Empty Shell (7)

"You've… truly lost your mind."

"Care for a drink?"

When no answer came, I drained the bottle in one pull and flung it at the Family Head's feet. It shattered before him.

That face — usually so blank it never betrayed a single emotion — flushed faintly red and twisted. Quite a sight.

Anything involving his wife, and he always ends up like this.

"What kind of face is that on such a joyous day?"

"…A joyous day?"

"Father, I've finally joined a knight order. And not just any order — I'm the captain."

Whether this Condemnation Squad business actually counted as a knight order, I wasn't sure. Whether the fellows trailing after me even qualified as knights, I wasn't sure either. But they rode horses, belonged to the Church, and wore breastplates — so knights they must be.

"I've spent my whole life with nothing but apologies for disappointing you on my lips. Now that I've risen this far, shouldn't you be pleased?"

"By selling the family to the Church, you mean?"

"I'd prefer you not answer a question with a question, Family Head."

"You carry on as if you aren't even a Grian. Insolent brat."

"Is that how I look?"

"Get off the gravestone."

"'She who brought happiness to House Grian, who closed her eyes in peace'… what a load of nonsense."

I rested a hand on the stone. The wine left it faintly sticky.

"Do you remember a girl named Arin, by any chance?"

The Family Head looked at me as though I'd started speaking gibberish.

"You know — back when I skipped out on the sword instructor you hired for me. You dragged me into your study, slapped me across the face, and scolded me for insulting my teacher just so I could run around with the common rabble."

Whether he reacted or not, I kept going.

"Anyway, not long ago I killed that girl with my own hands… and a thought occurred to me."

"What the hell are you—"

"The people of House Grian… no matter who they are, they can't rest until they've closed their own hands around the throats of everyone near them and twisted. Whether they regret it afterward, whether they grieve — none of that matters."

"Are you saying I killed Belen with my own hands?"

Not even "my wife" — he used her pet name right in front of me. His reason must have slipped a little. Seemed that way, at least.

"If you'd been content with just one child, only I would have been unhappy, and that would have been the end of it."

The moment the Family Head's hand closed on his sword hilt, a blue haze of Sword Qi carved through everything.

Several nearby trees fell — and so did my head.

It had been a long time since I'd experienced the view from a rolling skull. The severed trees came into focus, along with the Family Head, sword already drawn, wearing a vacant expression.

Again.

I dipped my stance and slipped the incoming strike. My left hand drew a dagger and cut horizontally; my right drew my sword and cleaved downward from above.

He dodged as though it were nothing, casually stabbed me through the gut, kicked me away, and approached from a distance.

I still had my sword. With the blade in my right hand, I cut my own throat.

Again.

The same attack came flying. I dipped low, drew my sword with both hands, closed the distance as before — and at the exact moment my gut would have been pierced, I swept the dagger in my left hand and knocked the thrust aside.

Then I carved a cross-cut with the longsword in my right, let the momentum of the swing carry my body, and cleaved straight down from above.

Something told me he still wouldn't kill me outright this time either, so I kept my senses sharp, deflected the thrust aimed at my left side, and cut upward on a diagonal.

It missed by a handspan, of course. I let out a hollow laugh.

But the Family Head had stepped back, and for the first time… he looked faintly surprised.

"You… how… a wretch whose sword forms are still a mess… You've pulled some Church trick."

If that was meant as a taunt, it might work on those fine noble types — but not on anyone who'd rolled through the front lines.

"Does the Church offer that sort of service these days?"

"Your mother would be ashamed of you for selling the house you were born and raised in."

"As if she could match you. Watching a man who couldn't even raise one child properly run the entire family into the ground — she'd laugh herself sick in hell."

"…Hell?"

"Married to a husband like you? Of course she fell to hell, to burn for all eternity. Don't you think that's only fitting, even by your own reckoning?"

"I'll make sure that filthy mouth of yours never runs again."

Another sword stroke came flying. I twisted aside — but the gravestone behind me and my left leg, everything below the thigh, were sheared clean off.

I couldn't fight properly like this.

Without hesitation, I drove the weapon in my hand into my own neck. Whatever the Family Head did, the trajectory skewed slightly, and the thrust went in clumsily.

"Ghk… urgh…"

The Family Head stared at me with a vacant face, then stepped close and pressed his hand over the wound in my throat, trying to stop the bleeding.

"So I… drove you this far… Yes. I cornered you."

