Chapter 364: The Tin Knight and the Country of Emeralds (14)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 364: The Tin Knight and the Country of Emeralds (14)
The weak are not always the virtuous.
No, it is because they have nothing, because they are powerless, that the weak are more susceptible to evil.
It is harder for one who has two to give one away than it is for one who has ten to spare one.
For those who did not even possess a single whole one, they had no choice but to scheme to take from others, rather than share what little they had.
Because if they didn’t, they could not even survive the day.
Because conscience and morality were luxuries for those who had.
Because the knowledge that some among the have-nots lived by giving to others did nothing to alleviate the hunger and cold one suffered in the now.
And so, Ozma—the girl once called Tip—had to become deviously clever.
Lacking the strength to fight others, she cultivated the ability to read their moods.
To avoid becoming a target, she learned to use others as bait.
Instead of helping someone in danger, she honed the skill of using their plight to her own advantage.
What was most unfair, what made her burst with indignation, was that despite acting so despicably and cowardly, it was still a struggle just to survive.
She hadn't wished for much.
She wished she didn't have to eat the bread in her hands in secret, terrified that someone might snatch it away.
She wished she didn't have to sleep tense and on edge, afraid of being attacked in the night.
But the world would not grant her even that.
Everyone was indifferent to her, and those who did show interest were only trying to steal the little she possessed.
Truly, sincerely, from the bottom of her heart, she despised and loathed the world and the people living in it.
The thought of having to live among such people for the rest of her life was enough to make her nauseous.
With one single exception: the small, bold witch who had reached out her hand to her.
The encounter with the little witch was a shock to Ozma that was difficult to describe.
A jewel discovered in a pile of trash.
Something noble and sublime, shining with dignity amidst all the ugliness and filth.
When the witch called her a friend, Ozma, for the first time in her life, felt glad to have been born.
The world was still filthy, and people were still hideous, but the moments she spent with the witch were joyful.
It felt as though even she, living in such squalor, became a ‘shining person’ just like the witch whenever she was by her side.
So.
When the witch tried to leave her, it was only natural for Ozma to try and stop her.
She felt no guilt about using an acquaintance.
Showing a friendly face, speaking in a familiar tone—to Ozma, such things were merely a part of getting by in the world.
To Ozma, the world was still a garbage dump, and every human other than the witch was trash.
If she could burn the trash to keep the witch by her side for just one more day, for even just one more hour, there could be no better use for it.
But.
Ozma's crude plan was seen through immediately.
The witch, whom Ozma had treasured like a jewel, left her with cold words of parting.
Ozma regretted it.
And she pondered the reason for her failure.
Should she have planned more meticulously? Instead of using others, should she have harmed her own body instead?
If those were the reasons, she might have been able to accept it.
But what if. Just what if.
What if, in the witch's eyes, Ozma was no different from the others?
What if she looked just as ugly and filthy as the other trash in Ozma's world?
What if, while the witch was special to Ozma, Ozma was nothing more than another face in the crowd to the witch?
She wanted to believe it wasn't true.
But the more she denied it, the more it seemed there was no better explanation for the witch's actions.
Ozma despaired.
The thought that she was treated the same as the trash she so despised made her want to vomit.
She no longer even wanted to live. One day, as she lay listlessly, not even bothering to eat…
From the sky, a host of emerald messengers arrived.
They said she did not belong to the surface, but to the heavens.
That she was the heir to the blood of the greatest and noblest king in the Kingdom of Heaven.
That she had to stay on the surface for a while to learn what kind of place it was, but now it was time to return.
At first, Ozma was bewildered.
But soon, that bewilderment turned to elation.
She was not filthy trash. She was not hideous scum.
Just like that shining witch, she was a special and noble being.
After ascending to the heavens, Ozma's life was completely transformed.
She no longer had to fear that someone would snatch the food from her hands.
She no longer had to sleep with her ears pricked, trembling and wary of her surroundings.
Her destitute and timid demeanor and mindset also changed, becoming elegant and dignified.
She even became capable of showing a degree of tolerance towards the creatures of the surface she had once loathed.
Even if this tolerance was based on the sense of superiority one feels watching ants swarm over breadcrumbs dropped on the floor, it was an astonishing change from the days when she had secretly wished for everyone to die and for the world to end.
Ozma looked forward to reuniting with the witch.
She wanted to boast that she too was special now, that she was no longer a child who could only beg for help one-sidedly, but a true, equal friend to the witch.
But Ozma's hopes were cruelly shattered.
The witch did not respond to Ozma's invitation.
Ozma had even disobeyed her royal father's command and crossed into the underground to prevent the witch from being isolated there, yet the witch rejected her to the very end.
Ozma believed the reason was that the witch still saw her as insignificant.
She thought that only by defeating the witch head-on, by forcing her to submit and showing her that Ozma was now superior, could they become proper ‘friends’.
It was a twisted, murky way of thinking.
There were no adults to point out that this was wrong, that she needed to look back at something more fundamental.
Ozma herself had distanced herself from the surface, and as for the heavens, as long as Ozma performed her function properly, her motives were of no concern.
And finally.
Ozma and Dorothea came face to face.
*
“Welcome, Dorothy.”
