Discipline Established

As Shiron recalled it, Reincarnation Sword God had been a game that quietly looked out for its veterans.

At its core it was an action RPG built around real-time combat, but it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠also leaned, almost by stealth, toward the shape of a multi-ending ensemble simulation.

They really knew how to work an angle.

For players who had cleared the game and found themselves with nothing left to do, the developers had scattered devices that slowly unveiled hidden elements with every subsequent playthrough.

Lucia’s past life as Kyle and the tales of her adventures, for instance.

Descriptions of the enemies from five hundred years ago, or the stories of the world before it had been split into the Demon Realm and everywhere else—those belonged to the same category.

The element of reincarnation.

The twin narratives of five hundred years past and the present day.

Beyond that, players could hear the stories of the figures buried inside the game’s lore through a device called NPC reminiscence.

Among them, three NPCs had been especially beloved by the player base.

They had been popular enough that the developers had gone so far as to produce separate DLC for each of them.

When the first expansion dropped, the communities where talk of Reincarnation Sword God thrived were plastered wall to wall with posts crying out the emperor’s name.

Players cheered. They raved. That they had even coined nicknames for what amounted to supporting characters said everything.

Having played every expansion in his previous life, Shiron had been there for that moment too.

The line Holy Flame Emperor Victor had delivered with bitter resignation after cutting down an Apostle was one Shiron could still hear clearly, even now that he had been possessed into the game itself.

And yet—how was this possible?

Months had waxed and waned since then, and somehow Victor still had not appeared.

Winter came, and with it the snow.

The new year arrived, and Shiron turned another year older.

"Young master."

In the snow-laden training yard of the manor, Ophelia approached Shiron as he swung a mass of iron and poured sweat into the cold.

"Another ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠letter arrived today with no sender listed."

"…Victor again, no doubt."

Shiron took the envelope she held out and answered curtly.

The envelope in his hand bore neither mark nor writing, but the deep imperial blue that symbolized the royal house made guessing the sender easy enough.

"If he’s going to send letters this religiously, he could just show up in person."

Setting the iron down, Shiron pulled a strip of dried jerky from his coat and clamped it between his teeth. He broke the smooth, unmarked seal, and a scrap of paper with a single short line came into view.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Shiron’s face twisted as he read. How many letters was this now? He had to have received at least thirty, and every last one of them had been in this vein.

He was thoroughly fed up with Victor, who had not shown his face once in all this time.

Whether the boy was busy because he was a prince was neither here nor there. Winter had come, a full year had passed, and still not a glimpse of him—that alone racked up the charges of pure gall.

"What is it? Victor again?"

Lucia, who had been shoveling snow from the training yard, came over to Shiron.

"Yeah."

Answering her, Shiron breathed a cloud of white into the air.

Receiving this many letters from another guy was awkward enough on its own, so he tossed the note into the campfire burning in the corner of the yard.

"Just one more line saying he’s sorry, and that was it."

"…You don’t think he defected somewhere?"

"Why would he defect?"

"Because you tormented him so much."

"……Was it that obvious?"

Shiron’s eyes went wide at Lucia’s pointed remark.

"Yeah. It was obvious."

Lucia stared at his absurd reaction with her mouth hanging open, then spoke quietly.

"The last time you saw him was the day you told him to invite you over to his place."

"That’s right."

"Think about it. The kid you’d been hounding relentlessly just announced he was going to show up ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at his house and keep hounding him. I’d run too, if I could."

"I thought this was just how friends are with each other…"

Shiron pictured the face of a childhood friend he would never see again.

Then he brushed his fingers over his lips, thinking. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Whenever something occupied his mind, he had a habit of touching some part of his face just like that.

Having faced him for so long, Lucia had come to remember every one of Shiron’s small quirks.

And she looked from Shiron—who now stood a full head taller than her eye level—to Siriel off in the distance.

Siriel was building a snowman from the snow heaped across the training yard, wearing mittens and a fur hat Eldrina had made herself.

"Oppa! Lucia! Come help with this!"

Rolling a great ball of snow as she came toward them, Siriel stood a little taller than Lucia.

