The Fog
The camp of the Holy Iron Hammer Knights.
Malleus looked over the printed materials the junior knights had distributed.
Venue, organizer, number of participants, precautions and rules…
The sheet, which had gathered only the essentials and cut straight to the point, made the personality of its final reviewer—the reigning emperor—clear without ever needing to meet the man.
Malleus took a few sips of coffee, then slowly opened his mouth.
“Then let us conclude this morning’s briefing here. Everyone, return to your duties.”
“Captain.”
Malleus lifted his head at the voice.
A knight who still hadn’t fully shed the last traces of boyishness, yet had long left the apprentice stage behind, rose from his seat and looked his way.
Paulo Martini. The rising star of the Holy Iron Hammer’s Second Company.
“What is it?”
“I have a few questions, if I may.”
Paulo spoke with an air of complete confidence.
“Something appears to be missing from the handout I received, so I thought I should mention it.”
“What, exactly?”
“The opening date isn’t listed. I wondered if it might be an administrative error on the organizers’ part.”
“Hah…”
At Paulo’s words, Malleus turned to the adjutant seated beside him.
“Adjutant.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“It seems the notice wasn’t properly conveyed. That is not the sort of question a representative who will personally take the field in the Subjugation Festival ought to be asking.”
“Th-that is…”
Under Malleus’s sharp look, the adjutant’s face paled a shade as he shot a glare at the fearless newcomer.
Paulo, however, only blinked, still unaware of what he had done wrong.
That insolent brat…
In any proper organization, questions or requests were to be reported up the chain and answered by orders from above. Even so, there were limits to how far that principle extended.
A chick who only just shed his apprentice feathers, offering a trivial direct challenge to the captain…
Ordinarily it would have been grounds to call him aside for a stinging reprimand. Yet neither Malleus nor anyone else present rebuked his attitude.
And with good reason.
Paulo sat in this meeting as the representative of the Holy Iron Hammer Knights themselves.
He wore the badge of a group’s chosen champion and carried the expectations of everyone around him. There was no need to crush the spirit of a young man who refused to shrink under that weight and instead let his boldness show.
Barely a year had passed since he left the ranks of junior knights and became a full regular. Freshly knighted by His Holiness the Pope, he was at the age when confidence ran hottest.
Knowing that feeling all too well, Malleus offered neither criticism nor scolding to the green youth.
There’s already the boy who showed up out of nowhere carrying a severed head. Compared to that, this is nothing…
Malleus thought of Shiron in a corner of his mind.
Next to the endless trouble that boy could stir, Paulo’s little impertinence was almost endearing.
With a lighter heart, he smiled.
“It’s fine. It was the same five years ago. Ten years ago, twenty years ago—the notices never listed an opening date. So sit back down.”
“…Yes, sir.”
Paulo scratched the back of his head and returned to his seat. The thought that he had barked up the wrong tree flushed his still-boyish face.
He shifted his gaze to the paper lying before him.
[Opening Date: ]
Whether it was the conspicuous blank or the look Malleus had given him, he could not say. A faint unease stirred in his chest.
No one could ever know the precise day it would begin.
That very uncertainty was what proved the Subjugation Festival was no mere festival—an element even magic could not fully explain.
And so, across the Arwen Highlands, watchtowers had been raised in every direction to keep constant vigil.
Unlike the ordinary dawn mist born of moisture condensing in the cold night air, the fog that endlessly vomited forth demonic beasts first appeared around noon, observed together with a thick, foul miasma.
And then—
“Fog! The fog is rolling in!”
Two columns of smoke rose from the lookout tower.
Ninety-six meters above the ground.
The station’s observation deck.
Court Magician Arach watched the twin pillars of smoke rising beyond the window.
“Your Majesty. The fog has begun to form.”
“Hmm… very well.”
The emperor answered without so much as glancing at Arach.
Though a vast window stood before him, he had not once looked at the fog. His attention remained fixed solely on the sheaf of papers in his hand.
Not here.
The emperor’s expression twisted slightly.
The forty-nine sheets were the applications of those who would take part. Among them, the boy’s application he sought was nowhere to be found.
The emperor blinked again and again at the absence of the name “Shiron Prien” from the list.
