Plan
Anyone who has ever been knighted has heard the name Hugo Prien at least once. It is a name that reaches even the ears of street thugs and third-rate cutthroats who never crossed the threshold of formal rank.
Strength so monstrous it defied belief that he was human. Sword aura that surged dozens of meters through the air.
As combat manuals advanced, knights began learning the rudiments of magic—yet Hugo dominated every battlefield without casting a single spell. Even setting aside the pure sword fundamentalists, the reverence he commanded among bladesmen was not merely common; it was inevitable.
He is likable, I'll give him that.
And the admiration directed at Hugo was never built on martial prowess alone. He was a man who seemed to have stepped straight out of a tale of chivalry. Perhaps because he knew the existence of that heaven-beyond-heaven named Glenn, Hugo never used his strength to lord over others.
He always fought on the front line ahead of everyone else and never abandoned a comrade in peril. Even discounting indirect circumstances, the number of people who owed him their lives ran into the thousands. Not a few considered it an honor simply to stand on the same battlefield as Hugo Prien.
But glorious days do not last forever. In every age, the outstanding invite envy and jealousy. That is a truth as old as human society itself.
And so Shiron knew full well that no small number of people were waiting for Hugo to decline.
When Hugo proposed that he join the expedition, Shiron felt a faint thirst rise in his throat.
"…May I have a moment to think?"
"As long as you need."
Hugo gave a short nod. He knew better than anyone how grueling an expedition could be, so he had never expected his young nephew to accept on the spot. He sank deep into his chair, closed his eyes, and prepared to wait until the boy reached a proper conclusion.
Yet Shiron's answer came far sooner than expected.
"I'll do it."
"…Have you truly thought this through?"
"Why wouldn't I? I've always wanted to work at Uncle's side at least once."
"Hmm…"
I was certain he would refuse at first…
Hugo scratched his cheek, looking faintly embarrassed. Deep down he was pleased that Shiron had agreed to come—but the ease of the acceptance left him with the uneasy feeling that he, as the elder of the house, was leaning on the boy's goodwill to push him into a deathtrap.
"Are you certain this is all right?"
Hugo looked at Shiron and grimaced as though tasting something bitter.
"An expedition is hard work. Many are injured. Not a few die. And once you are in the thick of it, refusal is no longer an option."
"Is there anyone who doesn't know that?"
"I worry precisely because I know it better than anyone."
"I'm glad you were worried. If you hadn't been, I would have been badly disappointed."
Shiron flipped casually through the papers laid before him. Salary, performance bonuses, treatment—rows of irrelevant details stretched on and on.
"Or were you testing me?"
"…"
"Why do you keep trying to scare me off? Do you actually want me to turn down your offer?"
"…It would be a lie if I said the thought never crossed my mind."
Hugo exhaled a long sigh. Wrinkles that had not been there five years ago now carved deep lines across his face.
"After I returned from the last expedition, I thought long and hard. Whether I was asking too much of a boy who still hadn't finished growing. Whether it was shameless of me."
"May I ask a few questions?"
Shiron raised a hand, gently cutting him off. He understood the weight on Hugo's heart, but if this continued the conversation would only keep circling.
Once he confirmed Hugo's nod, Shiron continued.
"I understand that you feel guilty toward me. And from everything you've said, it's clear enough that the expedition's situation is bad."
Shiron lifted his gaze from the teacup.
"Are you so short on people that you have to borrow even my hands?"
"…It is my own lack of virtue."
Hugo lowered his eyes before his nephew. That uncharacteristic lack of confidence let Shiron reassemble several pieces.
Hugo, poor with words. Hugo, indifferent to the struggle over the crown prince's succession. The empire's defenses grown lax after the nation had essentially entrusted its safety to a single man named Hugo.
Putting it all together, Shiron reached one conclusion.
Deliberate obstruction.
Some bastards out there were hoping for Hugo's downfall.
Sons of bitches who deserve to die.
Shiron drew a deep breath. He had known. He had even prepared for it. Yet he could not simply sit back and observe the situation with cold detachment.
Every citizen of the empire, every human south of the mountain range, owed Hugo a debt—yet there were still people hastening his death. Shiron's clenched teeth felt ready to crack.
He had already eliminated two Apostles. He had long since removed the potential threat that was the Second Prince. And still these interlopers crawled out of the woodwork, choking the air from his lungs and making his blood surge backward.
Shiron yanked the pen free with rough force and signed the paper without the slightest hesitation.
"…You don't need to feel burdened. If anything, I'm the one asking for the favor."
"Thank you."
"I'll take my leave."
Once outside the study, Shiron pulled a worn notebook from his coat.
The training grounds of the estate. The cultivation chamber enclosed by black stone walls.
Lucia lay sprawled on her back, her entire body soaked in sweat.
