The Fallen Star of Krombell

Albaryen von Crombell.

The current lord of House Crombell was a man of such massive build that, from a distance, he might have been mistaken for a bear. Spite was carved into every line of his face, and his cheeks were pitted with pockmarks; it was not a countenance that invited anyone's affection. His temper, as it happened, matched his looks. Almost none of his retainers liked him.

And yet every soul in Krombell bowed their head to him.

The family's ancient customs made it possible. The lord's authority — forged through the absolute centralization of power — compelled their obedience.

Born on the battlefield, the house had inherited a military chain of command: a single decision-maker held both immense responsibility and immense power.

That man was the lord of Crombell.

There was, however, exactly one person over whom the lord held no such sway.

His younger brother, Alan Aster.

He was the family's only Sword Master — the brother who had once been Crombell's light. These days he was more often called a fallen star, a dissipated Sword Master, and little else.

"It's been nearly three weeks, and only now does he enter the territory? Is that bastard even in his right mind?"

"P-please, compose ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠yourself, my lord."

"Compose myself? Do I look like a man who can compose himself, Hiwork? We can barely afford to strike as it is — and now we're supposed to give Ahental time?!"

The younger brother he had dispatched as envoy had, instead of returning, gone off on some pleasure tour beyond the borders. Giving the enemy time to prepare was enough to make any count's blood boil.

If it were up to me, I'd march the army this instant...!

But the eyes of the world were already fixed on the rupture between the two great houses. If Crombell ignored customary procedure and moved troops under those circumstances, the condemnation would be unimaginable.

So he had stretched his patience a little. In his own fashion, of course — which meant sending Alan Aster with threats and raw intimidation. How was he to know that would become a problem of its own?

Protocol in the world of nobles was needlessly, infuriatingly strict. Until an envoy returned and delivered a formal report, there was no pretext to move. Nor could one quietly resort to tricks. A family's representative envoy was ordinarily dressed in splendor and traveled only by the main roads, where too many eyes were watching.

"What the hell did he even do? Did the negotiations drag on? Did he at least bring back a cultivation method?"

"It wasn't that, my lord... h-he says he was off enjoying himself."

"That insane bastard!"

The moment Viscount Hiwork, the Count's strategist, hesitated over the words, the Count seized the desk in his office and hurled it over.

Wood and ink and shattered porcelain exploded across the floor.

"Why is it that I am surrounded by nothing but incompetents? That so-called heir of mine couldn't even purchase a single item at an auction house without turning it into this catastrophe, and that so-called brother of mine can't even go somewhere and come back quietly!"

Only after he had flung every piece of furniture in the room and smashed it all to pieces did the Count finally manage to calm himself.

"...If we failed to extract a mana cultivation method in the negotiations, then as you said, they recognized its worth."

"They would have grown suspicious from the moment Young Master Rowin was caught trying to steal it, my lord."

"Yes. So it goes the natural way after all. In the end, everything is decided by war. If the world's affairs could be settled by sitting at a table and talking, Crombell as it stands today would never have existed."

A savage light kindled in the Count's eyes. The conversation swung back to Alan Aster.

"Is Alan like this because of the poison we've been using?"

"That would appear to be the case. We've been feeding it to him for over thirty years now... the toxin will have ridden the marrow all the way into the brain. If he weren't a Sword Master, he would have gone mad long ago. Once the symptoms reach their terminal stage, control over one's physiological urges is said to fail entirely — so the fact that he returned within three weeks is, if anything, remarkable."

"Damn it. Even the poison working too well is a problem. Those Adrian family bastards really do make one hell of a toxin, I'll give them that."

The Count took a swallow of wine and let the sweat cool on his skin. Once he had ordered his thoughts a little, he asked Hiwork without preamble,

"Shall we take this chance to be rid of him?"

"An old vulture is still worth more than a young crow, my lord. Even so, Sir Alan Aster is... a Sword Master."

"Sword Master, Sword Master, always that damned Sword Master! What the hell is so special about it...!!"

"..."

It was an absurd thing to say. A Sword Master was not a being to which one attached a phrase like what the hell is so special.

And yet Hiwork offered no correction.

The Count who spoke those words was a man who understood the greatness of a Sword Master better than anyone alive.

In his youth he had walked the path of the sword. He had hungered for the realm of Sword Master more desperately than any other, and had thrashed against the fact that he could not reach it. Hiwork knew that even now the Count had not forgotten that dream — that this was why he collected mana cultivation methods and studied swordsmanship still.

He still can't let go of what he feels toward his brother...

Hiwork knew his lord well. This was inferiority, naked and unhidden, aimed at Alan Aster.

