Permission to Be a Scoundrel
The world of the game Reincarnation Sword God was a place where the phrase "lawless outlands" fit all too well.
The great powers of the continent might give the impression of maintaining some semblance of order, but wander into the wrong alley and get a knife in the gut, and no one would lift a finger to answer for it.
Berta alone was proof enough. For a cop, she was ruthless—if she judged someone a bandit, she carried out summary justice without so much as a warrant. It was a brutal world through and through.
I need to get stronger.
If only to keep his own skin intact, he could not afford to stop training. And Shiron had already looked the guardians of Dawn Castle dead in the eye and, without so much as wetting his lips, spun the lie that he would kill the Evil God.
Now that his original plan—hand Lucia the Holy Sword and coast along in the rear—had fallen apart, Shiron had to do something, anything.
Never thought I'd end up using the Reputation value here.
One of the system metrics, Reputation, was, put another way, something like karmic weight.
The higher a player's Reputation climbed, the greater the odds of running into evil-aligned named enemies—or Apostles. And Reputation rose the more heroic deeds a person performed.
Taking an Apostle's head. Saving lives. There were any number of ways to raise it.
Ways to lower it, however, were limited.
Tank the favorability of NPCs.
That was where things got complicated.
In the game, all you had to do was escalate through events and cut down the progressively stronger enemies that came at you. Reality, though, forced him to weigh far too many variables.
He had already built a decent amount of goodwill with Siriel and Hugo. Undoing all that work now would be a waste he simply could not stomach.
So Shiron had arranged a private talk with Hugo…
But drawing up a plan and actually persuading Hugo were two entirely different things.
"I truly… cannot make sense of this."
Seated across from Shiron, Hugo wore the expression of a man who could not fathom what nonsense his nephew was spouting.
He stroked his beard-roughened jaw a few times, then—out of place on that fierce face—tilted his head.
"This… scoundrel business. If I have understood you correctly, it means a man without dignity, frivolous, who… ah, goes about committing every manner of outrage. Is that right?"
"Yes, it is."
"Hah…"
Hugo let out a hollow laugh, looking half out of his wits. For a moment he wondered if his nephew had simply gone mad.
"I have one question."
"Yes."
"Are you aware that your appearance is the complete opposite of a scoundrel's?"
"This is a meeting for making a request, after all."
Shiron answered with a bright smile.
The Shiron Hugo saw was the furthest thing imaginable from a wastrel. Not a crease in his formal attire. Hair neatly combed back. A faint scent of perfume about him. And his posture—impeccably polite, hands resting on his knees, that sharp, composed look in his eyes he had worn since the conversation began.
The irony of it all made Hugo's brow furrow.
Has the shock of learning he has no talent hit him that hard?
Just a short while ago, Hugo had heard both glad news and ill from the mouth of his trusted lieutenant.
One was that Shiron's body could not handle mana. The other was that Lucia possessed a prodigious natural gift.
The instant the words left Yohan's lips, Hugo's first reaction had not been joy—it had been worry for Shiron.
Had Hugo himself not spent a lifetime being measured against his younger brother, Glen?
If he has simply given up, that might even be for the best…
Clinging to a hopeless goal and thrashing about was its own kind of folly. And unlike Hugo, who had merely lacked talent, what Shiron carried was not a question of gift or no gift—it was a congenital disability.
For that reason, Hugo had no intention of forcing effort on the boy. He had even expected a certain amount of rebellion.
"Mm…"
Even so, he had never imagined the boy would come to him in person to ask permission to become a scoundrel.
"I never thought there would be a man in this world who seeks leave before he starts acting the scoundrel."
"I did not want to cause you worry."
Shiron spoke calmly, not a flicker of change in his expression.
"…Worry?"
Hugo had no idea what that was supposed to mean—then his eyes went wide and he leaned forward.
"So there is a reason you feel you must play the scoundrel."
"There is."
Hugo crossed his arms and let out a long breath. He took a moment to think, then finally spoke.
"Very well. You have my permission."
"…You are not going to ask why?"
"Whether I know the reason or not, my permission will not change. No—if I heard your circumstances, I might well refuse, and so I would rather not hear them."
"…"
Shiron's smile faded from his lips. Of course Hugo did not miss the change. He said aloud what he had already guessed of his nephew.
"You have the power of Prophecy. Whatever you are doing, it will not be thoughtless."
"Well… that is true enough."
Shiron smiled and offered a nod of agreement.
He carefully did not say that he was doing it because he had no choice if he wanted to stay alive. The last thing he needed was well-meaning interference and a retinue of guards. If he wanted the freedom to move about, he had to drive that Reputation value down.
