The Dining Hall's Latest Spectacle
The 3rd Knight Order's residential quarters had a mess hall reserved for its knights.
Cooks and attendants were stationed there at all times, and aside from the small hours of the morning, it was open for free use. When lunch and dinner hours rolled around, the hall filled to bursting with knights looking to feed themselves.
Today was no different. One by one, the knights trickled in from training or missions, filling up the seats.
Under normal circumstances, the gathered crowd would devote themselves to their meals and trade idle gossip by way of rest — that was the daily routine. Not today, though.
Forsaking the appetizing food set before them, every knight in the room had their eyes locked on a single spot.
"...What is wrong with those two?"
"How should I know."
The bewildered muttering was a bonus.
There, sitting side by side and enjoying a friendly meal together — no, not a friendly meal at all, but bickering away at each other while carving up their meat — were the two youngest members of the entire knight order.
"Do you have even a speck of respect for your seniors? What's with the constant backtalk?"
"You already know this is how I am, Senior. Why expect so much?"
"I gave up on hearing about chivalry from you ages ago. But you could at least manage basic human decency, you little punk!"
"Aha, so you'd like to see me give up on being human, then? Very well — as your junior, I'll make the effort. Just this once."
"I'm seriously going to kill you."
"Can you, though?"
"Try me, then!"
That was the last straw — Arthur snatched up his sword and shot to his feet.
Arendt, for his part, simply popped the piece of meat he'd just cut into his mouth and replied with perfect composure.
"You don't touch a dog while it's eating. Did you not know that?"
"Why, you...!"
Just as Arthur opened his mouth to bellow again, he suddenly realized that the other knights were all staring at them.
He gritted his teeth with a grind, then dropped back into his seat.
"I won't let this go, you hear me."
"Enjoy your meal."
The knights had no idea where to even begin with their criticism.
The fact that Arthur and Arendt were together at all?
Or the fact that Arendt — who had never once set foot in this shared mess hall, sneering that it was filthy — was now brazenly occupying a seat, chattering away and scraping his plate clean without a hint of shame?
Truthfully, it wasn't the first time they'd witnessed such a scene.
Over the past several days, the two had been spotted together more than once.
Even as every single word out of Arendt's mouth gnawed at his insides and drove him to the brink, Arthur never sent him away.
And Arendt, for his part, kept trotting in and out of the training grounds at Arthur's side, all while absorbing threats of I'll kill you for real.
"What on earth is going on..."
Someone groaned under their breath.
As if that had been some kind of signal, the knights shook their heads wearily and returned their attention to their food.
Frankly, every last detail baffled them. But none of them felt much like prying.
If they did, they'd probably end up clutching the backs of their necks and frothing at the mouth, exactly like Arthur was now.
Besides, the fact that a guy who'd been thrown into the underground prison barely days ago was now strutting around like nothing had happened was, in itself, far from normal.
So whether Arthur raged or not, the knights quietly tuned it all out.
It was better for everyone's mental health that way.
It had been rotten luck, waking up in the body of a traitor — but there was exactly one thing about this whole situation that Arendt actually liked.
His living conditions had improved dramatically.
The room the original Arendt had used in the residential quarters was the height of luxury, and the mess hall served excellent meals with fish or meat at every sitting.
It was a menu that couldn't even compare to the days he'd scraped by on instant food in a studio apartment, working part-time jobs himself to death.
The sword's coming back to me, too.
Arendt swished his blade through the air with a light, whooshing arc.
After a few days of investment, his feel for the sword seemed nearly fully revived.
With a little more time, he figured he'd be able to draw out what the original Arendt had been capable of.
Spinning the blade once around in his grip, Arendt looked Arthur dead in the eye.
Arthur stared back, making no effort whatsoever to hide his displeasure.
"Looks like your body's loosening up."
"I suppose so."
Arthur had assumed that Arendt's muscles had stiffened from all those days locked in a cell.
