If You Want to Live

Did he want to live? Of course he did.

There was still so much he hadn't done. Pleasures yet to taste. Heights of power he still burned to reach.

Rowin looked at the outlander called Messi.

"You… you've got a way out, don't you?"

"If I didn't, why would I have come here? We aren't close enough that I'd bother with a mere warning."

"Fair enough. Then what do you want? If we aren't even close enough for a warning, we're certainly not close enough for you to hand me a way out."

He wasn't entirely dense, at least. Messi smiled at that.

"Become our insider, Young Master Rowin."

"You want me to betray my own house?"

"Hasn't your house already discarded you? I hear that in Crombell, the moment you fall from the line of succession, you're cast out of the family entirely. And from here on, Young Master Rowin, even your life will be in danger from your own blood."

"Damn it…"

The worst of it was that Messi wasn't wrong about a single thing. That fact alone filled Rowin with bitter, helpless resentment.

"And if I become your insider—what do I get out of it?"

"Your life. And I will promise you the lordship of House Crombell."

"You little shit—you think the seat of Crombell's lord is some tribal throne from that backwater of yours? Who the hell are you to offer it or take it away?!"

A Crombell man to the bone, apparently. Ereb watched the display and scowled.

"Messi, let's just go. This bastard still hasn't figured out what's going on. An insider? We don't need him."

"Very well. Then, Young Master Rowin—I do hope you make it home in one piece."

The moment Messi and Ereb turned to leave, something in Rowin screamed that this was a mistake. He lunged forward and seized Messi's arm.

"W-wait! I misspoke. I'm sorry. I've just had a lot of anger built up, and—"

"If you're angry, that's yours to deal with. Don't take it out on me. You're on your own now."

"Outlander—no, Messi! I'm sorry! Ereb, I'm sorry! If there's a way to survive, tell me!"

He knew how pathetic he looked. He simply wanted to live more than he cared about dignity. And besides—what did it matter if they mocked the lordship of Crombell? If he followed this outlander's plan and actually became lord, wouldn't that be even better?

Messi grinned and glanced at Ereb.

"Young Master, finding another insider would be a hassle. Shall we give Young Master Rowin a chance?"

"Why bother? He's not the only candidate…"

"I was wrong, Ereb. Give me a chance!"

Ereb waved a hand as if to say do whatever you want and turned away. With his back to them, he was smiling.

"Then let's get the paperwork done."

Rowin signed his name and pressed his seal to the document Messi produced.

He would have liked to hear the actual plan before stamping his seal, but Messi and Ereb were already turning to leave again, as if they had nothing whatsoever to lose. Swallowing his pride, he had no choice but to stamp it.

"A wise decision. Now then—shall we discuss the plan?"

Watching Messi hold up the document with that infuriating smile, Rowin made a silent vow. If this so-called plan wasn't the real thing, he would kill the man himself.

Alan Aster had taken a room at a luxury inn, packed it with courtesans, and settled in to carouse—ostensibly to indulge himself in the city, but more precisely to buy House Ahental time. Getting exactly what he wanted while doing exactly what he liked: the best of both worlds. Or so he thought, up until that point.

Then something strange began to happen.

Why isn't any of this enjoyable?

Alan Aster was having an experience he could not explain. The wine was bitter on his tongue, with no sweetness at all. It tasted like poison. He felt lust looking at the courtesans, yes—but he had no urge to throw himself at them the way he used to. Even spending himself in a courtesan's depths felt like a waste.

Have I gotten old?

He was middle-aged, which in this world was old enough. But he was a Sword Master, a man who had tempered his body to the limit. It was common knowledge that such men aged far more slowly than others.

So why was this happening?

Something changed after I took that outlander healer's Heal…

Come to think of it, the headaches he'd lived with for years had vanished from that day on, and his mind had been unnaturally clear ever since. That sensation of foreign matter lodged in his skull, always catching, always wrong—it was simply gone. His appetite had returned as well. Food used to be a dry, mealy chore; he couldn't taste the ingredients at all. These past few days, he'd actually been eating well because the cooking was delicious.

Before, nothing tasted good except wine… and that constant gnawing hunger has eased, too.

It was all deeply, inexplicably strange.

He sent ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the courtesans off to amuse themselves and sat on the edge of the neighboring bed, turning it over in his mind. No answer came.

That was when a knight opened the door.

"Lord Alan Aster. Young Master Rowin requests an audience."

"My nephew? Send him in."

A moment later, Rowin entered. Alan Aster had been about to pour him a drink when the boy dropped to his knees without warning. Startled, Alan Aster drove every courtesan from the room.

