The True Heavens
Among the people Kaban had met, the highest was Duke Kalraens. The duke was a man like the heavens themselves. He was an ordinary fellow who merely swung a sword as a hobby. Not even a mage. Yet Kaban could scarcely lift his head in the duke's presence, and when their eyes met, cold sweat would break out on his skin. He thought that if anyone was born to dominate others, it was the duke—and he idly wondered what the emperor must be like, the one even the duke treated with full deference.
He had finally seen the real heavens. Duke Kalraens was no heaven. The emperor of the Muet Empire probably wasn't either. The heavens stood right before him.
If he returned and faced Duke Kalraens, he felt he could meet the man's eyes squarely—maybe even slap his cheek.
But.
'I can't go back.'
Marhal approached him, skirting the pit. From the moment Marhal donned his crown of wind, his subordinates had fled one by one. When they saw Cliff turn into a demon, they all bolted for good.
Kaban didn't run.
—"Commit a crime, then flee to the vast West. Even the emperor can't catch you there." He'd heard the joke plenty of times in the West. Plenty of criminals had indeed escaped westward. In this immense West, tracking someone determined to hide was next to impossible.
But that was evading human eyes, not the eyes of the wind.
You couldn't escape the eyes of the wind.
The heavens stood right there—if they willed it, no matter how far he fled, he'd be a dead man. What was the point of running?
Kaban dropped to his knees.
If he couldn't run, he had to beg. An utterly obvious conclusion. He prostrated himself before Marhal.
"Spare me."
"Why so dramatic? It's not like I'm going to kill you."
"Then... you won't kill me?"
"You didn't see what you shouldn't have, or learn what you weren't supposed to. No reason to kill you, right?"
He had seen what he shouldn't. Learned what he wasn't supposed to. Marhal's words felt like a roundabout way of saying he'd die anyway. Trembling at the hidden implication, Kaban shook uncontrollably.
Marhal scratched his cheek. The big man's frame quivering in terror was pitiful—almost a little cute.
"I'm serious. I'll just seal your lips, simple as that. But what now? What's your plan going forward?"
"What do you mean...?"
"Your men all ran off. The duke's orders failed spectacularly. Once word spreads that Cliff died, you'll get a summons from the palace, I bet."
"The palace?"
"The captain of the emperor's direct guard—the Wild Dog Knights who handle the dirty work—dies on a mission. And right around then, the duke's knights were out in the West? Gathering intel in the West is practically impossible, but they'll still hunt down anyone with even a loose connection."
Kaban's mouth went dry.
A summons to the palace meant death next. Certain death.
He trusted his body, but he also trusted the empire's torture techniques. The other details didn't matter. Just one piece of information would kill him.
The fact that the Muet Empire had created demons—that alone would doom him.
"What must I do? Please share your wisdom."
"Wisdom? Come on. I've already told you the way out several times."
Thud.
Something dropped in front of Kaban. He lifted his head slightly. A red flag. One used in the land race. One his men had abandoned.
'The duke's influence doesn't reach the West. The Union hides landlords' identities. Even proxies might not know their faces.'
All words from Marhal. Even Strekl, supposedly on the same side, had been flustered by his unpredictable words and actions.
"You're giving him the city? This whole swath of land? Are you sane?"
"The Union protects landlords' identities. On the surface, at least. But if a high-ranking power pulls strings, nothing's impossible to uncover. Duke Kalraens is a big shot. Him getting betrayed by his own high knight and losing land?"
"The duke's honor would hit the dirt. His rivals would love that."
"Duke Kalraens can't make a move. But those who hate him? They'll back you. Toss a few coins into the undeveloped West to screw over the duke—if not a city, they'll fund a village at least. Start over with that."
The Holy Empire's scriptures spoke of devils. They tempted people with irresistible offers, granting those who fell the worst deaths and an afterlife in hell.
He didn't know if hell existed. Kaban wasn't dead yet, never experienced the afterlife.
But one thing was clear. The man before him was a devil.
No one made offers this tempting without being one.
Kaban had no future left. If a path to survival opened before him—one as a landlord—he had no choice but to take it.
"What must I do?"
"Plant the flag first. And seal those lips."
Marhal untied the cord binding his chest. The leather cord Strekl had seen before was soaked in blood.
"You're hurt."
"My body's tough, sure, but not enough to take an iron-cutting knight's blade barehanded. This saved me."
With the compressing cord gone, blood began soaking his clothes. Hidden by the paulownia crown's presence, but Marhal had taken a hit from Cliff.