Considering the cold of that prison, nothing about it was strange.
Which meant he no longer needed to invent excuses for Arendt's sloppy swordsmanship.
The two of them fell into familiar distance.
The training grounds were quiet, the meal hour not yet over.
Arendt cracked his neck — crick, crick.
"You were staring at me like I was some sideshow attraction. I thought you were going to be sick."
"Of course I was. I still don't know why I'm even doing this. And 'thought I was going to be sick'? At least put some spit behind your lies. Who can't tell you don't care?"
"I'm a more delicate soul than you give me credit for."
"That's bullshit."
The crude insult came flying straight back.
Completely unbothered, Arendt caught the blade he'd been spinning in his hand with a firm snap.
"Let's pick up where we left off. I think I'm starting to get the feel for it."
"Fine by me, but... why so suddenly diligent about training? You used to hate breaking a sweat more than anything in the world."
"You never know when you seniors might come at my neck. Better to prepare in advance."
Arthur made a spectacle of his exasperation.
Arendt simply met it with a blank, so-what-do-you-want-from-me face.
There was no telling whether the man was serious or joking. Arthur gave up on reading him.
He'd long since decided it was pointless anyway.
"Insufferable little punk..."
Instead, he just chewed over the curse that had practically fused to his tongue these days and took up his sword again.
As he settled into his stance, Arendt likewise shifted his weight with practiced ease.
Nothing like the first time they'd crossed blades — he looked nearly airtight now.
The original Arendt had always been overflowing with talent for the sword.
Thanks to that talent, even the guy who skipped out on every training session he could had somehow managed to pull his own weight.
Pile on a stretch of genuine effort, and over the past few days it had become palpable: every time they crossed swords, the tip of the little bastard's blade got that much sharper.
Arthur lowered his stance.
His dark eyes gleamed with a subtle light.
A few seconds later, as if on cue, the two of them kicked off the ground and lunged at each other.
Arthur's blade came whistling down in a vertical strike — and was caught squarely on Arendt's sword.
KAANG!
A rending shriek of steel tore through the air.
Deflected with barely any resistance, Arthur twisted his body mid-recoil and drove straight in for Arendt's flank.
KAANG!
This attack too was blocked, as if it were only natural.
Arendt surged with a burst of force and shoved Arthur back.
A small gap opened between them, and this time Arendt charged in.
His blade came down from above.
The counter was faster than expected — Arthur managed to block it, brow furrowing slightly.
THUD.
A dull impact crashed through his arm.
And in the instant Arthur's senses were snagged by Arendt's sword, the young knight drew back a step, sheathed his blade's momentum, and snapped out a kick.
"Wha—!"
Startled, Arthur twisted his arm on reflex and caught Arendt's leg on the flat of his sword.
WHAM!
The massive reverberation shook the training grounds, and for a long moment the two of them froze in that exact pose.
Arthur had forgotten to even lower his sword; he could only stare at his opponent, dumbfounded.
Arendt looked down at his own leg, stopped by the blade, clicked his tongue — tsk — and straightened up.
"No good, huh."
"...Like hell it'd be."
Arthur, who had stood there like an idiot for a good while, finally managed to spit that out, and Arendt backed off with a few grumbles of his own.
Arthur just stared blankly at him as he straightened his clothes.
Was that a coincidence?
If Arendt had done it unconsciously, the man deserved applause for his split-second instincts. If he'd done it on purpose, Arthur wanted to bow in awe of his sheer, filthy temperament.
Because that move had been nothing more than a slight variation of what Arthur himself had pulled moments before.
His sword hanging low, Arthur took a step toward Arendt.
If he didn't demand to know how the guy had pulled off that move, he'd never sleep tonight.
Just then, an alien presence appeared at the training grounds, where only the two of them had been.
They turned their heads at the same time.
A well-dressed attendant stood at a distance, bowing his head toward them.
"Sir Arthur Norbert. Commander Laios de Winfried requests your presence."
"..."
