Chapter 9: The Weight of History
Marhal emerged onto the surface. Behind him sprawled the rubble of the collapsed wall, and a few corpses lay scattered about.
What kind of guts does someone who faints at the sight of blood have to come to the West? You couldn't live in the West without seeing blood. Even if she avoided fights, she couldn't stop drunks beating each other bloody with their fists. Bayola might get a pass, but her guard, Rebella, should have known what the West was like. It was strange that she'd brought her imperial charge here anyway.
Bayola spoke up. She said it was because she hadn't seen real monsters.
Marhal smiled bitterly. Who’s talking to whom?
The Hero who cleaved the skies. The mage who overturned the earth. The saint who regrew severed limbs. The thief who claimed a hundred lives in a blink. And one utterly helpless child. Only Marhal in the whole world knew the helplessness that powerless boy had felt amid those monsters—who transcended superhumans to become inhuman. Only the boy who'd half-miserably clung to a place among them remembered that desperate powerlessness.
A scraping sound came from behind—the drag of iron against the ground. Rebella was hauling Strekl up by his legs. Every time she climbed a stair, his head thunked against the steps.
“Hey, just carry him. You're a superhuman. He'll get a concussion like that.”
“The size difference makes it tough. And high knights don't get hurt this easily. He could take a brick to the head and be fine. I've got to look after Her Highness.”
Rebella dumped Strekl roughly on the ground and went back inside, grabbing Bayola's hand to lead her up. Marhal asked the two as they surfaced.
“Why'd you come to the West? A princess who faints at blood—you know she can't survive here.”
“I have no obligation to tell you.”
“You'd have died if you'd stayed in the palace.”
“Your Highness?!”
Bayola glanced around, saw nothing to sit on, and plopped down on the bare dirt. She hugged her knees and curled into a ball.
“Kids from old noble houses are born with special powers.”
“Heaven bestowed their nobility. Does anyone not know that?”
Nobles were exalted. Their abilities proved heaven had granted them nobility. Defying nobles meant defying heaven itself. Everyone, West or East, heard it from birth.
Not all nobles were special. But some truly were, born that way. The history they'd accumulated made them so. It wasn't heaven that made them noble—they'd forged their own nobility through history. But few knew that secret, so most revered noble birth as inherently special.
Bayola shook her head. She uttered words no imperial should: denying her bloodline's authority.
“No. Their power isn't from heaven. They just... know a bit more than others and use it shrewdly.”
“They know a lot and wield it well. That's what the world calls talent. People who call it 'shrewdness' are usually the losers trampled by the talented.”
Bayola flinched. She buried her face between her knees.
“...Maybe. History holds power. In people or things— the older and more storied, the stronger the power it wields.”
“Your Highness, that's classified.”
The secret rulers monopolized. So covert, even the punishment for breaking the unspoken pact was undefined. One thing was certain: leaking it meant no imperial was safe. Especially now, with succession unclear.
“No one's here to snitch. My words won't reach the palace.”
“What if I report you to the palace?”
“Who'd believe a mere mercenary?”
“You're not a total fool, then.”
“I'm not a fool! Though... maybe I'd be better off if I were...”
Excitement to gloom in a flash—Marhal shot Rebella a sympathetic look, the poor woman doomed to chase Bayola's moods forever. The recipient scowled, oblivious.
“Father—Viktorma Muesilrigo II—is hunting Bachea Empire's 500-year history. He declared he'd cede the throne to whoever uncovers it.”
“Archaeologists and historians will be emperors. The Muet Empire's judgment is impressive.”
“I'm serious. The capital's scholars, archaeologists, and famous excavator mercenaries are already bought by imperial factions. Word'll hit the West in months. That's how grand history is. The most relatable for ordinary folk? Knights. Knight training is a form of history. That's why knight houses produce strong knights generation after generation.”
“I get that history is powerful. But what does that have to do with this?”
A heavy baritone cut in.
“The accumulated becomes special. Nobles know and exploit it. Were they always like that? Everything has a beginning. The special ones who forged the first.”
It was Strekl. He slowly pushed himself upright from where he'd lain.
“Damn, dizzy. Lost too much blood.”
“Waking up in that state is the real surprise.”
“Battlefields don't coddle the wounded. Move till your last breath if you want to live.”
Strekl's face was corpse-pale. Any normal person would faint seeing it move—but he seemed used to it.
“Only a few nobles grasp that accumulation—history—equals power. Knights, solo-training superhumans, eccentrics? Talent. Some stack it better, faster than others. Their once is others' day; their day, others' lifetime. Born ordinary but etch your name in history? Truly monstrous if born noble too. Like the Holy Empire's saints.”
“You've seen a saint, then.”
Strekl shed his gauntlet and forearm guard. A long scar ran down his left forearm.
