212. The Price of Greed
212. The Price of Greed
Ishmael Duran.
Commander of the Executors, and the strongest in the Holy Kingdom.
As anyone could see, she wielded a zweihander easily over two meters long, and the Realm she had reached was Tier 7.
Most other information about her was shrouded in secrecy, but the documents Mikel had handed over provided a few additional details.
For someone who handled such a massive zweihander, her specialty was a quick-draw sword style that struck in off-beat rhythms, and her Ideal Manifestation was unknown.
-However, judging from traces left at battle sites, her Ideal Manifestation has been confirmed to be of the 'Severing' type.
-Of course, since she is Tier 7, her Ideal Manifestation is not yet complete. But at its highest potential, it clearly ranks among the upper tier of Ideal Manifestations recorded in the ancient texts.
-Of course, that is only an assessment of its highest potential, so it cannot be stated with absolute certainty.
That was Mikel's additional explanation.
In simple terms, it meant that a mere Tier 7 possessed the destructive power of an Ideal Manifestation normally wielded by an average Tier 8.
It wasn't impossible.
The difference between Tier 7 and Tier 8 came down solely to the 'completeness' of one's Ideal Manifestation.
But it was a feat infinitely close to impossible.
Because raising that completeness was so difficult and arduous that even I would be left speechless.
Based on my own experience, when I considered the gap between Tiers, the gap between Tier 6 and Tier 7 couldn't be called especially vast.
Upon reaching Tier 6, the Upper Dantian opens.
Then one can store Intent within it, melt Intent into one's Mana, and barely manage to draw it out into the world—that is the limit of Tier 6.
So it isn't pure Intent, but merely Intent layered over Mana.
Like coating a sword with Sword Aura.
Ashtar's Intent had felt exactly like that.
It was at a level where even I, who couldn't handle Intent, could interfere with it and break it. Since the Intent was wrapped around Mana, its essence was still Mana. So it had been possible.
Now, if one advanced further and reached Tier 7, one became able to draw pure Intent out into the world. That was the first step of what was called Ideal Manifestation.
A prime example was Samaella.
I didn't know how things would change if that bitch reached the 9th Circle and completed her Ideal Manifestation, but even at the 8th Circle, at Tier 7, she had summoned a goddamn enormous serpent.
And that was only the first step.
In my estimation, Ideal Manifestation must have more than ten thousand steps.
That was how vast the gap between Tier 7 and Tier 8 was—so vast that even daring to compare them was an insult.
And yet, this Tier 7 was said to possess an Ideal Manifestation on the level of a Tier 8.
Of course, not all Tier 8s were the same. There were clear differences even among them.
But it still wasn't a level a Tier 7 could contend with.
If twenty average Tier 7s fought one average Tier 8, mutual destruction would be the best possible outcome.
Of course, Mikel had said the investigation assessed her highest potential, so she was likely weaker than that.
Even so, it was undeniable that the Ishmael standing before me was a powerful existence.
Was she merely powerful?
Ishmael Duran was the Holy Kingdom's foremost lunatic bitch.
Rumors even circulated that the Twelve Cardinals, who ranked just below the Patriarch, were reluctant to face her.
And Mikel had said as much too.
-Ishmael Duran... the Commander of the Executors is, even by my estimation, an unfathomable... madwoman.
-She does not restrain her anger. It isn't that she cannot; she deliberately chooses not to.
-Her reasoning cannot be followed.
-Her actions lack cause and effect, lack any basis.
-Like the Patriarch, she feels like an obvious enemy, yet at the same time, because such behavior is only natural for a madwoman, I sometimes think she may not be an enemy after all.
-Of course, even if Ishmael Duran is not an enemy, it is best to avoid her.
-Also, if you ever happen to encounter her in the Holy Capital, no matter what she says, please ignore it and move on. I beg of you.
Mikel had explained with reference to various other cases as well, but the final words were these:
-May I cross the line a little?
-Ishmael Duran is... the same kind of person as Eliarnes.
-If the two of you ever meet, it will absolutely—
He didn't just cross the line—he leapt over it like a lunatic bitch doing a pole vault.
So I hit him once. No, several times.
He called her a madwoman, and then said she was the same kind of person as me?
Didn't that mean I was a madwoman too?
For the record, I am a normal person.
My actions are grounded in meticulous calculation and firm reasoning.
I only commit acts I can handle, and I resolve them myself, one way or another.
And, well.
As Mikel had said, even if trouble arose with Ishmael, I would endure it and move on.
Wasn't that the obvious judgment to make?
Of course, if we threw down, I would win, but given the current situation, I thought enduring and moving on was a hundred times the right call.
Right. I was a person capable of such wise judgment.
Therefore, I was not a madwoman.
I could easily endure something like anger—
"A Dwarf?"
"The fuck?"
—I could not.
"What's a lunatic bitch who's never even seen a Dwarf going on about?"
"The world calls me a madwoman. So your calling me a lunatic bitch is, I suppose, roughly accurate. And judging by that reaction, you are not a Dwarf. Then, are you simply a little runt?"
[H-Hold it in...!]
Sparkle in my bosom pinched my chest.
"Hm, young one. Have you lost your way? Or were you swept along by the procession and lost hold of your parents' hands?"
"This one's no ordinary lunatic bitch."
