Chapter 24: The Living History
The saint and the mage were the only ones in the Hero Party who had received a proper education. They also held the most sharply opposing views on history. Unlike the hero, who believed good was good, or the thief, who thought anything usable was fine, these two treated history, mystery, and power as subjects of academia. Even deep in the West, they would argue endlessly, and whenever they had the leisure, they would seat Marhal beside them. Thinking back, it was all consideration for him.
"History is alive. Anything that doesn't move is a corpse. Why can't you grasp this simple truth?"
"That's my line. History is like fixed stone. Once piled up, there's no need to twist it. Not even your eccentric acts."
"To wield multiple spells, you have to carve away matching histories. The church does the same."
"Once a miracle is learned, it stays in the body until death."
"That's only because of the massive foundation called the Holy Empire."
"Even outside the Holy Empire and Papal Court, there are people who possess healing mysteries."
"But they die to holy knights and inquisitors before their talents can bloom. Have you ever observed, even once, how their mysteries change?"
The saint fell silent. Whenever the conversation turned to the Holy Empire or Papal Court, the debate usually ended in his defeat.
"Humans of the Holy Empire and Papal Court have no right to speak on mysteries that aren't miracles. Admit it?"
"...I admit it."
The mage, victorious in the argument, nodded. It was the reaction she showed only when truly satisfied.
"History moves. Magic is finding the way and direction for the power of accumulated karma to burst forth. And that's the role of those who bear karma."
The horses carrying the two had receded to a distance where their voices could no longer be heard. Rebel la grabbed Bayola's arm.
"You can't."
"How do you know what I'll do?"
"As Strekl said, if we go, we'll just be a hindrance. Those two are experienced and agile—they might really buy time and escape. But if we're caught, it's all over."
"I'm going."
"Marin, are you an idiot? That's why you couldn't claim land without Marhal's help."
"Say that again."
Marin grabbed Rebel la by the collar. She was meek in front of Strekl and Marhal, but Marin was never one to be called good-tempered, not even politely. Rebel la pressed her thumb into the soft inside of Marin's wrist. The moment the strength drained from Marin's hand, she yanked the wrist, spun her body, and slammed Marin face-first into the ground.
"Kuh...!"
"I could handle an ordinary man easily. But your strength doesn't even match an average knight's. And I am a knight."
A red glint rose in Marin's eyes. Rebel la twisted the arm she held as softly as water, swiftly subduing her. Marin wore a dazed expression, not even understanding what had happened.
"This is basic self-defense any knight learns. Someone trained in the same techniques wouldn't fall so easily. What about you, relying only on physical prowess and your sword?"
"Let go."
Marin gnashed her teeth. Her eyes turned fully red. She thrashed to break free. A dangerous crack sounded from her arm, but she didn't stop. Rebel la pressed down with all her might.
"Even without weapons, I'm no match for the average guard knight of another imperial family. If you can't beat even them, what do you plan to do against monsters far worse?"
"Let go! Let me go! Untie me! Untie meee!"
"...My mistake was trying to reason with a berserker."
Rebel la gritted her teeth. She slammed her head down on the back of Marin's thrashing skull.
Thud!
Marin took two shocks—once from Rebel la's head, once from the ground—and went limp. Rebel la used cord to bind the unconscious Marin's arms and legs. Soaked in sweat in that brief moment, Rebel la stood.
She wiped her sweat and approached Bayola. Bayola stepped back. She'd never seen Rebel la fight for real.
"Does the princess agree?"
"...Can I ignore people rushing off to die for me?"
"Haa...."
Rebel la sighed. Bayola had talent. Her blood phobia prevented its use, but in raw physical ability alone, Bayola's body was tougher, more flexible, and stronger than Rebel la's, honed over more than ten years. Even Imaril, called a sword genius, might not match this. And her mind wasn't lacking—she'd learned ancient imperial tongue to that level. Her teacher was now the world's top expert on ancient imperial language after the West's fall, and Bayola had earned academic recognition from him. All that talent wasted on one illness.
That was why Rebel la had chosen Bayola. Overcome the illness, the phobia, and she could leap straight below the throne. But for now, she was just a fragile flower in a greenhouse.
"Princess, watch closely."
Rebel la raised her arm toward Bayola. She slashed her own arm with her sword, drawing blood.
Slash!