Looking at Ozma’s smiling face, Dorothea narrowed her eyes.
The girl in the pitch-black dress was beautiful, and her voice and expression were exceedingly friendly.
But.
Her eyes.
Her black pupils were as terribly murky as an oil pit.
Within her doll-like face, it was as if two large holes had been bored through.
Whether she knew of Dorothea’s displeasure or not, Ozma continued to speak with a naive air.
To an outsider, it would have seemed as if she were completely unaware of the battle raging outside.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come. It would have been much easier if you’d accepted my invitation… but what’s past is past. Now, at least—”
“Hey.”
Dorothea cut off Ozma’s tirade before it could get any longer.
She pointed her staff at Ozma—or more precisely, at the throne behind her—and spoke.
“If you're not going to fight, get out of the way.”
This was war.
For Dorothea, this was also a battle to mourn her master's death.
She felt a subtle anger at the sight of Ozma, who had already defended the palace with her power and blocked Dorothea’s attack, speaking so casually as if nothing had happened.
And that anger was conveyed to Ozma in a profoundly distorted way.
“…Get out of the way? You're telling me to get out of the way? When I'm standing right here?”
An obstacle. A nuisance.
That was how Dorothea treated her.
For Ozma, that was unacceptable.
If you stand in my way, I’ll eliminate you. If you move, I’ll leave you be. Ozma could not possibly accept that attitude, which treated her as if her presence was irrelevant.
She could not permit indifference.
Receiving affection was best, but if that was impossible, she would settle for nothing less than enmity.
And it had to be a hatred so strong that it would make Dorothea forsake all else and target her alone.
A murky passion clouding her lips, Ozma smiled grotesquely.
A large plant shot up from beneath her feet, its surface quickly becoming covered in emerald crystals.
The round, large emerald bud looked just like a pumpkin.
Fwsh! Fwsh!
It wasn't just one pumpkin.
They filled the palace. Dozens of pumpkins sprouted, casting shadows on the ground.
“You know what, Dorothy? Those soldiers who killed your master? I made them. Like this.”
In an instant, all expression vanished from Dorothea’s face.
As if rejoicing at the sight, Ozma twisted her lips into a smile and unleashed her power.
Crack!
The pumpkins split open in unison.
From within, emerald soldiers emerged, fully armed.
Their appearance was somewhat different from the other soldiers outside.
The overall color scheme was similar, but the finer details of their design were different. Above all, the aura they exuded was anything but ordinary.
“For ages untold, countless skilled warriors were born and died under the heavens. I took their bodies and souls and used them as material to create dolls. The useful ones I kept under my command, and the decent ones I handed over to the Kingdom of Heaven. The difference between a soldier and a knight would be an accurate description.”
This was precisely why Ozma received special treatment even among the angels of the Kingdom of Heaven.
It wasn't that the Kingdom of Heaven lacked the technology to create emerald soldiers on its own, but it was impossible for them to mass-produce them as efficiently as Ozma did, as if stamping them out in a factory.
Once soldiers had passed through Ozma’s hands, they could be ‘stored’ again in walls or roads, bringing the military power of the Kingdom of Heaven to a truly incomparable level.
“We don't resort to schemes because we lack power. We simply act with thoroughness to prepare for any contingency.”
At Ozma’s gesture, the emerald knights charged toward Dorothea all at once.
The sword energy, martial arts, and magic they used were all different from one another, and all were first-rate.
Dorothea’s dragon soldiers fought back fiercely, but whatever their specs, they couldn't match the knights in terms of skill.
The dragon soldiers began to fall, one by one.
“The souls I handle are reconstructed with holy power in the heavens. No matter how hard a necromancer tries, it’s impossible for them to control these at will. Your master, that Witch of the East or whatever, was nothing to fear if she couldn't use corpses or souls. And Dorothy, you’re the same.”
She was the Angel of Death.
The one with the talent to utilize all the ‘resources’ the heavens had collected, hidden from the eyes of the surface, more freely than anyone else.
While she herself could manipulate souls at will, she so thoroughly crushed and reconstructed the souls she handled that her opponents could not control them. In that sense, she was, by her very existence, the natural enemy of necromancers.
“If you look down on me, if you ignore me, I’ll show you a power far greater. I'll prove to you that I'm no longer the dust-covered Tip from your memories.”
Ozma watched Dorothea being driven further into a corner, her face filled with madness.
I should have done this from the start, she thought, feeling a thrill of pleasure, as if things were finally going the right way.
And at last, the moment her knights were about to reach Dorothea…
“—Amaryllis.”
BOOOOOOOOM!
With Dorothea's single, short word, the emerald knights surrounding her were all crushed flat.
At the same time, a knight's head flew past Ozma's cheek and struck the throne directly.
CRACK! The emerald head embedded itself in the throne.
“…Huh?”
Blood trickling from her cheek, Ozma let out a dazed sound.
Around Dorothea, one of the eight gems floating in the air—an orange one—crumbled away like sand.
Dorothea spoke.
“You gathered all the powerful warriors of the surface? Perfect.”
Her blue eyes, now filled with clear killing intent, stared at Ozma.
“This catalyst is from the underground. We'll just have to see how they compare.”