An Old Ghost Crawls From Its Tomb
Cantares kept his promise only a few days later.
He brought up the matter of Arendt at the council where the nobles had gathered.
Arendt learned the news through Richt. He had been swinging his sword at the training grounds, losing all track of time, and was just popping into his mouth a snack he'd smuggled out of the kitchen when Richt arrived.
"……"
"You wear a remarkably unimpressed expression, I must say."
"What am I supposed to do about it? Ah, of course. His Highness the Crown Prince understands my true worth, but my so-called seniors still look at me like I'm some kind of insect."
At that, the faces of Richt and Arthur—who was sitting a little ways off, resting—curdled in perfect unison.
Arendt ignored their reactions entirely and popped another piece of bread into his mouth.
Arthur finally lost his composure, his face twisting as he snapped at him.
"You've got some nerve eating like that. His name came up at an imperial council meeting—yours—and you're chewing right now?"
"It's tasty. If you're not going to eat it, hand it over."
"Ugh, you—"
Arthur hurled the piece of bread he'd been holding.
Arendt snatched it out of the air with practiced ease.
"So what actually happened? Did you come all the way here to tell me the results of the meeting, or not?"
"…Haa. His Highness has granted you permission to leave freely, limited to daylight hours. That's the order that came down to the Commander."
It seemed Richt had made a special trip to the training grounds where Arthur and Arendt trained just to deliver this news.
Arendt chewed thoughtfully on the bread in his mouth as his mind turned over.
So he really is the type to keep his word.
It matched the impression he'd gotten from the novel. Decisive yet flexible, unscrupulous about the means so long as they served the end, and once he'd settled on a course, he pursued it with astonishing drive.
They had discussed how Arendt hardly fit the mold of a hero, but the truth was that if Cantares had set his mind to it, he could have stepped into the light and been hailed as the hero himself.
Instead, he had never once forgotten his true duty as Crown Prince. And so rather than stepping forward, he threw his full weight behind supporting Laios.
"What? Why are you rolling your eyes again?"
"They're my eyes. I'll roll them as I please. Why do you ask?"
Arendt rose to his feet, tossing back the reply to the uneasy words Arthur had muttered. When he gathered up his sword and picked up the outer coat he'd tossed aside, Richt frowned.
"Are we done with training for today?"
"Yes. Oh, and I won't be here tomorrow morning, so don't come looking for me."
"What? Where are you going?"
Arthur shot up in alarm.
Arendt straightened his clothes as he answered.
"The East Vault. I have some business to discuss with its director."
With a swish of his coat, Arendt turned his back and waved a lazy hand at the two of them. Then he walked out of the training grounds without a shred of hesitation.
Arthur and Richt stared blankly at the spot where he'd vanished, then sighed at exactly the same moment.
"How is that brat so damn full of himself…?"
"I think the word you're looking for is shameless."
At Richt's remark, Arthur could only nod wearily in agreement.
Recognizing the merits Arendt von Eckhart had accumulated to date, certain of the restrictions placed upon him would be lifted.
Cantares's order spread through the imperial palace within a single day.
Thanks to it, Arendt was able to stroll out of the palace around mid-morning, taking his sweet time as if on a leisurely walk.
It was the first thing of the kind he'd been allowed since possessing this cursed body. Consequently, his mood was quite good.
Right up until he passed through the main gate, suspicious glances laced with distrust, discomfort, and a sprinkling of outright contempt had trailed after him without letup—but he couldn't have cared less.
That rather pleasant mood, however, soured the instant he spotted a familiar figure waiting by the gate.
A man in comfortable clothes and a simple cloak. His face was oddly familiar. He stood at his leisure, as though waiting for someone, watching the clouds drift by.
Arendt stopped dead in his tracks. The man, noticing his presence, lifted his head—then met Arendt's eyes and smiled easily.
"Heading out early, I see."
"……"
"You do a rather unsubtle job of pretending to hate me."
"Your eye for reading people is as sharp as ever, I see."
Letting out a long sigh, Arendt trudged over to the man—Cantares.