Using Sirius as a catalyst, she had emptied the mana from her dantian completely, then drawn in the mana that filled the chamber to refill it—hundreds of times over. Performing such a brutish method of training in rapid succession, one she would never recommend to anyone else, naturally left her exhausted. Yet nothing else expanded the capacity of the dantian quite so effectively.
Lucia wiped her face with her fifth towel, already drenched. A fresh one would have been nicer, but after sweating so much her body had expelled every impurity; even a towel saturated with her own sweat carried no embarrassing odor.
"Hup."
Having finished cleaning her face, Lucia slowly pushed herself upright. Then she turned her head and fixed her eyes on Sirius, which she still gripped tightly.
What kind of sword even is this?
The look she gave Sirius was complicated. Was it the materials? Or was Atmos simply that skilled? Lucia still marveled at the sword's overwhelming mana conductivity.
She blinked as she gazed at its radiant brilliance. She had wielded many blades across her previous life and this one, yet Sirius did not fall short even when set beside a Holy Sword.
No—it's better than that damned Holy Sword.
She said it with conviction, but the claim that Sirius was superior to a Holy Sword was largely a matter of the heart. A Holy Sword was the symbol of a hero. And the hero Kylie had been wretchedly unhappy. The moment people around her began calling her a hero, Kylie's life had plunged straight into the abyss—so Lucia's near-hatred of Holy Swords was only natural.
She had been forced to kill people she never wanted to kill. In situations where body and mind were both strained beyond measure, the Holy Sword had driven Kylie into death's jaws.
But Sirius was different. A sword whose birth she had witnessed with her own eyes. The third sword she had ever received as a gift. Looking at Sirius filled her chest with a quiet, happy feeling.
And there was one more important reason: the name Sirius was the same as a technique of hers that had appeared in a certain fairy tale.
This is destiny!
Recalling the storybook, Lucia raised the radiant blade with both hands. After spreading her senses to confirm no one was nearby, she whispered,
"Cry out. Sirius."
Hwaaak—
As if answering her call, Sirius began to pour out brilliant light. The dark cultivation chamber filled with radiance, and pure aura leapt from the tip of the blade.
Magnificent. Sirius was magnificence given form.
Lucia felt a contradictory emotion. She did not want to become a hero—yet she did not dislike the image of herself as a hero cutting down evil and saving the world. She rather liked it, in fact.
That her previous life had been Kylie was now a secret she would carry to the grave, but sometimes a girl simply wanted to shout a technique name for fun.
After a brief fit of giggles, Lucia swung the sword through a series of dramatic poses and cried,
"Cry out. Sirius."
Hwaaak—
"Cry out. Sirius."
Hwaaaak—
"Cry out…"
She had been about to finish the line when a prickling gaze stabbed into her back and cold sweat beaded on her skin.
"What are you doing?"
"…"
The voice had come without warning from behind. Lucia slowly turned her head in that direction. Shiron stood there, eyes narrowed, staring at her.
"Uh… that… you know…"
Caught red-handed, Lucia could not manage a single coherent word. She simply flushed scarlet and stammered while sweat rolled down her face.
Watching her, Shiron let out a heavy sigh. Lucia occasionally did idiotic things. For someone who was supposedly a reincarnator, she could act like a complete child; normally the sight would make him want to tease and torment her.
But after the matter with Hugo, Shiron felt no desire to mock her. He decided to pretend he had not witnessed the foolishness.
"Were you practicing magic chants or something?"
"…Yeah. That's it. Vacation's almost over, right? If I want to keep up with class, I have to do thorough previews and reviews."
"Is that so? Then I guess you'll stay busy from now on."
"…Why?"
The invitation was blatant. Lucia asked while pressed flat against the cultivation chamber wall. Even though she had expelled every impurity and her sweat carried no scent at all, she still felt strangely self-conscious.
Shiron, who had been about to leave, stopped and turned back.
"I was looking for a partner for the court banquet. But you said you're busy."
More precisely, he needed an escort in case things went completely to hell.
"I was going to go with Seira."
"Well… I'm not that busy."
Lucia rolled her eyes and scratched her cheek.
"You'll come?"
"…Yeah."
Perhaps it was because Seira's name had been mentioned. Even though she had unpleasant memories of court banquets, Lucia found herself unable to refuse Shiron's invitation.
Meanwhile, Seira found herself facing an unexpected visitor.
Cursed to be forgotten by nearly everyone, she should have had no guests who knew her well enough to seek her out—yet the person standing at the door of the annex called her name correctly.
"Ah, Lady Siriel."
"You can just call me casually."
At Siriel's suggestion Seira fidgeted restlessly. After Shiron had scolded her countless times, Seira was painfully aware that she had treated young Siriel poorly in the past.
"Even so…"
"It's really all right. I already knew when I came looking for you."
Siriel smiled at the mage she had once seen in a dream.