Decades had passed since the man had become head of the house, and still he had not put that feeling in order. It was a pity.

I thought that if we brought Sir Alan Aster down — if we made my lord simply the lord, and nothing else — something might change. It did not.

Hiwork let out a quiet breath.

This once, he even agreed with his lord.

Sword Master. What the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hell is it, that you've wandered after it for decades?

"..."

Hiwork admitted that he, too, had been wrong.

A Sword Master was not a what the hell of anything.

"Ahental has produced a Sword Master."

The words belonged to Viscount Poild, who had handled the practical affairs of the envoy mission — and at that single sentence, the lord's office turned as cold as a sheet of ice. A host of retainer nobles forgot how to speak.

"...How did those people manage that?"

"Wasn't that impossible with the Ahental Mana Cultivation Method?"

"Not entirely impossible. If you go back a few generations, one did appear now and then."

A retainer offered the knowledge as if it were a credit to himself, then met the Count's freezing stare and ducked his head.

Poild kept his own head bowed, as though he had committed some crime. Alan Aster stared blankly at the Count. The Count asked his brother,

"You're certain?"

"If I couldn't recognize that much, I wouldn't be a Sword Master, now would I, my lord."

"And the mission?"

"What was the reason you sent me, my lord? Wasn't it to threaten Ahental? And to seize their mana cultivation method while I was at it."

"...Sir Alan Aster. You stand before the lord. I would ask that you mind your words."

Even Hiwork's restraint did not earn so much as a snort. Alan Aster kept the mocking edge in his voice.

"But they had a Sword Master there, and a Great Magician besides. What threat could I possibly have posed? I was the one who nearly got himself killed for nothing."

He spoke as if laying a charge — as if to say, You sent me in without knowing a thing, and I was the one who almost died for it.

The order, of course, had been the Count's. The failure was his to own.

...That bastard dares...

In this household, the only person who could speak to him that way was that brother. The one blemish in his kingdom.

And today's tone grated on him more than usual. Alan had always been called a dissipated Sword Master, always done as he pleased — but ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in the lord's presence, at least, he had respected that authority. The brother standing here today had no respect left in him. It was as if the last thin line that had restrained him had simply vanished.

As the atmosphere grew dangerous, Hiwork moved quickly to mediate.

"What does it matter if Ahental has a Sword Master or a Great Magician? We have Sir Alan Aster, do we not?"

"Hahaha, quite so."

"Viscount Hiwork has the right of it!"

The retainers piled their voices onto Hiwork's, straining to break the frozen air — but Alan Aster's next words carried them across a river from which there was no return.

"I have no desire to take part in this war."

"..."

"S-Sir Alan Aster... you're joking, surely?"

"I am not. I've done my duty as envoy and I'm tired. I intend to drink, and to take a woman to bed."

"Kh—khk!"

A retainer who had been sipping tea choked violently. War stood at the door, and the man was refusing to take the field so he could drink and hold a woman?

Contempt burned in every gaze they turned on Alan Aster. That madman. That worthless rake...

The Count flicked a glance at Hiwork. Hiwork was shaking his head. The meaning was not difficult to read.

The poison has reached his brain completely.

At last Count Crombell rose from his seat and roared.

"How dare you...! Not only did you bring back nothing from this envoy's mission, you sank into your filthy pleasures and turned your back on the family's affairs! And is this the first time? The reason this house has said nothing, watching the garbage you call a life, is that you still had a shred of use! And you refuse that? And you still expect to live?!"

The frost in that shout silenced the room. Someone's dry swallow was audible in the hush.

Pff. Heh. Heh-heh...

Someone laughed. Every stiff face in the room turned toward him.

"Pffhh... Kahahahaha!!"

The one bursting into mad laughter was Alan Aster.

"If I don't wish to live, you'll kill me? Who — you, Brother? Or the retainers hanging around you? Hahahahaha!!!"

Mana rode Alan Aster's great laughter. The nobles could not endure it; they clutched at their ears and their heads. Only Count Crombell stared straight at his brother, who had gone mad.

The laughter cut off.

He drew a single breath, then drove it out as if to shove the very air aside. From his mouth came a roar like a storm.

"Urgh—!"

Alan Aster's voice alone, laden with mana, was enough. Men retched. Others coughed blood. They came one after another.

Only then did they look at Alan Aster with eyes full of terror.

The man before them was no pathetic rake.

He was a man who understood everything there was to know about the sword. A man who could kill with nothing but the refined pressure of his presence.

A Sword Master.

A chosen human, possessed of martial power no ordinary soul could approach.

