Not a Bad Start
"Very impressive. A knight, of all people, launching a sneak attack from behind."
Arendt spat the words out as he straightened himself up.
In the short span of a few exchanged blows, his once-pristine appearance had already been reduced to tatters.
Arthur glared at him, brow furrowed. "You're the one who lured him into that, you little bastard."
"Excuse me? I was paying you a compliment."
Arendt wiped his mouth yet again and shot back with a crooked grin.
Still, if Arthur hadn't moved exactly as Arendt intended in that split second, things wouldn't have gone this smoothly.
And that was only possible because the guy had some flexibility in him.
Any other knight wouldn't have even considered it. The moment Arendt finished dispatching the lackeys and returned, he would've shouted "I'll take him on!" at Betchel—it was obvious.
That was simply what knights were.
While Arendt rattled off whatever nonsense it took to draw every eye to himself, someone would strike from behind. Against Betchel—a man who excelled at concealing himself and wielded strength far too much to face head-on—there was no better plan.
Betchel had probably believed, right up until the moment of his death, that Arendt would challenge him to a one-on-one duel. The reality had been quite a bit further from it.
Reminded of that fact, Arthur grew a little sour. But he soon chased the thought away by flicking the blood from his blade a few times. After all, that same scheme had saved his neck too.
"So how did you actually find us? I didn't tell a soul."
"And if I say I tailed you, what then? Planning to tattle to the Commander?"
"You really are something else……."
"Let's not sweat the small stuff."
Arendt's gaze drifted down to Betchel's collapsed body. The thick, heavy scent of blood seeped into the cold pre-dawn air.
Arendt approached the corpse, firmly suppressing the nausea that rose of its own accord. Arthur pulled a slight grimace, but quietly watched what Arendt was doing.
Before long, Arendt slid a thick ring off Betchel's finger.
"What's that?"
"Spoils of war."
"……"
Is this guy really cut out to be a knight?
Arthur felt the stray doubts he'd worked so hard to banish come creeping back. And this time, stronger than before.
But whether Arthur approved or not, Arendt pocketed the ring and moved on to the ones still unconscious on the ground.
"Drag these men back to the stronghold and we won't get much out of them. They'll be in roughly the same state as the ones who broke into East Vault."
"So you want to just let them go?"
"What's the point of putting blathering idiots up on an executioner's block? Killing them here would only leave me tossing and turning tonight, and…… ah, found it."
Arendt fished something else out of one man's pocket. A small key.
Arthur perked up the moment he saw it. "Ah, that's—"
"You know what it opens, don't you?"
Arendt rose to his feet and tossed the key at Arthur with a flick of his wrist. Arthur caught it, somewhat dazed.
"Go on. You took a proper beating back there—you should at least walk away with something."
"……Now that you mention it, you just stood there and watched while I was getting pummeled, didn't you?"
"I was waiting for the right moment to jump in. Figured I'd get a read on his movements while I was at it. You were taking hits like a champ, by the way. Honestly, for a second there I wondered if you'd actually bite the dust. You're sturdier than you look, Senior."
The fist clenched around the key tightened with a sudden surge of force.
And at precisely that moment, Arendt tilted his head. "What? Don't tell me…… you want to hit me? After I saved your life? Over something like that?"
The eyes nestled in those round lids sparkled with pure, guileless innocence.
That pale, utterly harmless face suited Arendt's fine features remarkably well. Anyone who didn't know the whole story might have gasped in admiration.
Unfortunately, for Arthur it only sharpened the impulse to sock him one. And even if he'd known it, Arendt wouldn't have felt the least bit sorry—because riling Arthur up had been exactly his intention.
Between Arthur's gritted teeth, a strangled sound escaped. "Forget it. Never mind……"
Arendt stole a sidelong glance at him and burst out laughing—sseuk.
He sauntered past Arthur, who stood there trembling with a clenched fist, and lumbered off ahead. Behind him, Arthur grumbled his way along in pursuit.
Every inch of his body ached, and the overwhelming reek of blood—his first taste of it—churned his stomach. Even so, his mood wasn't bad at all.
He had torn apart and rebuilt, with his own two hands, the part of the story he'd hated most. The man who was supposed to die here was instead shuffling along behind him, griping and grumbling, and the one who would have made their lives difficult going forward had been eliminated in advance.
All things considered, it wasn't a bad start.
The moon hung high and bright overhead.
Before long, the two of them returned to where the first fight had broken out.
Counting doors one by one, Arthur located the house where the men had gathered.
"No stragglers, right?"
"Probably not. As far as I know……"
Arendt answered breezily, sliding past Arthur, who was muttering nervously. Arthur stared blankly after him—and then suddenly realized his hand was empty.
The key he'd been clutching mere moments ago had somehow migrated into Arendt's palm.
"It's probably being used as a temporary meeting house or a storage depot. No one should be inside right now."
Tossing the key into the air and catching it again, Arendt replied—then, without a shred of caution, walked straight up to the door, slid the key in, and turned it.
Click.
The lock gave way without the slightest resistance. Just as Arendt had said, no stir of life came from within.
Arthur, who had drawn near at some point, pushed him aside and gripped the handle. The door swung open smoothly, revealing an interior steeped in heavy darkness.
Arthur found a lamp near the entrance and lit it.
In the center of the fairly spacious house stood a round table and chairs. A rug covered the floor, and judging by the near-absence of dust, the place had been in use until very recently.
"Whoa……"
A sound half sigh, half gasp escaped Arthur's lips.
Arendt followed his gaze. All manner of weapons hung along the walls, glinting menacingly in the lamplight. Swords, spears, shields—and a host of hidden blades besides—were all displayed in a state of ready use, as if they could be snatched up at any moment.