"Don't you have work to do?"
"As if. I'm so busy I barely have time to eat. Lately, thanks to you, my workload has only grown."
A spark of extra irritation flickered in Arendt's eyes at the reply.
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I knew you'd be walking out of the palace the very day you got permission. So I've been waiting here."
Matching Cantares's easy smile, Arendt turned his own expression one degree more disgusted. It was a simple task—merely recreating the faces of the seniors and soldiers he'd passed on the way here did the trick. Fortunately, the message seemed to land, as Cantares took an awkward step back.
"Don't look so repulsed. I carved time out of my schedule against all odds to come here. Even for the sake of what lies ahead, this is something that needed to happen at least once."
"……"
Only then did Arendt let his expression soften slightly. Cantares seized the opening without hesitation.
"In any case, I'd like you to let me accompany you. Naturally, your movements will remain secret."
"Suit yourself. It's not like refusing would stop you from following me anyway."
With a shrug, Arendt brushed right past him and started striding ahead. At the sheer absurdity of the insolence, Cantares let out a hollow laugh—then quickened his pace and caught up.
"By the way, is it really fine for you to just slip out of the palace like this?"
"Why not? If I want to take a stroll through my own front yard, who's going to stop me? Besides, the moment we're outside the palace walls, nobody recognizes me."
Cantares, it seemed, felt not the slightest discomfort walking openly through the streets without a single guard, side by side with a man who had until recently been branded a traitor.
The two of them drifted out onto the main thoroughfare. Arendt had swapped his uniform for a shirt and trousers he'd dug out of somewhere, so the pair blended into the crowd without difficulty.
For a while, Arendt forgot entirely who was walking beside him and simply looked around at the city.
Carriages and people moved back and forth over the cleanly swept road, and streetlamps stood in neat rows on either side. Shops flung wide open busied themselves welcoming customers, while what looked like inns and restaurants called out directly to travelers passing by. Security Department officers in uniform patrolled the streets with brisk steps, and elsewhere children could be seen chasing each other about in high spirits.
All of it was stuff he'd been too harried to notice until now. It struck him anew that this place was not some carefully dressed stage—it was a world where people actually lived.
"Peaceful, isn't it? This is why mornings are the best."
Cantares's voice drifted over unexpectedly.
"No matter what knives come out back at the palace, out here it's simply peaceful. I feel it every time I manage to get away. It puts the mind at ease."
"You're a man of great importance, yet you have remarkable tastes."
"If you don't snipe at me for one sentence, does your mouth break out in thorns?"
Cantares shot him a sidelong glance, but soon shook his head. He already knew there was nothing to gain from bickering further.
"Is there some urgent business you need to attend to?"
"Even if there were, with a leech clinging to me uninvited, how far could I possibly get?"
"Such pretty words. Then humor me for a while. I know a place that's rather pleasant for a quiet conversation."
That quiet conversation was surely the very reason Cantares had tagged along after Arendt. The corner of Arendt's mouth curled up slightly.
"You really do intend to honor every last promise, don't you? I didn't expect you to come out this aggressively."
"Brace yourself. I plan to work you every bit as hard in return."
With that, Cantares quickened his pace, apparently intending to lead the way to their destination himself. Arendt said nothing more and sauntered along behind him.
Cantares guided him out of the busy commercial district and into a sparsely populated back alley. With midday not far off, the two of them wandered the lane beneath a brilliant blue sky at a pace neither hurried nor slow.
After some time, Cantares finally came to a stop, and Arendt halted naturally beside him.
"This is my hideaway," Cantares said, with something like pride. "And you're the first guest I've ever invited here."
Arendt blinked.
Their destination was a restaurant tucked into an old building. A few modest tables in the courtyard soaked up the morning sun in full, and a faded signboard swayed lazily at the entrance. Whether it was because it was still too early for a meal, or because it was simply a place people rarely sought out, not a single customer was in sight.
Cantares led Arendt toward one of the outdoor tables and plopped down in his seat first, entirely at ease.