Blood splattered to her face. Bayola rolled her eyes back and fainted on the spot. Rebel la bound Bayola's limbs like Marin's, loaded both onto horses, and secured them with cord so they wouldn't fall. With bodies tougher than the saint's, they'd survive this.
As she grabbed the reins to mount her own horse, her hand twitched.
'Did I damage a nerve while moving?'
Strength wouldn't enter her arm properly. Dragging two horses alone would be tough like this. Rebel la mounted one-handed. She tied the reins of the bound women's horses to her bleeding arm.
"Go!"
The two horses bolted eastward.
Marhal and Strekl dismounted at the collapsed section of the wall. Eyes were already watching them—sharp, hiding subtle killing intent. The battlefield air, tasted after so long, excited Strekl's body. He checked behind. Two horses were vanishing beyond the horizon. Two horses, but one rider, three passengers.
"I was a bit worried, but the guards are guards. Now what?"
"As I said, we buy time."
"Really? No other way?"
"It depends on how Cliff reacts."
"As expected, buying time was all talk."
Of course. Marhal wouldn't just walk to his death. Strekl smirked inwardly.
"Not entirely empty talk. I could really die. Still coming?"
"No taking back words once spoken. And this doesn't feel like my death spot. Hero's intuition."
"War hero's intuition. Reliable."
Marhal and Strekl entered the city. Debris was cleanly sliced at waist height.
"Stone-cutting knight's work? Slicing walls would be a nightmare in sieges."
Knights infiltrating at night after cutting a wall section could fell any fortress overnight.
'Stone-cutting knight. One-on-one, inferior to iron-cutters. But in war, maybe more troublesome.'
They headed to the city center. The flag there made navigation easy. At the center stood a stone slab, top sliced off, with a man seated atop it.
'That's the iron-cutter.'
Build like Strekl, no armor visible—just thick leather inside. Three swords at his waist. Kaban lurked in a corner with his men. Even the arrogant stone-cutter lacked bravado before an iron-cutter. Partly because he was the emperor's direct guard captain.
Strekl met Cliff's eyes. Absolute confidence. The power coiling around him outclassed Strekl's by several levels. He'd met iron-cutters before, but never this aura.
'Should've brought the helmet.'
Hard to mask expression. He missed the helmet now, not even when subordinates had beheaded him? No.
"Fooled. Strong, yes, but not an iron-cutter."
Cliff rose. It felt like a mountain shifting. History was power. Strekl glimpsed fragments of Cliff's history—mountain-vast, ocean-deep warrior karma.
"Where's the princess? I sent her a letter."
"Bayola fled. She shouldn't know yet."
"Nonsense."
Marhal walked toward Cliff, steps light as a stroll.
'Leisure? No, something else. Natural as a knight swinging a sword... Yes.'
Naturalness. Marhal approached as if it were rightful. Cliff couldn't move watching him. Mage—unknown tricks. Draw sword. True mystery renders knight's blade worthless. Kill the mage. He repeated it, but his body froze like stone. As if he must stand rigid, he stared at approaching Marhal.
Kaban swallowed. He couldn't grasp the situation. Mage trick? But a spell paralyzing an iron-cutter—why not just fight? They'd have fallen without a fight.
Marhal passed Cliff, sat where he'd been. Cliff turned.
Imperial Palace Guard Knight Cliff. Do you look down on me?
Cliff's heart nearly stopped. Impossible. That tongue here? Perfect ancient imperial pronunciation was gone from the world. As he denied reality, his body moved by ingrained history. He knelt before Marhal like a vassal before the emperor.
Kaban, the jackal knights, Strekl—all gaped at the unbelievable sight.
"Who... who are you?"
"Muet imperial seems fully ingrained. If you wish, I'll match it."
"I asked who you are! Why speak perfect ancient imperial? All who used it are dead!"
Cliff shouted on his knees. Still couldn't move. Bachea Empire's history was solemn. Knights before imperial kin couldn't stir without permission.
"Dead? I'm hurt. I'm right here. Permission to raise your head. Look well. My face."
Cliff looked up, scrutinizing Marhal's face. Fifteen years passed. Time changed much, but boyhood traces remained.
That face. From his days in the Bachea—not Muet—imperial palace.
"...Prince?"
"Yes, me. Now you know who, what's your first duty?"
"It exists. Yes. Of course...."