Looks like a prop room.
The random thought popped into Arendt's head. The fact that these were no stage props but genuine instruments of murder left him with a peculiar feeling.
He drew closer to the wall and examined the weapons carefully. "You could sell these off, honestly. I'd guess they're kept ready so anyone can grab one and rush to the front lines at a moment's notice."
"You're already rolling in money and you're joking about that?"
For an instant, Arendt couldn't come up with a comeback. It was a remark he'd never once heard in his life. But he quickly shrugged it off.
"More money is always better, isn't it? Anyway, nothing here seems all that remarkable……"
Mid-step, Arendt's gaze suddenly dropped downward. A moment later, his brow narrowed slightly.
"Senior."
"Hm?"
"What is this drawing?"
Arendt's eyes had landed on the table at the center of the room. Arthur angled the lamp toward it.
Only then did Arthur notice that some inexplicable image had been carved into its surface.
"This is……"
Arendt traced the outline with his hand. Tangled curves wove together like the stained glass of a cathedral, forming a single picture. Two serpents seemed to be climbing their way up three swords that had pierced through a single heart.
It might have been artistic, but it was hardly a pleasant image to look at. Arthur evidently felt the same, for he frowned faintly.
"Some kind of mark those men use?"
"A mark……"
Arendt murmured the word after him. What lay before his eyes looked less like a drawing than a single emblem.
He had never seen it in the novel, nor had it ever been described.
Come to think of it—did their identities ever actually come to light?
It was a question he hadn't bothered with until now. The men had incited a civil war, and even several nobles had thrown in their lot with them. But the novel had simply labeled them "the rebels," never once giving them a proper name or symbol.
It was Arthur who broke into Arendt's brief reverie.
"We'll have to report this to the Commander."
"Yeah."
Arendt gave the emblem one last, careful look before finally tearing his gaze away.
The two of them combed the entire house from top to bottom. But they found no trace of any hidden passage or secret chamber. In the end, it was just before dawn when they finally gave up the search.
"Should we leave this place as is? Word that Betchel is dead will reach them soon enough, but they won't know we ransacked this house."
"What? Why bother leaving it?"
"Someone's bound to come poking around eventually. When they do, we catch them and finish them off."
"……"
Arthur's eyes filled with bewilderment as he stared at Arendt. Arendt met his gaze head-on.
"What?"
"……Never mind."
It was undoubtedly a decent strategy. But seriously—is this really how a knight should behave?
The gems that kept popping out of that pale mouth never stopped confounding Arthur.
Arendt merely shrugged. "Hardly the kind of idea that comes out of seniors who can't think past falling honorably on their swords the moment things go south. Let's move before sunrise. If we're seen wandering around like this come morning, we'll be the ones getting arrested."
And with a lightness in his step, Arendt left first. Arthur could only heave sigh after sigh and follow after his insolent junior. Again.
"……"
Faced with Arthur and Arendt, Laios seemed, for a moment, utterly at a loss for words.
Arthur quietly averted his eyes from Laios's incredulous stare. After all, it was Laios who had summoned him the night before and sent him out alone, in secret. He'd been worrying himself sick over the delayed return—and only at daybreak had Arthur come walking through the castle gates side by side with Arendt.
Neither of them was a pretty sight. The robes they'd worn out were torn in places, both bore marks of blows from someone's fists, and dirt clung to their hair.
Laios forced himself to ask calmly. "……Did you fight?"
It was a question barely deserving of the name, but it conveyed the meaning well enough.
Arthur packed a great deal into his answer. "We ran into an unexpected battle. Yes, we fought—but not against each other, unlike what the bastard standing next to me apparently wanted."
"Calling the man who saved your life a bastard? That's rather harsh."
"……"
"Truly a model for knights everywhere. Kheu, refusing even death itself."
Mid-exclamation of admiration, Arendt pressed a hand solemnly to his chest, his face grave beyond all measure. "You shall not have your way! Even if it costs me my life!"
"Shut it. Please."
Arthur's clenched fist trembled.
Sensing the exchange might drag on, Laios cut in swiftly. "Report first. Judgments come after."
Shooting one more glance at Arendt, Arthur let out a groan and unraveled the events of the previous night. By the time the report was finished, Laios's face had hardened into stone.
As if a headache were creeping up on him, he pressed firmly at his temples, then let out a long, deep sigh.
"An unknown emblem, then…… I'll look into that myself. We'll send someone to deal with the bodies. And—Arendt."
The lowered voice called out to him. Arendt lifted his head and looked Laios straight in the eye.
At that shameless composure, Laios's tone grew a shade colder. "Disobedience of orders means summary execution. Unauthorized absence falls under that as well. I trust you haven't forgotten."
"Well, I——"
"Commander."
Arendt, about to declare that he'd done nothing wrong, was cut off mid-sentence by Arthur's sudden interjection.
"The fault is mine. It's true this one's the reason I made it back alive, so I'll take responsibility."
Arthur looked genuinely desperate as he said it.
Arendt blinked, looking back and forth between Laios and Arthur.
Laios said nothing for a long while. He simply gazed down at the two of them with eyes too cold to read. Then, after a moment, a slow sigh escaped his lips.
"Well done, the both of you."
Tap.
Without warning, Laios's hand rose and pressed down once, firmly, atop each of their heads. It was his way of saying the matter would be buried, unexamined.
Arthur, who had stood there dumbstruck, broke into a bright smile.
Leaving the two of them where they stood, Laios strode out of the office ahead of them to handle the aftermath.