role in her stead.

If only to pass this trial.

Did Lucy's mother truly hate her daughter?

She couldn't have.

If she had, she would never have appeared in Lucy's nightmare.

Considering Benedict's doting-fool tendencies, this woman had to be overflowing with the same—there was no way she came up short.

The saying that birds of a feather flock together didn't exist for nothing, after all.

Lucy's mother must have been someone who worried for her daughter's future right up until the moment she died.

I don't know what the real Lucy's mother was like, but I want to believe that.

Because I never once had a mother, and the mother I imagine is someone like that.

Now then. Let's suppose Lucy's mother was a doting fool on Benedict's level, and imagine the words she said.

Let's say she spoke of worrying for the daughter she'd leave behind after her death.

Then how would Lucy have answered?

While I was picturing it, one question occurred to me.

Was Lucy a mesugaki back then, too?

That's actually a fairly important question.

If Lucy had been a mesugaki from birth, then even in a situation like this she'd have been going on about her idiot mother this and her useless mother that.

Something tells me that's exactly what would have happened, but let's just assume she was normal this time.

Because I refuse to believe anyone would say stupid, pathetic, and weak to a sick, dying mother.

As a young man born and raised in the Confucian nation of Korea, I simply cannot permit such a sight!

Though for the record, I've never so much as exchanged a word with the parents who gave birth to me—but hey, I've imagined plenty.

People who lack something always understand it best, don't they?

Just as romance novels written by people who've never dated are the most entertaining, wouldn't the sweet, embarrassing words to one's parents thought up by someone without parents be the finest of all?

"Thank you for giving birth to me. I've always loved you too, Mother."

Huh? Why didn't the filter kick in?

The instant I finished my answer, the world went black, and I was back in the temple.

Before me, a single mace lay gleaming, casting off a radiant light.

"Astonishing. Even within the Trial of Endurance, you stood unmoved and gave the finest of answers."

'...I did pass the trial, right?'

"...Gramps. Just tell me whether I passed the trial or not."

"Aye. Thou hast passed the trial I prepared most splendidly. Thou hast earned the right to bear my mace, and with it, thou shalt inherit the blessing I once carried in days past—Mercy of Armadi. This is—"

'Then just open the way out already?'

"Silence, and open the door, I say. I feel as though I'm about to expire."

I wiped the tears still trickling from my eyes and snapped at Gramps.

I mean, I'm one step away from collapsing right now?

And if I'm going to collapse, it needs to be somewhere outside, where somebody can scoop me up and carry me off—so open the door.

Besides, I already know everything about the mace and the skill you're handing out, old man.

If anything, I probably know it better than you do.

So skip the pointless exposition and open the door already.

Gramps took my irritation in stride and gave an awkward little laugh.

"Very well. What an insolent child thou art. Take up the mace."

The moment I lifted the mace as he instructed, it shifted its size to fit my body.

As expected of an endgame item. So it has a function like this, too.

"We shall meet again someday."

Excuse me? Who's meeting whom? Me, with you?

What are you even talking about.

"My lady?"

When I came back to my senses, I was standing in front of the statue.

In front of the old, shabby statue of Ruel.

"My lady."

I turned my head at Carl's voice.

He was looking at me with a puzzled expression.

"Was that not the business you had with this statue?"

'Carl.'

"Hey. Trash. Didn't I go inside that thing?"

"Pardon? Inside? What are you talking about, my lady?"

You have no idea?

Why?

Was I just seeing things, or something?

Come to think of it, my body feels perfectly fine.

Up until just now, there wasn't a single spot on me that didn't hurt.

My consciousness had been flickering in and out, and I was certain I'd be flat on the floor within minutes.

So why do I feel completely fine all of a sudden?

Wondering if I was still dreaming, I pinched my cheek with all my strength.

"Ow!"

It hurt like hell.

Not a dream, then.

Then what on earth is this?

Just as I was seriously starting to wonder whether I'd lost my mind, I noticed that the weight of the mace in my hand was different from usual.

It was unmistakably different.

There was no mistaking the weight of a mace I'd been carrying around for the past two weeks.

When I lowered my gaze, I could see that the mace in my hand had changed shape.

A white grip, and a body of mithril that gleamed radiantly.

A head that was heavy and sharp-edged all at once, the kind that would shatter anything it came down upon.

And engraved upon that head, the emblem of the Church of the Main God.

This is Ruel's Mace, isn't it.

I touched the head of the mace cautiously, and the cold touch of metal met my fingertips.

"Huh? My lady, that mace—"

'Carl. Looks like I've already been through the trial.'

"Hey. Trash. Seems I've already cleared the trial."

After that, climbing back up from the lowest floor, I ran into Forsell charging his way down, smashing straight through the dungeon walls.

Evans was a mid-tier dungeon, yes, but to think a straight-line breakthrough like that was even possible.

In the game, that sort of thing was blocked by the system, but reality apparently allowed for this kind of madness.

The moment Forsell saw me, he shoved his dirt-caked face right up to mine and asked if I was all right.

That ferocious face of his was pretty taxing to look at, but I did my best to produce something resembling a smile and nodded.

"I apologize, my lady! I was careless!"

'I'm fine.'

"Stupid Forsell. You're making my face tired, so quit it."

"No, my lady! All of this was my fault. If anything had—!"

Far from chewing me out for stepping on the trap, Forsell bowed his head again and again, showering me with apologies.

He had the air of a man who would have taken his own life if something had happened to me.

The fact that I stepped on that trap on purpose absolutely had to stay buried.

Otherwise I had a feeling I'd be taking a real hit from Forsell.

He's definitely stronger than the Minotaur I ran into, after all.

I ended up like this getting wailed on by a Minotaur—so the shape I'd be in after a beating from Forsell was obvious to anyone.

'I'm fine. I don't mind at all.'

"Stupid Forsell. Just this once, I'll forgive your pathetic little blunder."

"My deepest gratitude, my lady! How magnanimous of you!"

I have no idea what part of me was supposed to be magnanimous, but if this gets us past it smoothly, isn't that all that matters?