Only when I was dying did he show a face like this. Did paternal love only bloom at the sight of a dying son?

Might as well not exist at all.

He kept pressure on my throat as blood sprayed from the cut, his gaze flicking between the gravestone and me.

I knew he was a Sword Saint who could cut through nearly anything, that no one left could match him… but a blade could still go in, couldn't it?

I watched his face as he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠muttered blankly at the stone. It had crumbled rather beautifully.

"No one else — I, Belen's… your son, your treasure… with my own hands… hhk…!"

With a hand trembling too weakly to do much else, I groped across the ground for a long time, found the fallen dagger, and drove it into the Family Head's stomach.

He looked down at the blade buried in his gut, then met my eyes.

There was no focus in those middle-aged eyes. He looked like a man who had already died long ago.

He took his hand from my throat, rose to his feet, and began to shuffle away somewhere.

Too weak even to finish cutting my own throat, I watched his retreating back until it vanished, and then consciousness faded.

I'd been wondering where to start from —

"I'll make sure that filthy mouth of yours never runs again."

The sword stroke came flying in an instant once more. I planted a foot on the gravestone, kicked off, and closed in.

My right hand cut upward across his front while my left flung the dagger. The Family Head knocked the dagger aside and moved to lock blades with me.

More precisely, he threw attacks that would be nearly impossible to block without locking blades. Handle that bastard's Sword Qi properly and you could cut through almost anything, after all.

Facing an opponent whose swordsmanship and skill far outstripped mine, unable even to meet his blade — it was far more agonizing than I'd expected.

The moment our swords touched, my right arm was severed along with the blade, clean as tofu.

I staggered back, drove the dagger still clutched in my left hand into my own neck, and tore it across.

One more time.

Same as before — I kicked off the gravestone to dodge the stroke, swung two or three times, and just like last time our blades met and my arm was sheared off at the shoulder.

You son of a bitch. Cut from the head next time.

I staggered blankly, leaned against a tree, drew my sword with one hand, and drove it into my own body.

Again.

Somehow it felt like I'd returned to the front lines.

I dodged the stroke, kicked off, closed in, swung — and missed. Before the Family Head could attack, I cut my own throat.

I moved only as much as needed to stop the blade an inch from my face. I dodged the Family Head's stroke, tucked the dagger back into my coat, gripped the sword with both hands, twisted my body into stance, and swung once horizontally — then thought stopped.

A cross-cut here.

Then I set my stance again, clenched the sword tight in both hands, and carved a great sweeping cut as I stepped forward.

I slipped the Family Head's attack by a mere handspan.

From this point on, I didn't know the sequence. Better to press the attack and keep swinging.

I planted my left foot to the side, rotated on my center axis, and carved a wide horizontal cut. The motion was too large — the blade sheared apart, and the Family Head kicked me away.

Even after kicking me, he wore a rather startled expression.

Whatever face he made, I didn't care. I drew the dagger from my coat and drove it into my heart.

I dodged the stroke and pressed the same attack as before, stripping every motion down to its bare minimum.

I feinted a great sweeping cut, then pulled the blade in tight against my body and thrust the edge straight forward.

The tip buried itself in the Family Head's left shoulder.

I twisted the blade, wrenched it free, and tried to follow through with a vertical cut — both my wrists were severed in a single stroke.

I stared blankly at the clean-cut stumps, then at my hands still gripping the sword where they'd flopped to the ground. Then at the Family Head's face, eyes wide, breathing hard — and I turned and ran.

I threw myself forward and smashed my head into the gravestone.

A long, shuddering sensation, then I lay sprawled on the ground as sleep came for me.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

I returned to the moment I'd stabbed the Family Head's shoulder.

I dropped the sword entirely, caught the incoming kick on my knee, drew the dagger from my belt, and closed the distance.

I drove the dagger upward from his abdomen and twisted it wildly through his insides.

Maybe a man who'd spent his whole life fighting without ever being properly stabbed, without ever facing a brush with death, was weaker against pain than expected. The Family Head dropped his sword.

Blood ran from the corner of his mouth as he tried to force words out at me.

"Ri… Rihen… why… are you smiling… ghk, hhk, urgh, hngk…"

I didn't want to hear it. I yanked the blade free and stabbed into his chest again and again.

I didn't want to hear him breathe either — so into the lungs, again and again and again.

Don't leave me half-alive out of some grotesque mercy.

And I wasn't smiling.

I'm not some piece of human garbage.