Marhal wasn't a superhuman. The last imperial of the Bachea Empire. Guide to the Hero. The one who forgave the Demon King.
Even with all that history, Marhal hadn't become a superhuman. He hadn't been pierced, but Cliff's sword had left him gravely wounded.
Marhal showed the inside of the leather cord. Names of several people were inscribed there. Kaban guessed it was a list of those who knew his secrets.
"Write your name here."
"That's it?"
"Snakes sometimes live long. A hundred-year snake starts working mysteries. One centuries old becomes a monster that swallows homes whole. This is the skin left by one like that. Even Mar coveted it, they say."
"You mean that Mar Silanatiell?"
"I forgave the Demon King, remember? Who do you think I went to face her with? Hurry up and sign."
Kaban carved his name into the cord with a nearby stone shard. An indescribable sensation swept from head to toe. The illusion of a massive snake watching him from behind.
He whipped around. Naturally, nothing was there.
Nothing—but the gaze lingered. Breathless from the disconnect between eyes and instinct. This, he knew, was the weight he'd carry for life, guarding the secret.
"Alright, Kaban. Plant the flag. Become the landlord."
"Understood."
"Don't be so stiff. Like Strekl, a bit more casual."
"That's..."
Kaban trailed off. Easier said than done. Marhal was the heavens. You couldn't treat the heavens lightly. That was the history of a man who'd lived his life as a knight, servant to nobles.
"Can't force it if you don't like it. Well, let's wrap up the land race. You can hold the flag alone, right?"
"Of course."
Marhal's power had cleared some traps, but the city ruins still brimmed with siege knight handiwork. With luck, he could hunt a whole knight squad solo.
"We'll head back to our spot then. Strekl, let's go."
"Got it."
Marhal and Strekl left the city ruins. The horses they'd left outside grazed nearby.
"He sorted it out alone in the end. I did nothing to the last."
"If Cliff had begged forgiveness there, it'd have been real trouble."
"Not a power you can use anytime, then."
"What accumulates holds power. No exceptions. Good or bad, it all stacks up. The demons erased half the world. The Hero and his party erased the demons that took half the world. Good for humans, but for the demons involved?"
"I see."
What accumulates becomes power. It usually works in favor of history's owners. But not always.
Slaughterers who revel in motiveless killing eventually succumb to madness, becoming beasts. Strekl had seen fine knights go berserk, swinging at allies. Berserkers were midway through that process.
Those who can't bear their accumulated history get devoured by it.
And the Hero Party had killed half the world. A blessing—and a curse. An unimaginable burden no one in history had shouldered.
A weight hanging on Marhal's shoulders too.
"Gotta call Rebela back. Replant Marin's flag too. Strekl, mind handling it?"
"Got it."
Much had happened, but little time had passed. Rebela hadn't gone far.
'Back before dinner.'
Strekl spurred his horse eastward.
Alone now, Marhal dismounted. The campfire still burned. He sat by it, rubbing his torn forehead.
Priest's miracle. The wound vanished, new flesh knitting.
Then he touched where Cliff had struck.
"Ribs are definitely broken. Some internal damage too."
With the stabilizing cord gone, he slipped a hand under his shirt. Blending magic and miracles, he wedged his fingers between ribs, forcing the shattered ones into place.
Crunch.
"...Tch. Hurts like hell. How'd I endure this back then?"
No one emerged from the journey to the Demon King's Castle unscathed. The Hero Party were inhuman each, but demons transcended humanity too. Bones broke, organs ruptured, limbs severed. Then the saint healed it all post-battle.
Marhal was no exception. No matter the protection, injuries happened. The saint had tended his wounds.
Even he admitted he'd been hardcore then. No complaints even for worse.
Set the bone, lance the wound with a sterilized dagger, drain the blood. Heal the tears with a miracle. Done.
Sweat drenched Marhal's body. He lay back.
The sky was clear.
"Got the land, stuck it to the empire. Profitable race overall."
Painful as hell, but the gains made it worthwhile. Crown deployed, injury taken—stamina at its limit.
Drowsing by the quiet fire, Marhal's head lolled sideways.
An arrow thudded into where it had been.
"Hey, you said you could do it."
"The crossbow's old. Aim was dead on!"
From the arrow's direction, a few men grinned at Marhal.
He turned his head again. The sky was infuriatingly clear.
"Days are looong, huh?"
"What?"
"Just wondering if you'll see tomorrow's sun."
The leather cord uncoiled. Slithering like a snake toward the hyenas.