"Unlike your pretty face, your mouth is quite foul. Did some scabrous old hag undergo Body Reformation? A doll? Even I cannot tell. So I ask: young one who may be an old hag, do you enjoy having a young girl's body?"
I blinked for a moment.
An obvious provocation. Why? All of a sudden? Did she know me and seek me out? Probably. Then was she picking a fight to size me up? But the provocation was too simple for that.
Had I been found out? Or had she simply seen me in passing? The latter was more likely.
She had seen me in passing. No matter how high-quality the cloak, it couldn't deceive the eyes of a Tier 7.
The symbol of Eustetia. Cherry-blossom-colored hair.
She had seen that and come to me.
The two lumps on either side? I knew who they were.
The Commander of the Executors, Ishmael Duran's left and right arms. The Merrack brothers.
The bald one on the left was Edward Merrack. The bald one on the right was Farnan Merrack. Their Realm was Tier 6.
One Tier 7 and two Tier 6s.
Could I kill them? There was no need to think.
I would kill them without fail.
But if I fought? There were many eyes watching.
Ishmael Duran was someone who walked around openly showing herself. She was a lunatic bitch who inevitably drew attention.
-Also, if you ever happen to encounter her in the Holy Capital, no matter what she says, please ignore it and move on. I beg of you.
Mikel's voice flickered through my mind.
Of course, even without that pushover's—no, my friend's request, I knew fighting here wasn't a good idea.
"At any rate, a fresh body like this is better than one rotted away at Tier 7. Soft, and squishy."
But so what?
It was merely not good. It wasn't the worst.
[Eek...!]
Squirm-squirm—Sparkle burrowed deeper against my chest. Then I felt a faint warmth. She was preparing for a possible fight.
I clenched my fist as well.
"Heh."
Amid all this, Ishmael's shoulders quivered.
She laughed. A laugh that looked thoroughly pleased.
"You've got guts. How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
This time, Sparkle, who had been preparing for battle, let out a snicker. Ishmael laughed too. Even I laughed as I said it.
"Why are you laughing?"
"Because it's ridiculous even to me after saying it. Why, you laughed too."
"It would be a lie to say it isn't funny. Heh, just listening to you talk, you sound like a mercenary who's rolled around battlefields for over a decade, but you really are... bizarrely young. So you're not an old hag after all..."
Having said that, Ishmael stroked the hilt of her sword.
The glaring midday sunlight touched the ink-black hilt. But touching it was all it did. It couldn't shine. The ink-black hilt greedily devoured all light.
"So that's how it is?"
Sparkle's heat intensified. Eyes turned toward us. The Merrack brothers tightened their grips.
I.
Placed my hand before the first gate of Purgatory, at the base of my left index finger below the thumb. I readied myself to open it at any moment.
"Your post-latrine cleanup is lacking."
Latrine. Cleanup.
What could she mean?
I slowly shifted my gaze.
A long hand stroking a sword hilt.
Pot-lid-like hands gripping halberds.
I raised my gaze. The Merrack brothers' Adam's apples traced rises and falls. The muscles of their entire bodies swelled. Dry eyes swept the surroundings. Clearly tense.
By contrast, Ishmael's Adam's apple was not visible. A collar that covered her neck, that concealed her pulse, stood raised.
I lifted my gaze further.
Her face came into view.
Expressionless.
Hidden behind it.
The same tension as the Merrack brothers. Unease. Concern.
And.
Anticipation.
Her black eyes were staring straight through me.
Those eyes held expectation.
Expectation? Toward whom?
Toward me.
Why?
By my standards, Ishmael was an enemy.
But now that judgment was blurring.
The documents Mikel had handed over—especially the information on the Executors—raced through my mind.
Unlike Blood Heaven, the Executors were clearly enemies.
They had stood by and watched every incident unfold in the Holy Kingdom.
If they had merely stood by, that would have been fortunate. There was even evidence that they had reached their hands into that nonsense.
So why expectation? Toward me?
Countless thoughts coiled in my head.
They stretched on, one thought linked to the next. I couldn't find the beginning or the end.
A puzzle piece forced into the wrong place. Where to start. Something.
Had the very beginning—the board the puzzle was meant to fit into—been wrong from the start?
Where to start.
The branch family.
The Cartel.
The Puppet Emperor.
Anton de Hermann.
Anketin.
Nuclexirol.
The Apostle of Gluttony.
Mikel, who had come to the Imperial Capital.
The Revelation.
The Sacred.
The Holy Kingdom.
The breeding grounds.
Ambiguous enemies, and obvious enemies.
The Executors.
The Heresy Inquisitors.
The grace bestowed upon them.
The Authority added through prayer.
Yusopa St. Johannidis, who had concealed herself.
Ishmael Duran, roaming the Holy Capital.
There were too many things to think about.
Too many places where hands had reached in.
The problems I had tried to solve all at once were tangled together in complexity.
Where had it started to twist?
In the first place, where were the beginning and the end?
"There is a ghost story that circulates every time the Holy Kingdom's Nativity Festival approaches. Yes. A ghost story perfectly suited to a young one of seventeen like yourself."
At the same time.
Step—
"There is a ghost story that, from seven days before the full moon, the 'ghost'-possessed 'dolls' of the 'museum' begin to move."
Ishmael moved. She passed by me.
Unease crept over me.
Museum. Ghost. Dolls.
"Do be careful."