Strekl Keeps Silent Watch
Strekl stood silent watch. His body had improved considerably. By tomorrow or the day after, he'd be back to normal. Part of it was thanks to the school of martial arts he'd learned, which specialized in recovery, but most of it came from the history he'd accumulated.
Strekl was the type who "built it well." His history was one of war. Having survived multiple grievous wounds, he possessed an abnormal regenerative ability compared even to knights of his level. The other high knights who'd fought alongside him on battlefields for years couldn't match his recovery.
Strekl knew he "built it well," but he didn't think of it as his own doing. His regenerative power was probably the work of one person. The Saint. A tiny fragment of power from that inhuman priest. A piece of the history the Saint had accumulated.
-Saved by the Saint healing his wounds, preserving his life. If his life were ever written into a book, that line would surely be included. And that single sentence had shaped who he was now.
That was why he couldn't just walk past the Saint's disciple. Was this concern for that man, who hadn't even reached superhuman? Or a wish that the Saint might once again save his life, now thrown into the mud?
There were no proper cover spots nearby. The night's darkness helped, but his field-hardened eyes could easily distinguish moving objects in the gloom. A pebble clattered to the ground. Strekl's gaze shifted toward the crumbled wall.
If someone with ill intent attacked from this direction, they'd have to come from there—which was why he'd been listening closely to the faint sounds from the wall since earlier.
Strekl rose from his spot. Before drawing his sword, he glanced at the campfire. Marhal had risen silently, without a sound or presence, and was now warming his hands by the flames.
"Right on time. Nice wake-up."
"You get some sleep?"
"Of course."
"Could be a raiding party."
"You think bandits would go that far just to rob folks? Even if there is, I won't die to thieves."
Strekl kicked off the ground. A few leaps brought him near the wall. He swung his sword with arm strength, crumbling the stone barrier. A bandit hiding behind it came into view.
Strekl grabbed the bandit's head and swung him like a flail. Crack. The snap of breaking neck bones echoed as the man flew off.
"Crazy bastard… Kill him!"
A dozen bandits charged with weapons raised. Strekl didn't block their attacks. No need. His body was already shielded by armor those crude weapons couldn't pierce.
The bandits stabbing from all sides screamed and rebounded. Some had hands sliced open, blood streaming; others had wrists snapped. His cloak tore, revealing what lay beneath.
"Full plate armor…? Why's a monster like that in the West?"
The apparent leader muttered in shock. Ordinary human attacks meant nothing. Meanwhile, a casual swing from him could kill.
Knights in full plate were called reapers of death even among knights.
"Just bandits, huh."
Each swing of Strekl's sword severed heads from bodies. He picked up a fallen dagger and hurled it at the fleeing leader far off. The handle sprouted from the back of the man's skull.
Strekl perked his ears for nearby presences, then whipped his head around at a sound from behind. He kicked off again.
By the time Strekl reached the campfire, it was over. Marhal held a long leather cord. Five men lay dead, necks bound by it, bones shattered.
"How'd you do that?"
"Simple magic."
"From the mage?"
"Learned it if I learned it, didn't if I didn't. He wasn't the type to teach people well."
The cord slithered like a snake back into Marhal's bosom.
"Hmph. Who the hell are you?"
"Marhal. Mercenary with some special acquaintances."
Strekl stripped sacking from the dead bandits and draped it over his torn cloak.
"Hero, mage, Saint, thief. Your heroes who saved the world vanished after slaying the Demon King. The Saint returned to the Holy Empire but hasn't been seen since—effectively missing. So what are you? Why do you know them?"
"You ever been to the West ten years ago? Demon-held lands?"
"No. The Duchy included, nations on the East-West border were busy holding the line. Advancing would've been pointless. Just turn into demons."
Demons spread like plague; inhale their smoke, and even healthy creatures became demons. Half the world as enemy wasn't exaggeration.
Strekl still remembered the view from the walls during the war. Unforgettable for life. Thick black fog blanketing right up to the base, and beyond, the demon horde writhing to the horizon.
In the war against demons, even allies weren't safe. Comrades slashing demons one moment might turn on neighbors the next. The Empire and Holy Empire—even those opportunistic bastards who'd watched the Bachea Empire fall and half the world devoured—finally sent supplies when the Duchy buckled and more than half fell to demons.
'Bastards. No troops till the Demon King dropped.'
Even with supplies, they barely held. Sacrificing lives like consumables. Advance west? Impossible. Step off the wall, and demons swarmed from everywhere.
