Rakuin no Monshou - Book 10: Chapter 7: Envoy

Part 1

Salamand Fogel had been captured. Princess Vileena had been taken back by Garbera. Those two pieces of news flew around Solon at roughly the same time as each other.

Because the information had gotten mixed together, for a time, the rumour was that Mephius and Garbera had fought. Because of a gag order from the emperor, the Imperial Guards who had been present at the scene were vague about what had happened.

The garbled reports naturally made their way to all the other cities and before long, they had also reached Birac. Just as he had when the princess had absconded, Crown Prince Gil Mephius remained calm from start to finish. Outwardly, that is. Orba’s inner state of mind was a whole different matter.

He had, of course, sent people to the Solon area to try and obtain information that was as accurate as possible, but currently, even the information flying around the capital was chaotic.

Unexpectedly, the one who had taken prompt action, at a time like this, was Gowen. He had taken the initiative to have his men and friends circulate reports throughout Birac that “it was Garbera’s Princess Vileena who captured Salamand,” in order to bolster the spirits of the crown prince’s faction.

Orba heard that rumour through the grapevine. Ever since he had learnt of her departure from Birac, he had somewhat suspected that that was her intention. But it was an action so reckless and thoughtless that he almost wondered if she was planning to die.

No – while his head was almost boiling in anger, Orba’s chest was chilled to the point of being freezing, and with it, there was also a part of his mind that could analyse the princess’ actions. She probably would be ready to cast her life aside.

Having seen through Gil Mephius’ impatience and anxiety, the Garberan princess had taken action to help reduce them. And she had chosen the dangerous and fierce method of leading soldiers and confronting the traitor head-on. Of course, it probably had not entirely been for the crown prince’s sake. That girl had been endowed from birth with the perspective of royalty. It was an perspective that even Orba’s hardships had not allowed him to acquire, he was not even sure he understood, and with which she saw a much wider world and future than he did.

The images of the western queen Marilène and the loyal Mephian retainer Simon Rodloom abruptly appeared in his mind. They had thrown away their own future, as well as the reputation they could have left for posterity, and had sacrificed themselves for what they believed in.

If it came to it, in a sense, Shique and the many soldiers who had died when Orba rose in rebellion were also the same. Vileena Owell might also have become one of them.

And now she was said to be in Garbera. There was a rumour that she considered herself to have fulfilled her obligations towards Mephius and had returned to her own country, but Orba did not believe it.

As if that idiot would be that reasonable. If she was that wise of a princess, it’d be a lot easier to deal with her.

He did not currently know the details, so all he could do was continue to gather information from the area around Solon. Now that Salamand was gone, they should be able to regain some momentum. The wind, however, had already changed once, and he was worried that now it would not blow in the direction he hoped for.

In that situation, someone new came to call on Birac. With his young and distinctly virile features, he gave the impression that he was there to volunteer as a mercenary, however he introduced himself as “from the Imperial Guards serving directly under the emperor.” As proof of his position, he produced a handgun engraved with the crest of imperial family of Mephius.

“I wish to meet with His Highness,” he informed the guards at the gate.

Although the soldier who took the gun into custody thought him really suspicious-looking, he had orders to – report anything that catches your attention, no matter how trivial it is. Orba had thoroughly hammered that into his men.

As a result, about an hour after the man had first appeared, the gun had passed into Gil Mephius’ hands. From the looks of it, there did not seem to be any trick. However, contrary to expectations that he was an official envoy from the emperor, the man had apparently insisted that he was “a former Imperial Guard.”

“I’ll see him.”

“It’s dangerous,” Pashir, who was with him in the room, said without a second’s delay. “He is probably pretending to be disaffected with the emperor so that he can strike you when your guard is down.”

“Even if that’s the case, with you sitting in, it’ll difficult for him.”

Orba wanted information. Even if it was a trap or a lie, the very intention of whoever attempted either was information in and of itself. In this situation, in which waiting was impossible, intelligence gathering was the greatest weapon that Orba could collect, besides there were measures in place to ensure his defence.

The young man who was brought into the room gave his name as Alnakk. Being in his mid-twenties, he was certainly young, but the look in his eyes gave an impression of courage. His right arm, however, was bandaged and in a sling. Probably because he judged it suspicious, Pashir’s vigilance only increased.

“So you’re an Imperial Guard serving my father?”

“That was in the past… Right, it must be about a week since I left Solon.”

“Then it wasn’t that long ago. Why did you come here?”

“The princess of Garbera entrusted me with something for you, Your Highness.”