Cliff gnashed teeth. He gripped one of three swords, drew, and swung at Marhal. Struck, Marhal flew sideways into wood debris. Dust shrouded him.
Cliff stood, brushed knee dirt, glared at the spot. Iron-cutting strike. But opponent didn't cleave. Blocked by something harder than iron.
"Imperial blood excuses it, then."
"No intent to apologize, I take it?"
Marhal emerged from dust. Blood from torn forehead trailed his eye, mouth spat red. But he smiled.
Unease bloomed deep in Cliff. That attitude grated. Reminded of the Bachea emperor overlooking all.
"Apologize? For what?"
"You can't pretend ignorance of your sins... Or maybe you do, so I'll list: One, abandoning kin you swore to guard and fleeing alone. Two, betraying the imperial house yet wielding that sword. Three, serving your master's enemy."
'I'll overlook the rudeness to me,' Marhal added.
"Bachea fell because it was weak. No courtesy for the powerless, imperial or not."
"Weak? You were there. Where demons spawned from the Muet princess's betrothal gift."
Cliff vanished. Illusion of speed. But he bounced back at approach speed. Wind guarded Marhal. It whirled around him skyward. Marhal extended hand; wind formed atop it—a crown. Transparent wind crown.
Cliff's pupils shook. As Bachea palace guard, he knew rumors' truths. Emperor summoned rain, storms. Each imperial mystery mocked his decades; lifelong effort seemed futile. He despaired, followed Yurel.
Humans were monkeys. Armed monkey strength limited. But history-born mysteries defied human measure.
Before him: lost imperial relic. Emperor's storm symbol.
"Emperor's paulownia crown! It's gone! Bachea's history crumbled!"
"But it's here?"
"Think I'd fall for cheap tricks?"
"Then why not move? Instinct knows."
Cliff discarded sword. He had three: Muet from imperial knighting; demon-slayer from escaping West, over thousand demons felled; Bachea from emperor upon palace guard appointment.
Bachea guard swords were relics, granting special power to owners. Twice drawn post-fall: escaping fog-shrouded Bachea, proving to Muet emperor. Third time now.
Strength entered Marhal's wind-gripping fingers. Cliff's drawn sword matched Marin's—Bachea imperial. Crest faded to trace. Marin understandable; child with imperial relic meant death. Lifesaver she couldn't discard. But Cliff? Iron-cutter sans Bachea sword. Healthy, he'd thrive swordless.
Betrayer drawing imperial sword for imperial foe. As sole Bachea blood heir, Marhal couldn't tolerate.
Honor ignorable. But with loyalty, gifts received—effort owed at minimum.
Marhal remembered that day.
"Strekl, a fun tale. Sixteen? Maybe seventeen years ago. Bachea and Muet sought alliance. Betrothal between prince and princess; Muet princess visited Bachea. Eldest prince and second princess's engagement. World-shaking if sealed. Bachea's second prince watched to celebrate brother's."
Marhal had long forsaken throne. Two brothers; eldest genius in all, born emperor, beloved. Marhal just admired him. Thought emperors should be like brother.
Heard Muet fiancée arrived. Watched historic exchange with family. Brother placed Bachea treasure ring on her finger; she offered small Muet box.
"Amid blessings, disaster began."
Box opened, black fog spewed. Memories hazy after: crashes, screams, wails, brother's flee command. Awakening outside capital, fleeing fog. Escape fuzzy, but witnesses clear. Guard knight Cliff. He saw Muet princess unleash demons.
Ten years ago, post-hero slaying Demon King, Marhal sought massacre survivors via all means. Hero, thief, saint, mage helped. Inhumans found one: Cliff. Dog worse than beast, licking foe's feet.
"Thought maybe revenge bent head to Muet emperor. Or survival necessity. Seems neither?"
"Then?"
Flames erupted from Cliff's sword. Grew thrice blade length, solidified sword-shaped. Sword and fire, fire and sword. Sword cleaved iron; fire burned all. Escaped hell-palace with it; fog shunned flame-bearer. Sliced approaching demons. Known faces, maybe imperial.
Wind crown completed. True paulownia gone. Marhal's fake. But in true history-bearer's hand, formless wind became real.
Marhal donned wind crown. West winds wailed. Submitted to long-ruling sovereign's authority.
"History of dominion upon negligent knight."
Mad wind descended on ruined city.