Chapter 48: Bayola Was in the Flower Garden
Bayola was in the flower garden. She had invested in her own garden too, but compared to this place, it felt like child's play. Flowers and shrubs overflowed within the walls surrounding a single palace. Bayola lay with her head in someone's lap amid the blooms.
She opened her eyes.
"Bayola, are you awake?"
"Sister Soila."
A face so kind it seemed sculpted from gentleness filled her vision. Bayola beamed.
"Tea is ready. Want some before you go?"
"Yeah."
The young Bayola took Soila's hand and rose from the flower bed. A table was set in one corner of the garden, steam rising from teacups and pastries atop it.
Due to her hemophobia, Bayola couldn't mingle with the other royals. The only ones she shared private talks with were a few younger siblings whose claims to the throne meant nothing. She occasionally debated ancient imperial tongue with Seonik, who was close in age among the older siblings, but that hardly counted as brotherly chat.
The only one Bayola truly called sister, truly family, was Soila.
The hand she clasped vanished. Darkness swallowed the surroundings.
The flower garden sank into shadow, space warping around her. The girl Bayola had become an adult. Her clothes were filthy, her hands covered in calluses from training.
"Ah."
It's a dream.
Bayola awoke. The soft bedding, blankets, comfortable clothes, and luxurious surroundings fell short of her palace days, but she had no complaints. Compared to sleeping on a single hide in the streets, this was paradise.
Yet the sudden wave of sorrow had nothing to do with her reason.
"Sister..."
The Muet Empire drew no distinction between eldest son and daughter. Second princess Soila Muesilrigo, born after Imaril, commanded even greater esteem than he did. Unlike her bloodthirsty siblings, she was different. That's why Bayola could lean on her so easily.
She might even have become emperor.
Then Soila vanished without warning. No one even searched for the second princess. Over a decade passed, and she became a ghost in the palace. Even fellow royals avoided her name.
Bayola forgot her too. Ruminating on painful memories was pointless. Chewing over irrecoverable happiness was futile.
But once the suppressed recollection bubbled from her heart's depths, it spread uncontrollably, dyeing her mottled chest in warm hues. A stinging warmth, all the sharper now that Soila was lost forever.
"Time to go. Morning training awaits."
Bayola rose from bed. Today was crucial. She couldn't ruin everything for her sake.
Stepping beyond the Border walls revealed a village reminiscent of Pioneer Village. It housed those without roots in the city. Beside it sprawled vast farmlands and pastures. Hundreds passed through daily en route to the West.
Those heading west varied widely: lone wanderers like Karian who left home on a whim; families fleeing with their house's last assets; groups escaping a lord's tyranny in a mass night flight.
With such diversity, a group of fifty-odd blending in raised no flags.
Azenman Riantl gritted his teeth and pressed on as planned. The granary had burned to the ground. Flames had spread to other warehouses; the blaze still raged unchecked. Liable for all damages, Azenman ground his teeth and mobilized his finest forces.
Troops commanded by Azenman, whose influence spanned the Border and West alike. No weaklings among them. Each was a superhuman in their own right.
That was the problem.
"We'll handle ourselves, so follow our lead."
"Didn't his lordship say to obey me on-site?"
"Obey some green kid with no record or rep? Get real."
One thing Marhal admired about Azenman was his flexibility. The higher one's station, the less they bent pride. Not Azenman. He bowed forehead to earth when needed.
Yet these thugs, with nothing but brawn to boast, defied even him, necks stiff as boards.
"Master."
Hugo, gloved fists clenched, wore battered armor over his usual neat attire. They might scoff less if they knew its worth, but it looked like discarded junk from a junk shop.
"Master, huh? Some young master playing boss?"
"That's right. What do you want?"
"We're taking charge. We'll claim your cut too. Sit back and watch. Be grateful we won't kill you on his lordship's orders."
"Hmm. Just to be sure—don't you see that?"
Marhal pointed. There stood Strekl, cloak barely hiding glimpses of full plate with every shift.
"You banking on that? Hey, big lug. Come at me."
"...You talking to me?"
"Yeah, you oversized lump. That armor's just fancy fake plating, right?"
Strekl learned people could transcend imagination in insults, mind blanking. He gaped like a fool. His scarred neck and fierce face suddenly evoked a dim-witted alley beggar.