“For me?” For a moment, Orba’s voice almost rose in excitement but he just managed to bring it under control. “And why you?”

“I accompanied the princess on her subjugation of Salamand.”

Alnakk then explained the sequence of events from the princess’ audience with the emperor, to her leading a hundred Imperial Guards to face Salamand. And then –

“The princess was shot at by a friend of mine.”

“What?” Lying on top of the desk, Orba’s fist twitched. He placed his hand on top of it as though to hold it down. “Say that again.”

“The princess was shot at. The bullet actually hit the horse she was riding on, but she was thrown from it and was, for a while, knocked almost unconscious.”

Since it was essential to bring her to safety as soon as possible, her brother, Prince Zenon, apparently took her to Zaim Fortress. Just before he did so, the princess entrusted Alnakk with:

“This.”

Alnakk carefully brought something out of his breast pocket and placed it on the desk. It was a gold medallion engraved with the flag of Garbera and stained slightly red.

The former Imperial Guard probably noticed the change in Gil’s expression.

“The blood does not belong to the princess. It’s mine,” he noted.

As though startled, Orba drew his eyes away from the medallion.

“I doubt you received Father’s permission to come here.”

“That is why I am a ‘former’ Imperial Guard. I do not have any family, so it will not cause any trouble to anyone.”

He spoke easily, but there was no doubt that he had risked his life by coming here. Even so, his expression was cheerful. Looking carefully, there were tears in his eyes.

“Please be at ease. I was ready to do – sorry – to undertake this even in exchange of my own life. I am truly glad that I was able to safely deliver the medallion into your hands, Your Highness.” His voice trembled.

Having done what he needed to, Alnakk turned to leave the office. Pashir stood next and was about to lead him out when –

“Your Highness,” Alnakk stopped abruptly and turned back.

“What?”

“No, nothing….”

“Say it.”

“I-In that case, please pardon my rudeness. Your Highness, please go fetch the princess sometime soon. I am certain that her intention is not to remain in Garbera. She surely wishes to return to Your Highness’ side. With that…” he said no more.

With an expression that could not even be called a strained smile, Orba waved his hand to urge Alnakk to leave.

The door shut.

Orba’s gaze was fixed intently on the medallion. It was a small thing, no more than five centimetres in diameter. The design was of a horse and sword at the centre, engraved with words meaning “eternal friendship”.

Orba’s eyes slowly became blurry.

Damn it, why?

An emotion so strong he could not understand it was burning at a point in his chest. In no time at all, it had sped to his heart and filled it.

I don’t get it.

He muttered inwardly.

The princess’ action – no, that wasn’t it. So why was it that the corners of his eyes were burning, why was he practically shaking from emotion?

In the end, Orba was not able to identify what it was.

Pashir led Alnakk through the mansion’s corridors. They had walked in silence until about halfway when Alnakk suddenly spoke.

“I’m surprised.”

Pashir sent him a searching glance. It’s meaning was clearly shut up, but Alnakk paid no attention.

“You’re this year’s Felipe, aren’t you – the runner-up at the gladiatorial tournament. I’ve only just noticed. Staggeringly good with a sword, but more importantly, the ring-leader who challenged Mephius.”

“…”

“You were taken up by Crown Prince Gil Mephius and so avoided execution. And it looks like you’re still following His Highness. So after all, is he that amazingly compelling, that he can fascinate and attract people?”

“Who knows,” Pashir answered shortly. He seemed to take the chance to change the topic. “Enough about me. What are you going to do from now on? You can’t go back to Solon.”

“I’m not big on gambling or women, so the pay I’ve gotten until now will hold me for a while. After that, I might look for a position in Birac.”

“You’re not going to apply to be a mercenary?”

Pashir still had his suspicions about the man’s real intentions. He took into consideration that Alnakk might have forged a connection to the prince thanks to the medallion so that, using it, he could then act as a spy or an assassin. However, Alnakk shook his head.

“That’s… well, I’m also strong. I’m strong and I piled up achievements by taking one life after another, but being made an Imperial Guard actually took me away from fighting. Before, when there was talk about fighting breaking out in Nedain and how we might be ordered to march to the front any day soon, I suddenly got so scared it was unbearable. I’m not fit for war anymore.”

A crease appeared in Pashir’s brow. If what he said was true, this man was one hell of an eccentric.

“Hey there, Pashir. And this gentleman is?” Miguel, another eccentric of Pashir’s acquaintance, called out to him from the other end of the passageway.