Then, in a manner wholly unlike the man who had just shaken the room with a shout, Alan Aster looked at the Count with sad eyes.

"Brother."

"Call me Lord!"

"Brother. Try asking your younger brother for help."

"...What did you say?"

Has this bastard's head gone completely with the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠poison?

"As an older brother to a younger brother... as family, try pleading for help. Family can ask each other for anything. Ahental has a Sword Master, does it not? Do you truly believe you can win without me, Brother?"

At Alan Aster's words, the lord of Crombell's eyes flooded with blood.

Hiwork wiped the blood from his mouth and moved at once to restrain the Count, but the Count shoved him aside and came to stand directly before Alan Aster.

"Family? How amusing... So you want me, the lord of this house, to clutch at your coattails and beg. A lord is a seat that gives commands. It is not a seat that makes requests."

"Before you were lord, you were my older brother. That is why I always listened to you, and you alone. Make the request. I'll pretend I couldn't refuse."

"Alan. Crombell has always been Crombell because it has won every war. It is not a name that loses its meaning because one man is missing from it."

"I know. I am Crombell as well."

The Count shook his head.

"No. You are not. Not anymore. Why? Because I, lord of Crombell, have decided I no longer recognize you."

"M-my lord... please, reconsider, just this once! If Ahental has a Sword Master, Sir Alan Aster is still a force we need!"

Hiwork, his face gone white, tried to stop the Count — but the spiteful eyes of Count Crombell were already set.

"Hiwork. This man is no longer Crombell. Lock him in a cell. The day the war ends, he dies with the Ahental scum."

"..."

Alan Aster looked at his own brother in silence.

"What, will you resist? You called us family with your own mouth. Fine. I'll make one last request, as family. Alan. Please — just sit quietly in that cell. Crombell no longer wants you."

At a request from his own brother that dripped with sincerity, Alan Aster nodded without a word.

"...I will obey that last command. Brother."

He left one final piece of counsel, then departed with the soldiers who would escort him to the cells.

"A last piece of advice, as a living younger brother. Ahental's Sword Master possesses refined mana, but I felt something unstable in it. It means the realm is not yet complete. I would ask that you exploit that."

The Count did not answer. Hiwork bowed his head as if in thanks.

That day, a great fire broke out in Krombell Territory.

The flames were of a scale to rival the blaze that had torn through Ahental. The property damage was immense, and the territory's people who burned to death numbered in the hundreds.

That a fire so similar to the Great Ahental Fire should erupt now, of all times — with war against Ahental already in the air — struck those who heard of it as a little too neat.

The rumors spread at once.

The people of Krombell Territory and their allies heard the rumors and ground their teeth. Public opinion boiled over, demanding war at once.

As if he had been waiting for precisely this pretext, Count Crombell declared war within a matter of days.

The speed and decisiveness of it might have invited suspicion — but the fury of the crowd had already swallowed reason whole.

The Count put a glittering envoy party at the front and, behind it, led a vast host out of Krombell Territory. Countless people of the territory praised Crombell and prayed for victory.

At that same hour, Alan Aster sat in the underground dungeon of Crombell's inner citadel.

He was a wreck for want of washing, but for days he had done nothing but stare down at a bundle of old papers.

Beyond the iron bars, in the corridor of the prison, Rowin approached and looked at his uncle.

Still looking at that, is he.

"I'm sorry, Uncle. I couldn't obtain the recent registers. Sky Castle said they did everything they could. Even what you're holding now was barely—"

"It's fine. It doesn't have to be recent. If they visited regularly from thirty years ago until ten years ago... there will still be contact now."

There was not a grain of feeling in Alan Aster's voice. For a moment, a chill ran through Rowin.

What he had obtained was nothing remarkable. It was only an old guestbook of the Adrian family. All he had done was find, and mark, the name of Viscount Hiwork — his father's strategist and right hand.

He did not know why the man had gone there every year. He knew only that it had made his uncle furious.

Anyway, things really are unfolding just as that outlander said, so I suppose that's what matters...?

His uncle had done exactly that. He had probed obsessively about poison, then asked Rowin to contact Sky Castle, saying he had a separate task for him. Pretending to carouse with his uncle, Rowin had secretly made contact with Sky Castle and received the materials.

That was when it had started, perhaps. His uncle's condition had worsened considerably. Thanks to that, the outlander's next scheme had fallen into place of its own accord...

The next words that devilish outlander had spoken rose in his memory as well.

"Rowin."

"Yes?"

"Gather people. There is something I must confirm for myself."

"...!"

Messi's voice rose sweetly in his memory.