Seventeen Years

Ramang and Laud surveyed their surroundings as they scouted the perimeter of the ruins. As though an invisible border had been drawn across the land, there was not a single trace of monsters here—no droppings, no discarded weapons, no footprints. What truly raised the hair on their necks was that even the natural creatures, the birds and the insects, were nowhere to be seen.

But Ramang was more preoccupied with Laud than with any of that. It was because of what the spirit had said.

"Laud, nothing troubling you these days?"

"This is trouble enough. My wife's waiting, and here I am stuck out on field duty..."

"Things alright with Mary? Never thought you'd be the one to walk off with the most popular girl among the maids."

"She's a good wife. I'm content."

"Still a shame, though. If the young master had arranged a match with a daughter from a decent noble house, it would have done wonders for your future."

"What highborn daughter would marry the fourth son of an unlanded noble family like mine? Haha."

Unlanded noble. A noble without a title, without a fief. A fallen aristocrat. A noble with nothing left but a surname.

Laud Eriksen answered with seeming humility, as if he knew his place—but the more modest he sounded, the heavier Ramang's heart grew.

"Weren't you disappointed? You're one of this young master's inner circle. If he'd gone out of his way, it would have been entirely possible."

"...Well. No matter how long you've served him, this young master isn't the type to fully place his trust in anyone, or to hand out gifts."

Ramang flinched. Depending on how you heard it, that could sound like a complaint.

"So then... no grievances?"

"Haha. Sir Ramang. I'm not a dog. A dog gets paired off with whatever mate its master chooses and is made to breed. Even as an unlanded noble, I'm still a noble. I'd like to choose my own partner, at least."

"Hmm. Fair enough."

He said all the right things. So why did every word still sound like a grievance, laid out at such length?

"A man like you could rise high as a knight of House Ahental without any in-laws behind you. I'll vouch for that."

"...You think so?"

"Of course. The current head of House Ahental is a wise man. Serve your lord steadily, faithfully, and he'll recognize it."

"Heh."

At that cold little sneer, Ramang turned his head. At some point, Laud's legs had stopped moving.

"What's so funny?"

"Sir Ramang. You've noticed I've been keeping my distance from you for some time now, haven't you?"

"I had..."

"Just now, I remembered why I came to dislike you and stay away."

"What do you mean?"

"That loyalty of yours, so stubborn it's almost foolish. Living as if steadfastness alone were a knight's entire duty. I really... hated that. Do you know why?"

"..."

"Because it looked like my future. Unlanded noble, Ramang Stradimus... Unlanded noble, Laud Eriksen..."

It amounted to a humiliation delivered to the man's face, enough to make anyone squirm—but Ramang did not get angry. He understood that kind of feeling.

"Laud, you're excellent knight material. You know how much this young master loathes the very idea of a 'relationship of trust.' And yet you still believe. Winning your lord's trust—there's no better quality in a prospective knight than that."

"Looking at it now, even that's not true. Haha. Didn't you see him making a pact with that other-race fellow yesterday?"

"...Didn't Messi prove he was worth it? He's a sharp one."

"Then the seventeen years I spent at this young master's side aren't worth that much?"

The counterpunch in Laud's words landed clean, and Ramang closed his mouth.

"I'll ask again. I spent seventeen years at this young master's side... do I have no accomplishments? Not even enough to be matched with a single noble daughter?"

"You've... been holding a lot of resentment."

Only then did Laud's face settle back into that previous, expressionless mask.

"Well? Wouldn't I?"

"So you betrayed us?"

"..."

Without a word, Laud widened the distance between them—a gap just beyond the reach of Ramang's Ahental Swordsmanship. It was a stance you only took when you expected a fight.

"So you weren't a complete fool after all. Sir Ramang. I thought you'd stay in the dark forever."

"How long? What have you done?"

"Who knows... maybe from the moment I introduced you to that Sky Castle employee?"

"He wasn't a real employee."

"Why would an actual Sky Castle employee come all the way to your office, listen to you, and fetch documents for you?"

"...You've got a point."

He admitted it at once. He had not thought that far—and that had been the fatal misstep that set this entire disaster in motion. The materials he had handed over had nearly driven Ereb into a death trap, and they had created the crisis they were standing in now.