“This arm got severed fighting demons. The one who reattached it was her—before joining the Hero Party. Not like those quack priests peddling saints' wares. Inhuman. A miracle beyond human. I'd believe her God's incarnation.”
“Thought you were a cool-headed realist. Turns out a devout believer.”
“Faith? The Holy Empire's just nobles with different history. I believe in her—loathe the Empire itself.”
Grind. Strekl gnashed his teeth. Even that sounded lethal from a high knight.
Holy Empire. Political bloc that worshipped God yet never budged when priests were needed most. No aid from the Empire either. They should have moved—professing to serve God and aid the needy. But in the demon war, the Holy Empire dawdled till the end. Field priests were faithful individuals—no imperial flags, no holy knights in sight.
“God? Tell 'em to fuck off. They serve money and power, not Him.”
“Calm down. You'll collapse in that state.”
“I know my body. Imperial princess, that's your point—your siblings are the 'good stackers.'”
“Right. Three especially. Eldest Imaril felled a palace guard at five. Fifth Yurel, genius mage hailed by mystics. Tenth Seonik, monster mastering sword, spell, and scholarship.”
'I'll take it from here,' Rebella interjected.
“And Her Highness commands ancient imperial tongue best among royals. Harmless talent—until His Majesty declared it key.”
“Bachea Empire and ancient imperial are inseparable.”
“Exactly. So she couldn't stay in the palace. Safe for now, but not forever. Best to build strength beyond imperial reach. But someone's already moved against us.”
Rebella's face twisted. Her dozen guards dead—she'd failed. Returning was walking into fire. She didn't know the enemy. But one bold enough to hit the princess's personal guard wouldn't let Bayola—who'd left and returned from the West—off easy. Next would be subtler, deadlier daggers at their throats.
“Just hire someone fluent in ancient imperial. She's best among royals—not the world.”
“Her Highness's tutor is Muet Empire's top ancient imperial expert. Head of a whole school. Everyone studying it there knows her.”
“Hobby language turns throne-essential refinement—and she's closest to its monopolizing faction.”
“Precisely.”
Fit for an imperial princess—her life no smoother.
Marhal stood. One had knightly physique but only knew ancient imperial—a flower in armor. The other seemed knowledgeable but green. Last, a patient too weak to move. Only Marhal could handle physical work.
“Time for dinner and camp setup.”
“I'll help.”
“Patient, you sit.”
“Leave me with those two?”
Strekl eyed him like he'd lost his mind. Natural for a ducal knight facing an imperial royal. But these weren't ordinary.
“They won't kill you.”
“Won't lose to greenhorns either.”
“Then stay here.”
Strekl rose stubbornly. He wobbled but straightened. Marhal saw the strain plain as day—but couldn't stop someone so bullheaded.
“Entrance then. Dead horses nearby.”
Leaving Bayola and Rebella, Marhal and Strekl followed the wall ruins. Rounding a boulder hid them from view. Strekl leaned against it, panting.
“See? Told you you'd drop.”
“Hah. Hah. Better than dying eyes-open.”
“Think those two can manage?”
“Cornered folk do anything.”
“You know that's you, right?”
Strekl shut up. Marhal approached a nearby fallen horse, near death from exhaustion. Its rider had whipped it to the city for the land race, then ditched it. Horses might be the race's biggest victims—dragged by human greed.
“Next life, be born human... Nah. Skip rebirth—live in heaven.”
Stab. His dagger slit its throat. Marhal carved edible raw parts and returned.
“Eat.”
“This?”
“War vets eat everything but shit, right?”
“Mention shit while eating. Disgusting.”
Strekl grimaced but took the raw meat and chewed. Taste and texture secondary—eat, digest, make blood first.
“No bowl for blood?”
“Barbarian.”
Marhal rummaged the horse's packs, found a wooden bowl. Strekl filled the chipped vessel and downed the blood like drink, devouring meat for five.
“Feeling alive now.”
Strekl stood—movements far stronger.
“Knight via stomach... Hands steady now. Let's prep camp. Need supplies to hold till surveyors.”
“First, a question. What's your tie to the saint?”
“Want to call myself disciple, but my learning's too shallow. Why the face? Answered, didn't I?”
“...Didn't expect honesty. Know what happens if it leaks?”
“Holy Empire inquisitors and holy knights come hunting. They won't reach here anyway. Even if they do, won't catch me. Move fast—nights are quick this season.”
Leaving dazed Strekl, Marhal stripped more meat from the fresh kill and scavenged usable gear from nearby dumps. A saint's disciple picking battlefield scraps like a crow. Strekl felt an indescribable emotion.
“What're you doing? Time's short.”
Strekl shuffled over, picking through discards. High knight and saint's disciple bent at the waist till dusk.