Report on the Fall of Purity (1)
(…) Not only ordinary people but even scholars who pursue knowledge often confuse 'history' with 'historiography.' This error stems not from a momentary lapse but from deep-rooted prejudice. The prejudice that 'historiography is the dispassionate listing of past events.' They believe that 'embalming and embellishing history is the essence of historiography.' They preserve the beast's outward form while removing its rotting, foul-smelling entrails, eyeballs, and blood. Thus, a perfect, ideal, and even stylish 'stuffed history' emerges—one that neither smells nor leaks filth. From that perspective, the historian is merely a servant polishing the medals and trophies of the past to a shine. But I believe otherwise. Historiography must be seen as part of 'scholarship.' What is scholarship? It is knowledge meaningful to all of us living on this land today. 'Meaningful' does not merely mean the practical common sense essential for survival, like baking one more loaf of bread for today's meal. What historiography aims for runs deeper: perspective and definition. It is the study of identity—how we view ourselves and the world, and how we define them. Some creatures are so vast that one must ride far away on horseback to finally behold their full form. Other forests are so deep and dark that one must pierce through new moon nights, fog, and packs of wolves, ascending snow-capped mountains to glimpse their crisp entirety. Time is immense, and the present is too close. Only by drifting down the river of years in the ferry called 'age' can we speak of what we have passed through. However. Even so. This does not mean 'only what is seen from afar is right, and what is seen up close is wrong.' That would be excessive. Rather, some things—nay, all things—can only be spoken of after time has passed. The true record of those called the Seven Heroes is precisely such. We remembered them as heroes. We praised them. We pinned our hopes on them, and the Empire gladly shared laurels of glory. These seven heroes—from different regions, different statuses, even including non-Imperials—showed us the dream of unity and solidarity: that only when the Empire and the whole world unite could even the fiercest Demon King be driven out. But alas, we also forgot. Forgot that they were human. Forgot that martyrs stand beside saints, and bleeding lambs beside miracles. Blinded by glory, we knew not how much blood stained our hands or how many tears we trampled. And it took more drifting through time for us to learn. (…) - Excerpted from the preface of 'A Report on the Fall of the Heroes, Addressed to All Imperial Subjects (Draft)' by Anna Kommodus, Dean of the Imperial Capital Academy
A few days after Cain and Lily left the capital, they were still riding in the mail coach.
The mail coach was, as the name implied, a vehicle for transporting mail. Mail doesn't feel muscle aches. Which meant the coach prioritized the safety of parcels over human comfort from the design stage onward. Even if it was a modified version for the Security Bureau agent's covert mission.
Thus, it was an utterly exhausting journey. The kind of pain where just sitting or lying down felt like taking a barrage of jabs.
Lily and Cain were accustomed to such travel, or they would have been black-and-blue by now if they were ordinary folk.
The fortunate part was sticking to the Imperial Central Road. Comparable to the aorta or vena cava in a human body, it ran through open plains, patrolled by Imperial Army watchposts and mounted guards.
Passing through margrave or ducal lands might mean getting legally fleeced by bandit knights: "Hand over half your goods for safe escort."
At least the Central Road spared them such unpleasantness.
Cain and Lily passed through Imperial direct cities, heading south. When rest was needed, they left the coach at the post office and found an inn. The free dorms for coachmen had doors slamming every two hours—hardly conducive to deep sleep.
"Rooms? Two singles or one double?"
Each time the innkeeper asked, Lily would bow her head deeply, while Cain cut her off before she could finish.
"Two…"
"Two singles!" he declared firmly.
When the innkeeper eyed them blankly, Cain slapped his coin pouch on the table. End of discussion. Self-employed folk listen to the one paying.
Thanks to that, Cain could leisurely study Anna's instructions and covert contact methods in his single room. Her letter, as expected, used special ink visible only up close—solo time was essential.
The problem came next.
Three nights ago, Lily caught him burning documents by candlelight in the inn yard, per protocol.
"By any chance…"
"What."
"A love letter?"
"Yeah."
The next day, Lily said nothing. Just glared at him with sharp eyes.
And two nights ago, no singles were available. Lily looked ready to triumphantly call for a double, but Cain shut it down: "Dormitory it is," tossing coins.
Thus, they shared the night with a mad band intent on uniting the world with lutes. Northern pagans among them, somehow crossing Imperial borders.
But with more beer than snacks and endless singing, borders ceased to matter. Even protesting neighbors joined in feasting on meat and drink.