This former gladiator had taken part in the revolt against Mephius along with him. Although he could have left when the prince’s Imperial Guards were disbanded, the young man had given as reason for staying that “this seems more interesting.” As a result of which he had gone through the unpleasant experience of almost being executed in Apta. You might have thought that he would have had enough by then, but he was still here in Birac, again with the position of an imperial guard.

“Everyone was making a fuss about an official envoy having arrived from Solon.”

“I’m nothing that grand,” Alnakk gave a wry smile. “I just came to make a personal delivery.”

“What? And here I thought we were finally heading for a large-scale battle.”

Blond-haired, blue-eyed Miguel Tes might look effeminate, but the truth was that he was an attention-seeker who was driven by the ambition of one day having his name resound throughout the whole world.

He was currently lamenting the fact that he had not done anything particularly noteworthy during the recent battle at Tolinea. Especially compared to Pashir, whose feats had been outstanding: he had come to the crown prince’s aid when he had been in peril, and had then mowed down enemies at the vanguard. Miguel was jealous and envious of Pashir’s achievements.

“Is it true that you’re an Imperial Guard directly under the emperor’s control? Everyone there’s the hand-picked elite, right? How strong are they?”

Confronted with Miguel’s persistent inquisitiveness, Pashir cleared his throat. Because of the way he had come calling, it was inevitable that Alnakk should be a topic of gossip. Still, they should not be loudly talking back and forth where there were eyes to see and ears to hear.

Just then, Alnakk suddenly halted.

“Miss,” he called out.

Pashir and Miguel’s eyes moved to one side. At a bend in the passageway was a young woman who looked like a lady’s maid.

“Miss Layla, it’s you, right?”

He was about to rush towards her, but the woman he had called Layla went so pale they could see it even at a distance and said, in a faint voice, “y-you have the wrong person,” before hurriedly turning around and leaving.

Alnakk ran after her for two or three steps, then stopped. Miguel tilted his head to one side.

“Is that a popular pick-up technique in Solon?”

“It’s nothing like that,” Alnakk answered with a serious expression.

“An acquaintance?”

“She… She looks a lot like one.”

This time, it was Pashir doing the asking and Alnakk who was giving short answers. He had indeed known Layla Jayce. Her father, Rone Jayce, had been his superior officer for a while and he had been invited to his house several times. He remembered being introduced to Rone’s daughter, and being told that she would soon be getting married.

Rone was a taciturn and stern superior, but at those times – and at those times only – his face was that of a gentle father. Then, he and his family had abruptly disappeared. And that, right after his daughter’s wedding ceremony.

The matter had never been officially announced however.

Naturally, all sorts of speculation had flown around. There were theories that he had been sent on a secret mission to a foreign country; that he had run away after committing some kind of crime; or even that, having provoked His Majesty’s wrath, he had been secretly executed.

And now, Layla was in Birac. Alnakk did not believe that it was a coincidental resemblance. That she had run away had only strengthened that conviction.

That being so, however, she must have her reasons for not wanting to meet an acquaintance from the past. It was, after all, abnormal for her to have vanished right after her wedding ceremony. So Alnakk had preferred not to question her.

Miguel had already lost interest and was asking Alnakk all sorts of things about the current situation in Solon, but Pashir, noticing Alnakk’s conflicted look, gazed warily at the direction Layla had disappeared.

Part 2

This time around, he invited the four people for supper.

The four in question were Folker, Zaas, Yuriah and Walt. As usual, Orba had no intention of diving right from the start into the real issue, but then, the people present should have had a fair idea of what this was about. When they were roughly halfway through the meal, he asked –

“Have you changed your minds?”

“Of course not!”

It was Zaas who had come right out with that answer. The other three remained silent, although not for the same reasons, and the quality of each of their silences differed from the others. Folker had his eyes closed and seemed plunged into thought, Yuriah looked bewildered, and Walt sullen.

When the other three people failed to back him up, Zaas irritably got up from his chair and glared at them as though they were enemies.

“That’s fine,” said Orba. “Zaas, you’ll be free to leave tomorrow. Nedain, Solon – you can go wherever you want. Head back to your room and hurry up with your preparations.”

He had spoken so easily that Zaas was at a loss for words. He had vigorously risen from his chair as a way of forestalling Gil Mephius’ smooth-talking attempts at persuasion, so losing his target left him confused. Instead, it was Folker who, opening his eyes, asked –

“Is that alright?”

“If he hasn’t changed his mind, then there’s no help for it. Would you have preferred me to say I’d kill you if you didn’t obey me?”

“If nothing else, that would have been easier to understand.”