That only emboldened Azenman's men further. Laughter, sneers. Low, mocking chuckles drilled into Strekl's ears.
He hardened. The expression—never shown even in training—made Marin and Bayola flinch and step back instinctively. The leers from Azenman's crew faded to irrelevance.
"Marhal. Mind if I handle this?"
"No killing. We're outnumbered overall. No sense thinning our side."
"No killing, then."
Strekl advanced on the men, donning his side-helmet. Mockery thickened, piercing the helm unbidden.
Odd helmet, sure. But it sours the mood.
He'd finally claimed his coveted helm. But its merchant-owner, a collector, had a craftsman mod it with feather-like iron wires dangling everywhere, dyed rainbow hues that shimmered with motion. Other helms existed, but none fit Strekl's head.
"I dislike naming myself. But for comrades who died at my back, I must this once. High knight of the Duchy, Strekl."
"St—"
The man's words cut short. Strekl's fist sent him tumbling sideways like a scarecrow.
Silence gripped the rest. These were veterans of years in the field, battles big and small. Over half from West or Duchy. They knew the demon wars, the heroes the Duchy hid.
A Duchy man finally spoke, voice strained. Elite as Azenman's picks were, none matched Strekl's prowess or fame.
"The real Strekl?"
"Some imposter running around? The nobles would love that."
"Why's a big shot like you here?"
"Coin. Anyone griping about command, step up. None? Then we lead."
"If you command personally, no complaints."
Those who knew Strekl's name trusted his skill. But Marhal? As the fallen man said, he had no standout feats or fame to eyes like theirs. Absurd to anyone who knew him even slightly.
"A man I vouch for. Need more?"
"...No, sir."
The man looked grudging but nodded at Strekl's word.
"Wasn't bad throwing down for real, but good's good. Hoist that one-shot wonder onto a horse and let's roll."
Strekl mounted first; others followed suit. Fifty-odd horses thundered across the plain.
Open plains made ambushes tough. Common wisdom. Time from horizon-spot to approach gave ample prep if foes charged straight. Not skirting past.
Hiding in dug pits for hours or days was grueling. Routes shifted often in long hauls; one detour wasted it all.
No one foresaw the coming raid.
Night Dew saw futures. Usually days or hours ahead, rarely farther unless pivotal. He'd glimpsed this assault months ago, before the emperor's throne-shaking words.
In the carriage, he fiddled with the chest before him. Solid iron, stuffed with gold and gems. Three here, one more in the rear carriage.
Yurel was a top contender, but no trifle sum even for him. Rumored backed by many mystic trackers too. What drove them? Likely the third carriage's contents, unknown even to Night Dew.
I can guess, vaguely.
Futures weren't real till witnessed. He leaned out.
First time in the West, but he'd seen this vista. From his vision: ground collapsing, horses plummeting into pits, spikes rising, explosives blasting. No bandit's handiwork. Gunpowder was mages' and smiths' rare domain.
Azenman led it. A national quartermaster would know powder dealers.
Chaos erupts; the hundred-odd "invincible" Western superhumans fall helplessly. Amid melee, a monster births. And she dies.
"Mage?"
"What's up? Nothing should happen."
"No, your face looks awful."
Night Dew drew a vial from his bosom. Homeland dew, his magic's core, heart's haven. He peered into it.
Futures should appear. Lately, one vision dominated: the "vanished" beast, a woman devoured by it. Her regretless face, pitiable yet beautiful, drew his gaze despite dread.
Expression drained from Night Dew's face. The knight beside panicked. The unflappable future-seer, unruffled on the road, now showed chaos for the first time.
Night Dew couldn't compose himself. No future showed. It was gone.
Hiiing! Horses whinnied; the carriage lurched. Earsplitting blasts rang.
His vial shattered on the floor. The knight smashed the door, leaping out.
The foreseen future began.
But Night Dew's face twisted in turmoil.
"The future's gone? Why?"
Magic, mystery crumbled. Terror of lifelong history erased engulfed him.
Yet a breeze stirred in his chest. If the future truly vanished, perhaps she lived.
Neighs and screams of men and horses. Clutching dread and hope, Night Dew stepped into the blood-soaked fray beyond the carriage.