Put bluntly, if he went around announcing, I am the eldest son of a hero's house—open the door and hand me a fine shield, the first Apostle to hear the rumor would arrive and kill him on the spot.
As he was now, Shiron could not even beat Berta on pure skill. There was no world in which he survived an Apostle's assault.
The only real cost would be the flood of ugly reputation—and that was a problem Shiron barely cared about.
Killing the Evil God and Reputation have nothing to do with each other. If it becomes a problem, I can always raise it again.
Permission secured.
He was just finishing the conversation and rising from his seat when Hugo, as if he still had something left to say, opened his mouth again.
"Shiron."
"Yes."
"This is a bit of a digression, but just before you arrived, Yohan came by."
"…So you have heard that I cannot handle mana."
"…I have."
Hugo paused a beat before continuing.
"As things stand, there is no way to treat your condition."
"It is fine. I would rather not cling to a hopeless cure in any case. And I am confident I can live perfectly well without using mana."
Shiron spoke with firm resolve.
He did not want Hugo fretting over his condition. He had no desire to tug at Hugo's pity and end up dragged all over the map in the name of a cure—especially when there was no guarantee of success, and every day spent traveling was another day he might face an assassin's blade.
"Very well. I understand."
Hugo wore a bitter smile. With the boy this resolute, changing his mind was clearly out of the question. In that case, all he could do was offer his full support.
"Shiron. Only do as much as you can bear."
"Of course. I do not plan to live as a scoundrel for the rest of my life, after all."
"Then that is enough."
Only after seeing Hugo's wry smile could Shiron himself smile and take his leave.
"Did the talk go well?"
When he returned to the annex, Encia was waiting to greet him. She had already heard the rough outline of the situation from Shiron, and she was curious how things had turned out.
"Yeah, I got permission. He barely said anything about it, actually."
Shiron handed her his coat and stepped inside.
Encia brought a damp cloth and cold water, then spoke with a playful smile.
"To think that stiff-necked Hugo would actually give his blessing. Quite the surprise."
"…You people are awfully free with my uncle. You use honorifics with me without fail, but with him…"
"A few decades still feel like yesterday to us, you know. In my eyes, Hugo still looks like the boy who used to squabble mindlessly with the head of the house."
Encia gazed ahead with a faraway look.
"Back then, Hugo and the master both were so small and cute. Why does time have to pass so quickly…"
"…"
Shiron shuddered and looked at Encia. For someone wearing a young girl's face—and acting flippant on top of it—she certainly talked like an old woman.
"Encia. You know you sound like a little old lady when you talk like that? Show some restraint."
"My, my. Come to think of it, Young Master—did you know?"
Encia covered her mouth with her hand and laughed.
"I went out a while back, and everyone just assumed I was a human girl. It is surprisingly fun, you know? They all call me miss, big sister, young lady… Heehee."
Encia hummed a little tune, clearly pleased with herself.
"Lucky you. At least being a demon does not cause any annoying trouble. I am going to change—get a meal ready for me."
With that, Shiron headed up to the second floor of the annex. As he walked down the corridor, someone was waiting by a door.
The red-haired girl crouched pitifully on the floor cut a rather forlorn figure.
"…What are you doing here?"
Shiron crouched in front of her and met her eyes. Lucia, for her part, looked away.
"I was waiting for you to come back."
"We are eating dinner together later. Why wait?"
"…You might skip dinner."
Saying so, Lucia rubbed at her eyes with her hand. She looked up at Shiron with faintly reddened eyes, then lowered her gaze again.
"Are you… really okay?"
What she was asking was whether he was truly fine with the fact that he could not handle mana.
He had tried to brush it off with jokes so she would not lose heart—apparently that had not been enough.
Shiron almost sighed… then stopped. Somehow he felt that if he sighed here, Lucia would only wilt further.
"I already told you, I do not care. Or what—do you want me to resent you?"
"Th-that is not what I—"
Lucia denied it in a sullen voice. Then she took Shiron's hand and hung her head.
"…I am really sorry for hitting you back then. It is late, but I wanted to apologize properly."
As she offered the apology, her eyes were so glassy she looked ready to spill tears at any moment.
But Shiron did not hand her a handkerchief.
He had wiped Siriel's face and thrown the handkerchief away—and, regrettably, he had not restocked since.
"All right. First go wash your face, okay?"
Instead, he simply reached out and brushed a hand over her face.
"That pretty face of yours is a mess."
"…"
In place of an answer, Lucia slowly nodded.