Despite keeping his courtesies, the attendant couldn't stop stealing sidelong glances at Arendt.
It apparently struck him as strange — Arthur, basking in the commander's trust, standing side by side with the openly declared traitor.
Arendt noticed the man's gaze, shrugged, and put his sword away first.
It meant: go on, then.
Arthur glanced at him and sheathed his blade as well.
"You. We're not done, you and me."
"Whatever you say."
Leaving the crooked farewell behind him, Arthur followed the attendant out.
Arendt, left alone on the training grounds, quietly watched the two figures grow distant.
After a moment, his brow furrowed faintly.
"...That's sooner than I expected."
"Commander. I heard you were looking for me."
The moment Arthur stepped into Laios's office, he bowed his upper body stiffly at the waist.
Laios greeted him with a light nod.
"Welcome."
Only then did Arthur straighten up.
Laios could read the trust brimming in the eyes of the man looking back at him.
A faint smile softened the mouth of Laios, who was ever the picture of bluntness.
"Word is you've been spending time with Arendt."
"Spending time is a strong word. It just so happened I ended up keeping an eye on his training, is all."
The complaint burst out of him immediately.
Laios let out a short chuckle and tossed out his question in a light tone.
"So. How's the progress?"
"Well, how good can the guy really be? Rotten personality aside, his skill was always solid. He looked off his game for a few days there, but right now he's practically flying."
Arthur said it while wearing a thoroughly unimpressed expression.
His skill still fell a touch short of a full-fledged knight's — but at the rate he was growing, Arendt would without question become a swordsman no one in his age group could touch.
"Good. You've had your hands full, I know."
"Do you not hold a grudge against him, Commander?"
This time it was Arthur who asked.
Laios frowned quietly.
"That matter is behind us. I've finished discussing it with Sir Kendrick and Sir Diana, and His Majesty the Emperor has already received the report."
"I know that, but... feelings are a different matter, aren't they?"
Arthur pressed on, his tone still laced with displeasure.
"I understand why they chose to spare Arendt's life. He rendered distinguished service, and he might still be sitting on information he hasn't shared. But that doesn't mean we can trust him."
Arendt had claimed he'd infiltrated the enemy's ranks deliberately... but it was just as possible that he'd betrayed the Emperor out of spite, then betrayed them in turn the moment he was captured, because he feared death.
That Arendt still wore that silver bracelet on his arm meant the knight commanders hadn't stopped keeping that possibility in mind, either.
A man who betrayed once can betray twice.
And a man who's done it twice will find a third betrayal even easier.
Arthur had been worrying for his commander's heart — the heart of a man betrayed by his own subordinate. But Laios simply shook his head, and that silenced him.
"Watch him a while longer, and we'll know."
"...If you say so, Commander."
"You say that, and yet you seem to be quietly preparing to pass judgment on your own."
Arthur didn't bother to reply.
Partly because Laios — a man whose expression almost never changed — looked oddly, unmistakably pleased, and partly because he couldn't bring himself to deny it.
Laios added one more line, each word crisp, as if carving it into stone.
"I trust you all. As I always have."
"I know."
Arthur answered gruffly and straightened his posture once more.
"Give me your orders. I'm ready."
"There is something I need you to verify."
The light in Laios's eyes sharpened back into gravity.
Arthur nodded.
The one giving the orders and the one receiving them were both long practiced at this.
"A group affiliated with the ones who raided the East Vault has been identified. Track them down and gather every lead you can."
"Yes, sir."
"...It will be dangerous."
After a brief pause, Laios lowered his voice.
"The work must be done in secret, so I cannot spare you more hands. Can you manage it?"
"..."
Not a trace of expression could be found on Laios's face. But Arthur knew full well the worry and concern melting into his commander's eyes.
It was precisely because he was that kind of man that Arthur could stake his life on him without a second's hesitation.
Arthur broke into a wide grin and nodded, big and deliberate.
"Leave it to me."