"Sit."
"No ambushes about to leap out at me, I trust?"
Even as he said it, Arendt obediently took the seat across from him as instructed.
"Why would I do something like that? I went through all that misery just to keep you happy. Besides, if I wanted you dead, it'd be far more convenient to handle it inside the palace."
"Fair point."
While the two exchanged their pointless banter, a figure poked his head out from inside the building. The old man's face registered brief surprise before settling into a warm smile.
"Well now, a guest we rarely get the pleasure of seeing. Welcome, Lord Kahn."
"Keeping well, Lawrence? It's been a while."
Cantares waved a hand casually.
"He's a skilled chef. He worked as my personal cook in the palace until he reached retiring age, so I set him up with this establishment of his own."
"I had intended to take my pension and live out my days in peace, but when Lord Kahn says he still needs these old hands of mine, what can one do?"
Lawrence smiled with a kindly face. He was an old man who carried more the air of a bartender than a cook—his white hair neatly groomed, his clothes tidy, and the pristine white apron at his waist only deepening that impression.
Lawrence's gaze turned to Arendt, who answered the look with a small bow of his head.
"This young one is new to me. Lord Kahn, have you made yourself a friend in my absence?"
"Best to think of him as a disagreeable comrade rather than a friend. Get us something to drink. I stepped out because there's a matter we need to discuss."
"At once."
With a brief bow, Lawrence disappeared back inside.
Arendt spoke first.
"Very well, Lord Kahn. So that's how I'm to address you outside the palace. Shall we get to the heart of things, then?"
"Agreed. It'll be a long story, so we'd best not waste too much time."
Cantares gave a light nod.
"Where's the best place to start? What do you want to know?"
"Their identity. How far have you gotten?"
"Straight for the throat, as always."
Cantares leaned back deep into his chair and let out a hollow laugh.
"As you know, there's been little real progress. But it has been confirmed that they are enemies of the imperial family. Investigations are now underway on every front—and some time ago, we found the emblem they use in the old documents stored within the palace."
It seemed he hadn't merely been sitting idle after all.
The conversation paused for a moment as Lawrence appeared and set a drink down before each of them. Once Lawrence had withdrawn again, and Cantares had wet his throat with orange juice, he continued.
"In any case, while ransacking the archives left and right, we stumbled upon a bundle of decrepit old parchment. It barely unfolded without cracking, so even deciphering it was quite an ordeal."
Arendt stared at the glass set before him for a moment, then took a slow sip, just as Cantares had done.
Cantares's voice dropped a little lower.
"That crumbling parchment bore the very emblem you uncovered recently. And beneath it was carved a short phrase. The Broken Heart's Sword."
"……"
Arendt said nothing, only quietly drank his juice.
Cantares's voice went on.
"That is most likely their name. The information has not been made public yet—the only ones who know are those involved in the work, and myself. You will keep it sealed as well, for the time being."
"Why?"
"Because this matter will not be resolved easily."
Cantares stated it as plain fact, and Arendt held his tongue.
A bundle of parchment shoved into a forgotten corner of the palace, its very existence unknown to anyone. Information that had come from nowhere else. The meaning behind it pointed to one thing and one thing only.
"The Broken Heart's Sword… It's not the first time I've heard that name. On the day I became Crown Prince, my father gave me a single, very old book. He told me I must commit its contents to memory, and that I was to pass it on to whoever would lead the imperial family after me. And in exchange, I was never to breathe a word of it to anyone."
Tap, tap.
Cantares drummed his fingertips against the table.
"That name appeared in it. Those who never bowed to the hero Kahn to the very end. The ones who threw the entire continent into turmoil even after he became Emperor. Betrayers of God Luce who followed the evil god. Lackeys of the demonkin."
There Cantares fell silent for a moment. His gaze—brimming with an unrest he hadn't managed to sort through—slipped subtly past Arendt.
After a brief pause, he let out a cold, bitter laugh.
"A ghost from ancient times has crawled out of its grave. In this age of peace, of all things."