Little Arskalt
The blood her father had shed was not yet dry.
Dressed in black mourning clothes, the girl walked out through the castle gates.
It was the greatest crisis in the history of the North.
The Legion Commander had died in the battle against the North God. Manager Hate had been weakened, and the mightiest Ancient Undead that had upheld the North for centuries had been obliterated.
More than ninety percent of the 2nd Legion's entire fighting force was lost, and the northern army had been annihilated.
That day was overcast.
A day of slow, drizzling rain.
With the North God's undead army pouring toward Bilkenos, the little girl in mourning clothes stepped outside the castle and stood there, all alone.
Shaaaaaaa—
The rain fell harder.
All she held in her hand was a small kitchen knife brought from the castle kitchens.
Rainwater dripped steadily down the blade.
The black hair her father had praised until his mouth wore out, calling it beautiful, was soaked through, and her clothes clung to her like a drowned mouse.
Despair.
Before that overwhelming power, the pride of the North had meant nothing. Bilkenos stood empty, and now only she remained.
On the verge of death, her father had passed the Legion Commander's seat to her.
Somehow, she had to see it through.
Somehow.
Shaaaaaaa—
But without her Manager's recognition, unable to command even a single undead, the baby Legion Commander had no subordinates standing at her side.
Even so, the girl did not run.
She could not run.
—Planning to fight all by yourself?
And then, suddenly,
a voice came from behind her.
Pat. Tap.
The sheets of rain that had threatened to pierce her body vanished, leaving only the soft drumming overhead.
Her vision darkened, and the girl looked up at the man who had held an umbrella over her.
He looked like a boy poised at the very edge of manhood—one hand tucked in his pants pocket, the other holding the umbrella. A thin stubble of beard, the corners of his mouth curled upward, and eyes brimming with curiosity. A peculiar impression.
Her father had once told her that Legion Commanders could always recognize one another when they met. Now the girl knew those words were true.
And she also knew why he had come here.
—Are you going to kill me?
So saying, the girl thrust the kitchen knife she clutched forward.
The man spoke as though tossing off something of no consequence.
—That depends on your answer, doesn't it?
The girl was silent for a moment before answering his question.
—I'm going to fight.
—Oh.
As if some switch had been flipped, the man's eyes suddenly lit up and he leaned his head forward.
—How exactly do you plan to fight? Has it been more than a day since your core opened? Looks like you haven't earned your Manager's recognition either. Can you even feel jet-black energy? All told, this is a mess. And that old man, honestly—unbelievable. Daughter's fate be damned, pass on the inheritance first, right?
—Don't insult my father!
The girl shouted, flaring up.
Stumbling backward out from under the umbrella he'd held over her, she gripped the kitchen knife with all her strength.
—My father died protecting the North! And I'll die protecting the North too! Because that is—
A rough voice burst from the girl's lips.
—the fate of Arskalt!
Shaaaaaaa—
The sheets of rain grew fiercer. Her frail body, looking no older than four or five, trembled and shivered in the cold.
She had come out to hold back an army of that size, yet her tiny frame couldn't even endure a few streaks of rain falling from the sky.
But.
The man did not laugh at her. Slowly, he placed a hand over his own chest. White breath spilled from his lips.
Thud.
The man stepped closer. The girl backed away.
He came closer, she backed away.
But the difference in stride was vast. The girl was caught up to in no time. Sensing the threat, she let out a hyiiik! and lunged, kitchen knife in hand—but.
Tap.
It was stopped far too easily.
Crouching down, the man took hold of the girl's small wrist and said:
—Insolent, but I like the spirit.
Then he plucked the kitchen knife from her hand.
Into the hand left empty, he pressed the umbrella.
—Let's negotiate, little missy.
The girl stared up at him with dazed eyes.
—Nego... tiate?
—Too big a word for you? Just think of it as a deal.
Having said that, the man scratched the back of his head with an annoyed look.
—Honestly, I did come planning to pull the 2nd Legion out before it fell apart. But if I take the 2nd Legion too, Nephthys will nail me down here in the Carlos Northern Territory and tell me to do my duty.
He grinned and winked.
—Don't get me wrong, northern women aren't bad, but wouldn't being stuck in this backwater village be far too great a sorrow for the women of the Continent?
—?
—Ah, right, you're not old enough to get jokes like that. The terms are simple.
At some point, the North God's undead forces had drawn close enough to be seen clearly with the naked eye. The two of them stood on the flat ground before Bilkenos Castle like candles in the wind.
And yet the man was perfectly calm.
—Starting now, I'm going to annihilate the North God's forces.
—!
—I'll leave my own Ancient Undead behind too, so they won't be able to budge for the next five years. But I'll only protect you for exactly five years.
He spread his fingers wide.
—Within those five years, you have to grow strong enough to unite the North yourself, get the Legion under control, and stand on your own. Until then, I'll proclaim to the whole world that I am guarding the North. But if you fall short of expectations, then I'll have no choice but to reclaim the 2nd Legion.
He smirked and held out his hand.
—So? Deal?
She stared up at the man with dazed eyes.
She didn't fully understand what he was saying.
But that smirking smile.
She thought it looked warm.
She stepped forward slowly and, with a tiny hand like a young fern shoot, took hold of his.
—Then the negotiation is settled, youngest Legion Commander!
And with that—
the man rose to his feet. Then, stepping out from under the girl's umbrella, he walked boldly out into the rain.
Fwoooosh!