"Who put you up to this?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"The First Young Master, then. But was the offer attractive enough to make you forget seventeen years with this young master?"

"You keep bringing up those seventeen years. I've got fifty years of life left, at least. If I spent seventeen years chasing empty water, shouldn't I be allowed to enjoy wealth and glory for the remaining fifty?"

"Wealth and glory..."

"The First Young Master achieved excellent results in this 8 Kingdoms Grand War. He's raised the family's prestige, so House Ahental will soon be granted a count's title."

The 8 Kingdoms Grand War was a massive mock military campaign in which the eight kingdoms pitted their forces against one another. A major event held every three years, and distinguishing yourself there was equivalent to making your name known across all eight kingdoms.

"I see. A count has the right to propose titles, so he promised he'd submit a petition to raise you to baron."

"Heh. Have you been playing the fool this whole time? You're not as clueless as you let on."

The mocking, sneering jab would have been enough to make anyone angry, but Ramang's expression did not change. He kept trying to talk Laud around.

"You can still turn this around. Right now, only Messi and I know about this situation."

"You're a genuinely good man. Discovering a traitor and still trying to cover for him. Are you even the same strict Sir Ramang I used to know?"

"I may be a stickler for the rules, but I won't stand by and watch a knight with a future as bright as yours go down the wrong path. You've got outstanding talent."

A savage roar of monsters rolled in from far away. Both men looked toward the distant forest, then back at each other.

"Looks like going back isn't an option anymore. That other-race fellow just now is probably dead. You heard the monsters crying out in joy at the smell of blood, didn't you?"

"No. Messi will be fine."

"Sir Ramang and this young master both seem thoroughly bewitched by that other-race. You can't even grasp reality..."

Laud drew a red scroll from his robes.

"A piece commissioned just for you, foolish Sir Ramang. Cost quite a bit."

"A Red Scroll...? You can't mean..."

"Ah, don't misunderstand. I have no interest in dark magic. I merely commissioned the Red Cross."

The Red Cross, also known as the Red Cross Magic College. A cabal that researched and developed dark magic in the shadows, training warlocks. They took commissions to produce scrolls and items, all of which were characteristically red in color.

"Do you have any idea what those people are? You contacted them? Are you in your right mind?"

"Would I be doing this if I were?"

Sneering at Ramang's rebuke, he tore the scroll outright. Darkness that began as a single point unfurled into lines and planes, occupying a space of its own. As the surroundings were swallowed by a colorless void, Ramang trembled at a phenomenon unlike anything he had ever known.

"Don't be alarmed. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠This is a Dark Field, specially modified for this forest. Inside this space... neither scent nor presence leaks out."

"You prepared this much... did you resent us that badly?"

"Resentment? Hardly. I simply waited joyfully for this moment to arrive. Would you like to see just how happy I am?"

Aura exploded from Laud's body with a thunderous boom. It was a realm he had kept hidden, one even Ramang had never known. Lavish... and he's reached the very peak of it, same as I have.

To stand at the same realm as himself—a forty-two-year-old—at only twenty-four... Even Ramang felt a moment of hollowness. Once again, he felt his own limits.

"It's been three years since I reached Lavish. When I told the family head, he told me to keep it secret. Said I shouldn't go popping out of the pocket for no reason. That he has political games to play, so I shouldn't covet seats meant for vassal nobles. In other words, know my place."

"That was wrong. I'll go back and recommend you myself."

"Too late. Cleaner to just kill both you and the young master, loot the ruins, and present them to the First Young Master."

He drew out another Red Scroll. Ramang, who had no knowledge of dark magic, tensed and assumed a stance.

The torn scroll crumbled to dust and vanished, and a crimson aura rippled around Laud's body. His power grew even more ferocious. If they had been equals a moment ago, now...

"Brillant...?"

"Dark magic has all sorts of fascinating tricks. This one temporarily boosts your realm by one full stage."

Brillant, a stage within the domain of Sword Expert. It was the realm in which the mana one had accumulated caused the physical body and the mana hole to become one. You were the mana hole, and the mana hole was you; mana stacked through the entire body. This was also why dominion over the self reached its absolute peak.