Fun, but they boarded the coach with puffy faces.
The driver and horses had changed—good thing. The previous one would have leered: "Wild night, eh?"
Cain checked the map. One more day to Otranto Sealed Abbey. Leave the coach in nearest Mariport, rent horses, half-day ride.
Exhausted, but sleep was impossible. Even on safe roads, vigilance was key. And right now, sullen Lily scared him more than unknown bandits.
So, Cain pulled out a well-read book on the Seven Heroes. He couldn't focus, though—Lily stared sulkily.
"No sightsee? Read a book or watch the scenery."
"Books done. Scenery boring."
"Not even side-eye now."
"I want to see something beautiful and handsome too. Is ambition a sin?"
"For that, try a mirror."
"I don't have a mir…"
Lily's face flushed crimson mid-reply. Cain chuckled.
"What's got you so curious?"
"Was it really a love letter?"
"That important?"
"Yes."
She looked dead serious. Cain cleared his throat.
"…Not a love letter. Mission orders. Memorized and burned 'em."
Lily's eyes narrowed.
"Hmph. Liar. Can't trust you."
"What now."
"Then why insist on separate rooms? Writing back to a secret lover? Or sneaking peeks at more love notes?"
Cain felt hammered. Post-Academy, Lily had twisted. Late puberty?
"No… obviously. Even as partners, no need to share a room. Man and woman?"
Lily whipped her head away, childish tantrum-style.
"Do I even look like a woman to you?"
Childish. Say no, and it'd be "Then room together tonight?" Say yes, who knows. She'd dug a trap too meticulously, peeking from behind a pillar.
Cain set the book down.
"Know the Seven Heroes tale?"
He predicted resistance, topic shift—but this abrupt pivot made Lily blink past it.
"Yes. Even non-Imperials know. Ten years ago, Demon King appeared in wasteland between warring Eastern Merchant Alliance and Empire. Seven Heroes slew him."
Simplified, but standard Imperial lore.
"And?"
"Hm. Varied backgrounds, ages, careers—even non-Imperial. United as one to defeat him. Trending among subjects lately."
"Two of 'em attacked. Alive, but barely. We're investigating who, why, how."
"Who?"
"First: Apostle of Temperance, Arius Abbot. Hidden by Pope—location unknown. So we're heading to second victim: Purity Knight William Archbishop. Drop coach in Mariport, horses to Otranto Sealed Abbey. Pope's involved too, since Empire hero hit. Not great news."
Lily agreed. White Blood Knights seemed aloof from secular power, but religion was another level. Deep grudge with Pope over Holy Grail-White Blood clash—still infamous.
"Who, why target old heroes? Reason? How overpower them? Not just one."
"Then…"
"Arius aside, William's group over fifty. Thirty armed, trained spearmen. Sketch… looked like roadkill."
Lily's face hardened.
"'Like a beast crushed under wheels'?"
"Yeah."
"In the sketch… no bites, cuts, piercings?"
Cain stared, surprised. He'd fixated on grotesquery; she'd spotted basics Anna's meeting should've prompted. They had raged, after all.
"Details fuzzy—shocking. But no, none I saw."
"Blunt force, then."
Second daughter of sword house, worth it. Stammering, Cain detailed to Lily: William, thirty Mercy Knights spearmen, seventeen servants/hired, two priests, one monk, two nuns—all crushed alive. Archbishop worse.
"Gruesome, but… ribs piercing out. Blunt?"
"Likely."
She recalled: "Rare in mounted drills—fall wrong, snapped rib tears flesh. Lung puncture fatal. Survivors stiffen slowly. Trapped alive in own body. But…"
"But?"
"Odd. Heroes and spearmen aside, no reason hit servants, priests, etc. Spare all, blunt only…"
Lily's eyes clouded in confusion.
"Lily. Your take? What did this man-beast-thing want?"
"Not sure."
But she bit her lip—hooked. Cain memorized it. Prejudging risky, but hypothesis here. Testable one. Better than blind; yields more.
And a day and half later, at Otranto Sealed Abbey, they verified. Brutal proof.
Author's Note
The opening book means Anna Kommodus (Emperor's sister) writes this truth report to subjects after all ends. Doesn't exist yet at Cain/Lily's adventure start. It's a 'future' report by Anna, quoted early.
Mail coaches/drivers actually Security Bureau. Fun Holy Roman Empire postal tales—will weave naturally if chance.
As said, selective medieval accuracy. True grit would mean mostly buff dudes flexing; not my style.