And a few days later.

Victor arrived at the manor dressed far more splendidly than before.

"Well, look who finally decided to show."

"…Yeah. It’s been a long time. Haha."

Seated on a bench and sipping lemonade, Shiron regarded Victor steadily. The quality of the attendants behind him had risen considerably since his last visit.

It was not simply that they looked stronger.

Even recalling the time Victor had first come to the manor at the head of a military escort, the discipline now was tighter. Above all, not one of them so much as glanced at Shiron, who sat idly sucking on a straw in front of a prince.

So he really did have circumstances he couldn’t talk about.

Shiron watched Victor, who still could not quite meet his eyes.

The silk garments embroidered with gold thread were luxurious enough to transform the boy from Shiron’s last memory—the one frothing at the mouth and thrashing in the dirt—into a refined young noble.

"Seeing you all dressed up and putting on airs, I can trust you’ve brought good news, right?"

"…Yeah."

Victor let out a long breath and spoke after a pause.

He had braced himself for a hit, but fortunately Shiron had not yet done a thing to him.

Grateful for that much, Victor sat down across from him.

"My second elder brother has been expelled from the palace."

"Sorry to hear it."

The words that left his newly solemn mouth were, in their way, shocking news. Shiron’s expression, however, remained utterly indifferent, as if it were nothing of consequence—nothing like the regret he had just voiced.

The disposition of the Second Prince, Henry.

If he truly had been the one behind the surveillance of Shiron, then given the emperor’s temperament, there was no chance it would have ended there.

"Don’t tell me that’s all?"

"Of course not."

"Then hurry up and tell me why you couldn’t show your face this whole time."

Shiron leaned forward slightly, pressing him. Victor gestured to the attendant behind him and continued.

"The day I petitioned Father to invite you to the Imperial Palace, His Majesty was delighted. And a few days after that, my second elder brother and Lady Ajani—his mother—were stripped of their titles… and effectively banished to the duchy that is their maternal house."

Victor exhaled heavily again and again as he spoke, the weight of the facts pressing on him.

"And the faction that had been supporting my second elder brother collapsed. There was a full purging of the court. It’s a terrifying thing, really—a power base built over at least a decade, swept clean by a single word from Father."

"…"

"This may sound unpleasant, but I suspect the cause was that my second elder brother orchestrated the surveillance on you. Several of the court mages who backed him quite literally lost their heads."

"Unpleasant? Hardly."

Shiron gave a dry little laugh, as if it were nothing.

True to the title of the emperor with a cold heart, he had already assumed the reigning emperor might well take his own child’s head. If anything, Shiron was mildly surprised by the relatively mild response of exile abroad.

Victor seemed to read Shiron’s smile differently; he smiled in relief as he spoke.

"Still, I’m glad you’re not upset."

"Why? What about me?"

"Father has taken quite a liking to you. That’s why he so readily accepted the request to invite you."

Just then, the attendant who had approached Victor’s side held out a tray wrapped in velvet.

"But he said it couldn’t be right now."

Victor picked up the paper resting on the tray and handed it to Shiron.

"He said he hasn’t finished cleaning house yet, and that if you came to the palace now you’d be confronted with some rather embarrassing situations."

"I wouldn’t mind, personally."

Shiron chuckled.

Cleaning house—he could guess what that meant.

Taking the letter from Victor, Shiron stood, turned toward the Imperial Palace, and bowed his head three times.

"!"

Victor’s eyes flew wide at the gesture.

Shiron shot a sidelong look at him, at the prince standing there open-mouthed as if he had witnessed something unspeakable.

"What are you staring at?"

"No—it’s just so unexpected. I didn’t know you could do things like that."

"Who exactly do you take for a complete thug? Do you have any idea how many private lessons I sit through in a single day?"

Shiron opened the letter and checked its contents.

"…What is this?"

"By way of a substitute, I suppose. He said he wishes to invite you to the Subjugation Festival held every new year."

At Victor’s look, which seemed to ask whether he would attend, Shiron slowly turned his body. A Subjugation Festival carried a weight far beyond dropping by a friend’s house to play.