A distinctive feature: it was also the stage at which a thin, thread-like light began to cling to the blade. That sign showed on Laud's sword as well. It was not perfect, but around the blade, light sparkled grain by grain, like the starlight of the Milky Way across a night sky.

Laud kicked off the ground and closed in. Neither of them had drawn. Ahental Swordsmanship was a style that dominated speed and distance, and they reached the interval where their blades would meet. Like ghosts, the swords came free and clashed, scattering sparks.

The one being driven back was, of course, Ramang. He managed to receive a few exchanges, but the force loaded into the blade was qualitatively different from his own. It was unspeakably heavy. The shock traveled all the way to his toes. The muscles in his thighs and waist went taut. He strained to push back, and it was useless.

In a flash—as if by prior agreement—both swords returned to their scabbards. A characteristic of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Ahental sword forms: every technique begins from the sheath. And then, as if they had been waiting for it, the branches of rapid-sword burst forth again. Blade met blade at the speed of light. Ramang understood, then, that once your realm rose, even the rapid-sword—that style whose very emblem was lightness—could become this heavy.

The crashes that followed were not the sound of swords colliding. They were the sound of a human in iron armor blocking lumps of mana with his own body. To absorb the impact from Laud's blade, Ramang braced his sword against his own shoulder—a technique for dispersing the force through the entire body and into the ground he stood on. If the iron pauldron failed, his body could be sheared apart, and yet he endured, bleeding off his opponent's power little by little. It was Ramang's own secret method.

The limit arrived soon enough. His hands began to tremble, and he kicked backward to open the distance. Laud immediately sent a flash of light after him in pursuit.

"Kh, damn it!"

Ahental Swordsmanship bursting from the scabbard shattered two ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠threads of light, but in that interval Laud had taken Ramang's rear and simply kicked him. With the crash of iron armor against iron armor, Ramang went flying and slammed into the ground. Laud sprang after him at once, giving him no time to rest, aiming to finish it.

Ramang was not the type to simply take it. He scooped a handful of dirt from the ground, flung it, and rolled backward to evade.

"Hahaha! The great Sir Ramang, resorting to such a cowardly attack!"

"...There's no such thing as cowardice in a fight."

"Quite right. Then I suppose it's fine if I attack with my comrades now as well?"

Laud's gaze was directed at the forest across from them. Someone was coming at high speed. The sound of trees and undergrowth being torn through carried clearly—movement that considered nothing but speed. That kind of velocity was only possible for a Sword User. Which meant it was not Messi. Ramang's face darkened.

So he really is dead. If we'd just fought ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it out back there, I could have sacrificed myself and sent Messi to the young master...

Two knights of Ahental were a force that could slaughter at least twenty Bronze Plate Mercenaries. What in the world had he been thinking, leaving them to Messi? Regret settled over him. No matter how clever and capable Messi was, the man had not accumulated a single grain of mana. Even granting that he was exceptional, Ramang should have trusted him a little less.

He blamed himself more than he blamed Messi. It was his own stupidity that had let Laud deceive him—that had put the young master's affairs in jeopardy, and that had gotten a young man of real promise killed too soon.

"Sir Ramang. Your complexion is unusually poor. Starting to grasp reality now?"

It seemed a situation he had no choice but to accept. Ramang steeled his heart. Even if he had to do it alone, he would survive somehow and report what had happened to the young master. If the young master did not know the traitor was Laud, he would surely suffer a terrible fate. This was the son his lord had personally placed in his care. He would not stand by and let that son die a dishonorable death in a traitor's scheme.

A life-or-death standoff. No long words were needed. Ramang's wrist began to twitch. Just as the provoked Laud was about to leap forward and take the first strike—

A sharp whistle cut the air.

"What?!"

He hastily twisted his head aside. What grazed his cheek was unmistakably a stone.

"...You're attacking me?"

He muttered it in disbelief, and Ramang's head turned toward the forest. There stood Messi, whirling a sling.

"That... other-race bastard, how in the world...?"

In contrast to Laud's bewildered words, Ramang's expression brightened.