What is this? Has the brat gone mad?

"Uncle. Are you going to kill me?"

"You?"

Under ordinary circumstances, he would have folded the boy in half at the waist the moment he laid eyes on him. Rowin was, after all, the reason he'd been dragged into this entire mess. But the delegation had not been an unpleasant experience, and the boy was something of a face-saving gift from the Viscount of Ahental. Alan Aster had fully intended to bring him home in one piece.

"What would I gain by killing you?"

"Then why did you put poison in my food?"

"I did?"

From Alan Aster's perspective, it was absurd. If he meant to kill someone, he would simply take their head with a sword. Why bother with something as petty as poison?

But the look on Rowin's face was deadly serious. Something had clearly happened.

"If I hadn't thrown out that dish just now, I would already be dead. The dogs that scavenged it all vomited blood."

"What? Who the hell did that to your food?"

"Uncle. May your nephew say something?"

"Speak."

"The house has no pretext for war right now. That is why they are likely to kill me—to manufacture one. Uncle, I will ask you again. Do you truly have no intention of killing me?"

…!

Rowin fired the words off in a rapid burst, like an actor reciting lines he had prepared in advance. Alan Aster, who had not thought nearly that far, found himself with nothing to say.

Put like that… it actually makes sense.

He propped his chin on his hand, thought for a moment, then called a knight and summoned Viscount Poild.

Poild entered, took one look at Rowin still kneeling on the floor, and blinked in confusion.

"What is the matter, Lord Alan Aster?"

"Come here, will you. My nephew's been saying the strangest things. I had a feeling you might know something about it."

A prickle of unease ran through Poild as he took his seat. Rowin repeated everything he had just said, and the color drained from Poild's face.

"Poison…? I know nothing of this."

"Is that so?"

Alan Aster unleashed his aura in a crushing wave. A Sword Master was a being who could pour will into formless energy and hurl it outward—who could kill with pressure and killing intent alone. A terror like a vise closed around Poild's chest. He trembled violently, then dropped to his knees.

"N-no. Truly, no. I haven't attempted it yet…!"

"Yet?"

"Y-yes! I d-did receive such an o-order from the Count, but… I haven't, done, it yet!"

Poild was on the verge of blacking out. Alan Aster withdrew his aura.

But the words that had come out of him were peculiar. He had received the order, yet he had not attempted it…

Then who, exactly, had done the deed?

Even Rowin, listening, was stunned.

The moment Poild recovered his wits, he scrambled to salvage the situation.

"Lord Alan Aster. His Lordship wished Young Master Rowin dead in order to furnish Crombell with a pretext for war. As matters have already come this far—please, carry out the Count's order here and now!"

"The written order?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You want me to kill my own nephew with my own hands, on your word alone, without so much as a written order from the Count? Are you in your right mind?"

"That is…"

How does one write an order for an assassination… and of one's own blood, no less…

"If something like this happens again, I'll kill you first. For as long as I am in charge of this delegation, Rowin is not to be touched. Get out."

Whatever reply Poild had been forming died in his mouth. Under Alan Aster's ice-cold dismissal, he withdrew at once.

Alan Aster's thoughts were a snarl. The sudden change in his own body after the healer's Heal was a mystery. So was the fact that some third party had tried to kill Rowin. And why had his elder brother not given the order to him directly?

None of it made any sense, no matter how he turned it over.

Watching his uncle wrestle with all of this, Rowin thought:

I'm alive. The plan actually worked!

The outlander's voice seemed to whisper right beside his ear.

"Uncle? He's the head of this entire delegation. If anyone were involved in my death, it would be him. How could he not know?"

"Young Master Rowin. He was the man who held full authority over these negotiations. And yet, while he went to great lengths to secure the Einhartz Mana Cultivation Method, he did not say a single word about you beyond an apology. If he had been given a mission to have you assassinated, he would have taken far more care over the matter of receiving you back."

"He—he didn't say a word about me?"

"Not throughout the entire negotiation. The only one who showed any concern for your ransom was Viscount Poild, who came along as the officer in charge of practical affairs."

"Which means…"

"It means the person with an interest in your life is not Lord Alan Aster. It is Viscount Poild."

"Poild, that bastard—!"

"And there is ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a further reason you must cling to Lord Alan Aster, Young Master."

Rowin's attention snapped back to Messi at once.

"Lord Alan Aster is the person most capable of empathizing with your predicament. Because he was once in a position no different from yours."

Rowin understood immediately. Crombell was built to thoroughly crush every blood relative outside the heir—to concentrate all power in a single pair of hands. Alan Aster, as one of those non-heir kin, would have suffered that system himself.