"There were survivors in the West."
"Impossible."
He'd half-expected it, but instinct denied it. His mind rejected survivors amid demons. How many superhuman knights died pushing back hordes right below the walls? Even they couldn't last in the smoke. If commoners survived demon lands, didn't that make his comrades weaker than civilians?
"Makes sense there's someone who crossed the West to kill the Demon King?"
"They're inhuman. Beyond superhumans—more than human."
"But human at root. History holds power, right? Surviving demon lands—that's history too."
"…Can't be."
"Fact and faith are separate. Not a priest, so I won't force belief."
"Going to sleep."
More to hear, but not in the mood. Survivors in the West. He'd heard it thousands of times. Refugees from west to east clung to hope family lived. Even if all denied, some wouldn't let go. Many volunteered as soldiers, men and women, young and old. Knights too had left family behind.
People. People. People. My family, or someone's family, had to survive. Those who hadn't seen the fields wouldn't know. How many bet everything on vague hope to fight demons. How they held the line. An era overflowing with such folk—and still is.
"Survivors… If I'd known, would you lot still be alive?"
Comrades who'd quit the world early because nothing remained. Those who died where they shouldn't have. Because of them, war hero Strekl, Duchy high knight, stood here.
Strekl slept. But any killing intent would wake him sword in hand.
'Wanna try?' Playful urge crept up, but Marhal didn't act. Hard to expect mercy from a woken knight's blade.
Marhal rummaged through the bandit corpses piled aside. In the West, everything was precious. Massive imports from the East, but reconstruction—from Duchy border to shattered lands—wasn't done. More consumed than supplied; shortages everywhere. Eat bugs or sicken.
"Northern Grain Basin needs opening this year for food to improve next."
North from this city stretched vast plains. Once fed wide regions when West functioned. Ten years post-Demon King, still ownerless waste.
Farming there would ease West's food woes greatly. But when? Fertile enough for a nation. Union brass scheming how to split or price it. High politics might stall land races nearby for years. Then harsh Western life drags on.
Marhal poked the fire with a charred stick. Forest nearby would mean patrols, but here ambushes were near impossible. Trained assassins melted into dark without cover, but they'd be in cities staining hands with blood.
"Not time yet…"
"Was just about to wake you."
Bayola rubbed her eyes awake, then gasped at the aligned corpses in her periphery.
"Eek! Th-those…!"
"Night watch duty."
"R-right?"
"Surprising, though. Up before your guard."
"Couldn't sleep comfortably. And Rebela sleeps like a rock once out."
Chilled from just waking, Bayola wrapped in leather and huddled by the fire.
"Thought it over last night."
"About?"
"Reasons to travel with you. Strekl's a high knight. I'm begging him to come along. But you two? Burden princess and a knight whose skill halves lugging baggage. Plus both clueless. No value in escorting. If yesterday's true, pros backed by other royals hit West in months—pure risk."
"…Please. Let us travel together."
With everything lost, Marhal was her only lifeline. Man seating Duchy high knight and imperial princess across a campfire for breakfast. Her monster brothers might manage with full force. Eldest Imaril crushes with sword and knights; fifth Yurel binds Strekl in magic. Tenth Seonik uses all assets. But none tames a high knight with words.
This mercenary was special. Maybe more than her brothers. If survival beckoned, it'd be at his side.
"Didn't say dumping you. Just, free ride doesn't balance books."
"Got money. Enough for life without luxury. Probably."
"Don't need it. Not short. Teach me ancient imperial language. That suffices."
"Won't learn it."
"Mocking commoners as illiterate?"
"No! Not that…"
Bayola stared into the fire, organizing thoughts, then spoke.
"Ancient imperial was reworked by Bachea royals over centuries. Fitting a power symbol. Harder, more complex, tougher. Teacher Haiman said Bachea royals got special pronunciation training from childhood. Only they produce certain sounds. No matter how others study, can't match."
"Pfft, that's it? I just need to read bits. Danger prohibited. Do not enter. Stuff like that."
"Even that's tough. Scholars study lifetimes."
"Not asking that much?"
"You don't get it. Past simple, past continuous, past perfect, past action link, past future link, past prediction. Know what they mean?"
"…Code?"
"Grammar for one sentence."
"Can't skip?"
"Fine by me."
"No. Gotta learn."
Plausible excuse prevents suspicion using ancient imperial later. Planned fake learning… Recalling made him nauseous. Ugh.