The Shadow of Yona
Ever since the Three Brothers had been destroyed, the daily assaults of undead that had plagued the North simply ceased.
"The Northern God, it seems, is gathering what forces remain to prepare a defense."
So the Grand Duke analyzed it. Of course, the threat had not vanished entirely. With the Three Brothers—the hive commanders—destroyed, the undead that had belonged to their chain of command had scattered to every corner of the North, and some among them had already formed new packs. They were dangerous, unpredictable beasts that might turn on humans at any moment. Above all, they had to be picked off swiftly, one by one, before the Northern God could reach out and absorb them into its strength.
This time, Simon toured the North with Akemus and Herseba at his side.
Kiiiiiing!
While his Skullwings wheeled through the sky, tearing into the stragglers, Simon directed the operation from behind—and found his gaze drifting to Akemus.
I'm curious about Akemus's Geheim, but...
Simon thought Akemus was harder to read than even Erzebet or Prince. Akemus was the most loyal undead in the legion, and the reason he followed Simon was precisely that—loyalty. That was all there was to it. Their wills and interests aligned perfectly; if a Geheim existed for him, it should have manifested long ago.
"Akemus."
"Yes, Young Lord."
Lord and servant. There was no relationship simpler than the one between Akemus and Simon. And yet—what if there were something more? What if some condition still went unfulfilled?
"Akemus, why do you follow me?"
He started from the most fundamental question of all. Akemus smiled.
"Loyalty requires no reason, Young Lord."
Blind devotion. A very Akemus answer, Simon thought. And yet.
Even if no reason is required, there had to be some trigger that made you turn that blind loyalty toward me in the first place.
In truth, he had a suspicion about what that trigger was. Was it because he was a Legion Commander? No. Because he'd displayed the charisma of a lord worth serving? No.
"Is it because I'm my father's son?"
Akemus never called Simon 'my lord.'
He called him 'Young Lord.'
Simon recalled their first meeting. The ancient undead had seized him with a look of overwhelming emotion and scrutinized his face from every angle.
You look exactly like Lord Richard.
Forgive my discourtesy, Young Lord! I, Akemus, have come to the 7th Legion far, far too late.
The shadow of Simon's father—Richard—fell thick across every corner of Simon's life. The man had simply been that extraordinary during his days as a Legion Commander. That shadow sometimes brought fortune and new encounters, and sometimes stood as an obstacle. And in Akemus's case?
"You are the son of the lord I once served, and moreover, the heir who has inherited the 7th Legion."
Akemus dropped to one knee, bringing his eyes level with Simon's. Fierce eyes blazed with wavering devotion.
"More than worthy is the one to whom I would offer my life and my soul."
Simon closed his eyes. Akemus's loyalty was blind and immense. Once it fixed upon the object of its devotion, it never wavered. So then—that loyalty Akemus spoke of, offered because he was his lord's son—was it truly directed at Simon? Or at his father?
Dieeeeee!
"Young Lord! The enemy on our right is trying to slip away!"
Simon never got the chance to ask that question.
"Why do you travel with me?"
He asked Herseba that question on the way back from clearing out undead stragglers with her mummy unit. The woman of golden sand, floating atop her hovering staff, laughed outright.
"Isn't it obvious, kid? You made me! Well—remade me, I suppose. That's why I stick around."
"Hmm."
"Why bring that up all of a sudden?"
"Ah—no, it's nothing."
Simon scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed. Looking back on how he'd met Herseba, it had been a reckless gamble from his first year. He'd bragged to Aaron, the Summoning professor, that he would create a Lich—and then decided that if he was going to make one, he might as well do it properly. He'd purchased a heart worth a staggering twenty-five thousand gold, crafted it, carried it through the process of legionification, and the result—layered with countless coincidences and strokes of luck—was the Herseba of today.
And yet, strictly speaking, though she commanded a unit of the legion, Herseba was not an 'Ancient Undead.' She hadn't existed for a hundred years—she hadn't even existed for one.
Could even Herseba use a Geheim?
Simon opened his mouth, turning the thought over.
"Herseba... do you remember anything from before you became an undead?"
Herseba snorted with laughter.
"What, kid? Do you remember being born? How it happened, who was standing around you?"
"...No."
"Same here."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Though there are a few things that come back to me in fragments."
"!"
Simon leaned in, hanging on every word. Pleased by his reaction, Herseba spread her arms wide.
"I was a queen! A queen who led countless people!"
"Oho."
"But I can't remember anything about how I became queen, or what I was before, or why I sat that throne at all. I just... reigned. And then my memory cuts out, all at once."
She hardened her brow, thinking, then went on.
"I think I died. When I opened my eyes, there was nothing left of me but bone—and there was your face. That's all."
Herseba had said she was a 'Dungeon Master' before her death. That was why her heart and skull had fetched such an obscene price.
"But I like this better!"
She chuckled.
"Ever since I became an undead and joined the legion, it's been lively—every day is funny, the folks around me are entertaining. Eh, it's a good life."
"I see. Is there... anything troubling you? Anything at all?"
"Nope!"
Simon scratched his head.
This is hard. I can't get a read at all.