"Th-that's right. I heard Uncle was given the cold shoulder until he reached a high enough realm."

"What you must do is clear. Stay glued to Lord Alan Aster's side, and make him dissatisfied with the house's present state and with the Count. Only then will he be capable of making judgments that fall outside the Count's orders. If you fail… you are already a dead man."

"You want me to badmouth my father?"

"Slander is a crude method. Simply make him empathize."

"Empathize…?"

"That's enough. Leave me. My head hurts."

"Uncle… please, let me stay at your side. If I walk out of here like this, I will die!"

"I told them not to touch you. You'll be fine."

"Your orders… cannot possibly carry the same weight as those of the Count of Crombell, can they?"

"…"

Alan Aster closed his mouth. He let out a long breath, then called to the knight outside and told him to bring food—specifying, in so many words, that it was for himself.

When the warm dishes arrived, Alan Aster gestured at Rowin. The boy, who had been starving, fell on the food with a pitiful desperation.

"Eat slowly. Nobody's going to snatch it from you."

"Hhk—thank you, Uncle!"

"You poor boy."

Looking at his nephew's wretched state, Alan Aster could not help but remember a younger version of himself. He had been born with enough talent to eventually escape that fate. His nephew's future would not be so kind.

"N-now that I know it isn't poisoned, the food is so delicious!"

"Shall I order more?"

"Yes!"

The boy proceeded to cram the newly ordered dishes into his mouth as well.

"I still wonder who put poison in your food. Viscount Poild really didn't seem to be the one."

"Perhaps Father gave the mission to someone besides Poild? Two people would be more certain than one, wouldn't they?"

Even while eating like a starving animal, Rowin answered his uncle's doubts without a second's hesitation. The plausibility of it surprised Alan Aster enough that he tried another question.

"Then if two people would be more certain—why wasn't I told?"

"Well… because you're 'other than the heir' too, Uncle. Same as I am now."

"!"

Alan Aster felt one of the questions that had been needling him finally settle into place. His own heart had been sending up signal fires all this time, trying to tell him exactly that.

"I see. If they showed me the sight of erasing those who exist outside the succession… I might feel a sense of crisis myself?"

"Y-yes. Honestly—does our house even treat anyone outside the heir as a human being?"

"Hmph. I am a Sword Master. Even if the house made such a decision, how would they dare kill me?"

It was confidence with reason behind it. But his nephew ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stared hard at the food in front of him and muttered,

"Even a Sword Master… if there were poison in the food, how could you respond perfectly?"

"Poison? That's…"

He had no good answer. A tempered body had more stamina and more resistance than an ordinary man's, yes—but the world was full of poisons strong enough to kill anyone. Which meant he, too, could be disposed of at any time.

Just like Rowin…

"Hm?"

Like Rowin? Poison?

A single hypothesis struck him like a blow to the skull—so shocking that goosebumps prickled over his entire body, and for a moment he could not speak. It was enough that Rowin noticed something was wrong and looked up.

"Uncle? What's the matter?"

"It's nothing. Nothing at all."

It can't be…

Alan Aster deflected the question, and began, very carefully, to retrace every symptom he had been showing.

They were on their way out after the meeting with Rowin when Ereb turned to Messi, curiosity plain on his face.

"So, Messi. Why did you make such a point of telling him to emphasize 'poison' to Lord Alan Aster?"

"The day I came back from the negotiation, didn't I ask you for a thorough account of House Crombell? Especially anything to do with Lord Alan Aster."

"And this is related to that?"

"When I used Heal on Alan Aster that day, something was strange. His body was riddled with impurities."

"That sounds like you're saying the great Alan Aster was a poison addict."

Messi did not continue. Ereb, looking as though he'd been struck, grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Don't tell me you healed him."

"Yes. I did."

"Ghk!"

They were already looking at the prospect of fighting a Sword Master—and Messi had restored the man to peak condition?

But Ereb caught himself a moment later. Messi's schemes had a way of looking suspicious, and yet they had never once ended badly. If Messi was doing something peculiar, it meant he had a reason.

"You've got a plan, don't you."

"Don't worry, Young Master. Have I ever disappointed you?"

"Heh. Fair enough. When it comes to wagging that tongue and working that brain of yours, you're first-rate."

"Being a Sword Master does not mean you are strong against poison—or against the mind. If you cannot win in a fight, you have no choice but to take them from the inside…"

Messi answered with his master's case rising unbidden in his memory. How to deal with a Sword Master was a lesson he had already learned, long ago, from an enemy.

In Ereb's eyes, Messi looked especially sad in that moment.