The man spread both arms wide like a bird.
—Come forth.
Kugugugugugugu!
Kugugugugugugugugugu!
The girl doubted her own eyes. On either flank of the North God's army surging in from the front, waves of pitch black were rolling in.
All of them—undead of the 7th Legion.
Then, across every part of the man's outstretched body, skeleton bones came flying in and latched on.
In moments his entire frame was sheathed in seamless Bone Armor, and sword in hand, a cape of jet-black streaming behind him, he charged toward the enemy lines.
—W-wait a moment!
The girl hurried after him, clutching the umbrella.
—Your name! Please tell me your name!
The man looked back over his shoulder and grinned.
—Yona. Yona of the 7th Legion.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she declared:
—In five years, I'll be even stronger!
—Good.
—And!
Meet a strong man.
Recalling the words her father had always said, she shouted out:
—And after that, I'm going to take you as my husband!
At those words, Yona stopped dead in his tracks. After a moment of blank bewilderment, he burst out laughing—PUHAHAHA!
—Fifteen years would still be too early, let alone five! Well, fine. Fine by me.
He pulled the skull helm down snugly over his head.
—See you again, little Arskalt.
FWOOOOSH!
His cape billowing, the man charged toward the enemy lines.
That was the last anyone ever saw of him.
"..."
The Grand Duchess, who had been lost in quiet recollection, slowly opened her eyes and turned her head.
On a shelf in the corner of her office
sat a single old black umbrella.
That man was Yona's son?
She never could have imagined it.
Naturally—she had believed Yona to be dead.
He had kept the first promise. Yona truly had annihilated the North God's forces, and the North God, busy recovering the damage he had inflicted, could not mount a proper invasion of the North for years.
But Yona had not kept the second promise.
—See you again, little Arskalt.
He never appeared in the North again.
The last news she heard of him was 'that incident'.
In order to save Priest—plainly an enemy—he had betrayed the Dark Alliance and his comrades, turning the Legion's blade toward his own allies.
As a result, the 7th Legion was disbanded, and Yona of the Legion of Betrayal was officially declared slain by the Dark Alliance.
When news of his death reached her, the young Grand Duchess had cried and cried until her eyes swelled shut. The shock had been greater than when her father passed away. Had there ever been a time she despaired so completely?
And yet.
He had a son.
The Grand Duchess stared blankly at the ceiling.
His voice rose in her memory.
—Don't get me wrong, northern women aren't bad, but wouldn't being stuck in this backwater village be far too great a sorrow for the women of the Continent?
Come to think of it, considering Yona's words and conduct, dead or alive, he was exactly the sort of man who would have gone around scattering his seed everywhere.
That boy... is Yona's son...
When she'd heard a new 7th Legion Commander had arisen, the Grand Duchess had assumed Nephthys had sealed away the Manager and then bound him by contract to the most outstanding of her own students.
Once the sin of betrayal was cleansed, that Legion Commander would be wielded as an important card in the Dark Alliance's hand.
She hadn't liked the idea of Yona's Legion being used that way, which was why she'd been so lukewarm about Nephthys's offer to have the Legion Commander trained.
But that was—
the truth had been different.
Nephthys had waited in silence until Yona's son was grown and enrolled at the school, and only then had installed him as the 7th Legion Commander.
The Grand Duchess, still frozen in place, suddenly leapt up and made for the door of her office—but her steps stopped just short of it.
Yona has a son... Simon is Yona's son. Yona's son.
She wanted to run out that very moment and confirm it with her own eyes.
And yet, somehow,
strangely, her feet would not leave the floor.
Knock knock.
A knock sounded from outside the door. She jerked back in startlement.
"It's Simon. I'm coming in."
"Wh-what? Wait a moment!"
Simon opened the door and poked his head inside.
"How are you feeling?"
At some point she had clasped her hands behind her back and was doing one-armed push-ups.
Simon smiled in spite of himself.
"Training again? Even now?"
"Wh-why are you laughing!"
She sprang to her feet in a single hop.
"Butler Godric has requested your presence at the next speech. Will you be all right for it?"
"...!"
The Grand Duchess stared fixedly at Simon.
Why didn't I see it before?
She felt like shoving her fingers straight into her own eyes.
He looks this much like him! How could I possibly have missed it!
Was it because she had believed Yona already dead? Because she'd avoided thinking about it as much as possible, to keep the pain at bay?
Now that she knew he was Yona's son, it was blindingly obvious.
She could hardly believe she hadn't noticed at once.
"Exercising too hard after drinking isn't good for you."
The boy who resembled Yona smiled gently, closing the door again as he stepped back.
"I'll let Godric know myself. Please rest."
"W-wait a moment!"
She hastily raised her arm, and Simon stopped.
"Did you need something?"
"Well..."
Are you truly Yona's son?
Is Yona alive?
And.
Who did he marry?
Why can't I just ask?
Nothing like this had ever happened to her before.
She had never once experienced anything like it.
She could not, for the life of her, understand her own jumbled emotions or the way she was behaving.
At that moment—
"Excuse me for a second."
Simon strode over and pressed a hand to her forehead.
"It's not the alcohol—I think you're running a fever."
"!!"
The Grand Duchess went rigid as a block of wood.
This boy.
He really is Yona's son. Undoubtedly.
Simon withdrew his hand with a worried look, then heaved a deep sigh.
"I think you need to get to bed."
Her body hardened stiff as iron ore.
"...What did you just say?"