If he meant to refuse, there was no reason to come all this way, was there?
Yesterday the emperor had received word that Yohan Urheim had led the knight order into Arwen Station.
Hugo’s knights, who frequently needed to replenish their ranks after forays into the Demon Realm, never missed the Subjugation Festival; their arrival could have been predicted without any report.
This year, however, the news had added that two children had come with them. The black-haired boy among them was unmistakably Shiron Prien.
I was certain he would not refuse…
“Chamberlain.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Is this the complete set of applications?”
“Is there someone in particular Your Majesty seeks? I shall have people search for him at once.”
“…Never mind.”
Looking down at the bowed crown of the chamberlain’s head, the emperor clicked his tongue. Beside him lay a single sheet he had set aside.
Lucia Prien
To think he would send his little sister in his place.
Though what he held was only a copy, Lucia’s crooked handwriting remained clearly visible on the application.
Still, it was not as though she had been forced into it.
Only three pieces of information—name, age, affiliation—yet Franz could read a great deal more. The pen strokes were natural, unbroken.
The emperor drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair, as if turning something over in his mind. The corner of his mouth twisted as he realized his head had grown a little warm.
Is this embarrassment, or anger?
He could not name the emotion now seated in his heart, but one thing was certain: both feelings had become rare ever since he first ascended the throne.
“I cannot tell whether he is shrewd or a fool.”
To receive a personal letter written by the supreme sovereign of the empire and still refuse to participate—calling it thoughtless was an understatement even by the emperor’s own standards; it was the act of a lunatic.
But that was as far as it went.
Considering his old friend Hugo Prien, forcing the hand of a child whose baby fat had barely left his cheeks would be the greater folly.
Was the rumor that he sometimes seems out of his mind actually true?
The emperor suddenly recalled the stories he had heard over the past few months while dining with Victor.
“Chamberlain.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Look into whether Shiron Prien is of sound mind.”
“Hurry!”
The moment the fog appeared, the tent village erupted into frantic activity.
Merchants packed their goods; every able-bodied man rolled up his sleeves and struck the tents. Only yesterday the place had worn a festival air, yet now lines of fleeing people formed as though escaping a war.
And—
“I will say it again: under no circumstances are you to enter the fog.”
Yohan recited the Subjugation Festival’s precautions while tightening the leather belt. The layered hide armor, padded several times over, twisted awkwardly to fit Lucia’s small frame.
“The important thing is to keep your focus on the enemy before you. And take a position with enough distance from the others.”
“….”
“Because you might get hit by a blind swing, right?”
“Exactly.”
When Lucia remained silent, Yohan squeezed his eyes shut at Shiron’s reply instead.
“This is not about showing off so you’ll stand out… That is not what I mean. Every year I have seen countless people whose eyes go wild with panic at the swarming beasts. That is why I say it.”
Yohan turned his head and fixed his gaze on Shiron.
“Young Master, are you all right?”
Worry filled the eyes that looked at him.
Whether because of the witch’s attack or the miasma itself, an emotion called unease had begun to take root in the old knight’s heart.
Shiron smiled at him as if to say there was no need for concern.
“I’m fine. I’ll just wave my sword around a little from the back.”
“Then I can rest easy.”
Smiling with relief, Yohan patted both children’s backs. Without needing further instruction, Shiron and Lucia began walking toward the fog.
The air was cold. Their bodies felt heavy.
All of it was merely the body’s reaction to the dense miasma, a kind of illusion.
Lucia cast a slow look around her.
Armored giants held banners that ringed the fog, and inside that battleground dozens of people with weapons in hand wandered about, each seeking a place of their own.
“Hey.”
Lucia, who had drawn her black-iron sword, spoke.
Her mood had clearly soured; she had kept her mouth tightly shut and her brow furrowed for some time.
“Be honest. If you tell me properly even now, I’ll let it go with just a pinch.”
The girl glared at the boy beside her, eyes wide.
“This isn’t a festival.”
“It is, though? This is definitely a festival.”
Far ahead, demonic beasts began to spill out of the fog.
Shiron grinned slyly at Lucia.
“I don’t lie to you.”
At the same moment the wave of beasts crashed over them, Shiron vanished from Lucia’s sight.