Compared to this, Erzebet and Prince had practically resolved themselves. Akemus and Herseba had joined the legion more recently—he supposed they simply needed more time to get to know him.
Simon swept away the Northern God's scattered undead in short order, then joined the Grand Duke, who had marched out from the opposite direction and purged her own stretch of the North. Once the most urgent matters were dealt with, the Grand Duke's Legion Commander lessons began.
Except.
"......"
Something was wrong with the Grand Duke, and it lasted the entire lesson. In truth, it had been going on since that morning.
During training, the Grand Duke became a demon. One mistake earned you the flat of a scabbard across the back of the head; another, a kick that swept your legs out from under you. Her education methods were so brutal that Kizen—a school that mostly taught the children of nobles—could never have imagined them.
But today, she had not laid a single hand on Simon.
Ah—I missed one!
Seeing undead slipping free because he hadn't properly solidified his formation, Simon spun around in alarm. He fully expected something to come flying at him—a scabbard to the skull, a boot to the back.
"......"
Instead, the Grand Duke stood far off, arms crossed in her plate armor, and without a hint of violence, sent her Phantom Dullahans surging forward with sheer will alone to cover Simon's mistake.
By now, Simon was honestly growing afraid.
She really is angry with me.
Since that morning she wouldn't meet his eyes, barely spoke to him—and wouldn't even hit him. Whenever Simon looked her way, she'd just snap her head aside, every time.
Is it because of meeting Count Boldmont? No—but I told her all of that truthfully, and she said it was fine.
Simon's mind raced at full boil, but he could not for the life of him figure out what the problem was. While he was busy tiptoeing around her moods, the remaining stragglers were annihilated to the last by the 7th Legion's zombie unit. Simon approached her.
"Grand Duke. We're finished."
She gave only a curt nod and turned her helmeted gaze away. Simon flinched, then bit his lip.
"Return."
"Was there anything in my command today worth correcting?"
"There was not."
"About my mistake earlier—"
"Are your mistakes so few in number, that you count them one by one? Come."
He hated this atmosphere—skating on thin ice. It was unbearable.
Simon clenched his fists, then shouted.
"If this is how it's going to be, then just hit me like you always do!"
The Grand Duke started. Then she stepped backward, away from him.
"Wh-what nonsense are you spouting?!"
"You keep avoiding my eyes, you keep doing things you never do—"
But the Grand Duke no longer heard the rest of Simon's words.
Hit me, he says!
Hit him?! What kind of demand is that, out of nowhere? And after all that business about my bedroom yesterday—truly, that Yona's son, without a doubt.
Ahem.
Ever since she had realized he was Yona's son, her composure had been slipping, again and again. The moment she looked at that face, Yona's face rose up and overlaid it. No—worse, every trivial gesture, every passing word, connected itself back to Yona.
She wanted to just ask him outright. Are you truly Yona's son? Who is your mother?
Is Yona still alive, even now?
So why wouldn't the words leave her mouth?
"Let me say this again—you have done nothing wrong."
"Then—"
"It is only your imagination. Come."
The Grand Duke and Simon mounted up and moved out. On any ordinary day they would have traded jokes, batted small talk back and forth—but there was nothing to say. The Grand Duke, for her part, would normally have loosed the Gale Bow during the ride, but the Northern God had withdrawn every last undead to itself, and there was nothing left to shoot.
The awkward silence stretched on. And then—
"Hm."
At last, the Grand Duke worked up her courage. She spoke first.
"Who is your father?"
"What?"
Simon blinked at the question from out of nowhere—but he was so glad to hear her speak to him again after so long that he answered readily.
"Richard Polentia. He's a baron of the Baldwin Kingdom."
Behind the helmet, the Grand Duke's eyes gleamed, sharp and bright.
Richard—so that is Yona's true name. No wonder the name felt strange. Of course Yona was an alias.
Richard Polentia. She carved the name into her mind, and spoke again.
"Then—"
"Grand Duke!"
A messenger came galloping up to the two of them as they rode back at the head of their undead. She reined her horse to a halt.
"What is it?"
"A grave—grave emergency!"
The messenger's face was drained snow-white. The two of them went pale themselves as they listened—and instantly dug their heels into their mounts, racing at full gallop toward Bilkenos.
THUD!
The ground shook.
THUD! THUD!
Long pikes met in perfect unison. Countless banners whipped in the sky above, and the thud of military boots struck the earth in rhythm. An army of staggering scale was marching through the freezing slush.
Countless footprints pocked the vast field of snow.
"So this is the North."
At the head of the column, a dark-skinned man in gleaming armor, mounted on a massive warhorse, was surveying the surroundings. His name was Romario—frontline commander of the Kalos Kingdom's northeastern front.
"Ugh, it's cold, it's cold. How does anyone live in a place like this?"
Grousing atop an undead mount was a man covered head to toe in tattoos and piercings—the infamous War Necromancer of the Kalos Kingdom, Chronos.
The great army of the Kalos Kingdom, led by these two men, was marching up toward Bilkenos.
The fortress gates of Bilkenos stood wide open, and someone was walking slowly out to meet them.
"You've had a long journey. My compliments on your endurance."
The Watcher of the North—Count Boldmont—spread his arms wide, the corners of his mouth curling upward.
"Welcome to the North."