“Yeah, I’d probably think that too if I were in your shoes. But then, that would mean being the same as my father. And in that case, if I were to take Solon, there wouldn’t be any great difference in Mephius’ future… What is it?”

Orba scowled at Zaas. Still standing in front of his chair, Zaas Sidious looked completely at sea.

“W-What do you mean?”

“I told you to go back to your room. It should go without saying that I can’t stand to feed freeloaders any more than this. Leave at once.”

Zaas opened his eyes wide and goggled at him. He could not stop himself from muttering something but then soon strode out of the dining room and left, swinging his shoulders with a deliberately jaunty air. Folker seemed to laugh slightly, “what a harsh thing to say to young Zaas.”

“He’s also a general in charge of an entire division. Next time we meet, he’ll probably have become a more formidable enemy,” Orba gave a reply that was not really a reply, then, “how about you, all of you? Have you made up your minds to help me?”

“Regarding that… say I were, hypothetically, to agree,” Folker retracted his smile and asked, “would you, Your Highness, trust us, we who had pledged our allegiance to His Majesty until just the day before?” “Saying that retainers shouldn’t serve two masters sounds good, but…”

Orba brought Zaas’ plate in front of him and ate the meat that was still on it. After that short interval passed, “That’s the same as saying that you want to blindly trust someone and thrown away your own ability to think. Right, you might as well say that you want to turn yourselves into slaves. I want retainers who think with their own heads and use their judgement to decide whether to swing their swords. Naturally, there will be times when I won’t be able to tell you everything. I might be sparring with the information I share with you, or even give you an order and simply tell you to trust me. Or maybe even simply tell you to fight and die for the country.”

“…”

“But say, for example, His Majesty the Emperor – in order words, your current liege – were to give you an order like ‘believe in me and die for the sake of Mephius’ future’, would you obey? Would you be able to die believing that Mephius would definitely be a better place thanks to your death?”

Folker, Yuriah and Walt felt, with just a slight difference in its intensity, that a sword was being thrust into their chest.

“Then,” Folker leaned forward a little, “if it were Your Highness, could we go to our deaths feeling at ease?”

“That is for you to decide.” Orba’s attitude was like someone pushing away a hand that clung to him. “Perhaps nobody can say that for now. But, if you can look at me now and think that you place enough trust in me as a future ruler, then…”

“Then?”

“Lend me your help. I promise to become a ruler that you can entrust your lives to. And I want you to use your strength to help me become that kind of ruler.”

Folker suddenly opened his eyes wide and bent his neck backwards, exactly as though a flint had struck his forehead.

What do you intend to do after waging war on His Majesty? – It was the answer to the question that Folker had previously shot at him. When he had first been asked that, Orba had not been able to return a clear answer. However, the images of Simon, Vileena, and all the many others who had died in past battles had finally shown the way for him and become a light shining at his feet.

Meanwhile, ever since he had been taken captive in Birac, Folker had spent each day prey to inner turmoil. He did not believe that Mephius was currently fine, and at times he even felt a certain danger from the emperor, Guhl Mephius.

However, he had constantly been plagued with doubts about what would happen to Mephius “afterwards” if he were to criticise the emperor or openly go to war with him. Gil Mephius, the heir apparent, had been known as a feeble-minded youth and, just when he seemed to have started to garner some fame for his heroism, he had passed away from the world of the living. The imperial lineage could not be relied on, yet there did not appear to be anyone within Mephius who would be capable of ruling the country. If it really came down to it, Simon Rodloom, who had recently passed away in an accident, had been a very capable politician who had been deeply trusted by the retainers; but even so, it was uncertain whether he would have been able to carry the country. Above all, it had always been clear that he himself had no intention of doing so.

In which case…

In which case, even if it was under a reign of terror, even if it was under a dictator, the country was at least still held together.

No, it was probably not only Folker. Even though Mephius had lost countless able and talented people in the long war against Garbera, there were still plenty of statesmen and military men left who worried about their country’s future. Did most of them not probably feel the same way as he did?

When Emperor Guhl obstinately wanted to continue the war with Garbera; when he forcibly dissolved the Council and concentrated all power in the hands of the imperial family; when slave revolts broke out throughout the country; and also, when he decided on an armed invasion of the west… There were many then who asked – is this really alright?

And who had come to the conclusion that – there’s no helping it ‘for now’. He himself had half-convinced himself of it.

While Folker Baran had been spending his time here in Birac, he had of course continued to think about it, but in the end, he had still reached the same conclusion. However, each time he did so, a voice in his heart asked –

But now. What about now, now that time has started moving?

The thought smashed Folker’s skull with the weight of a steel sword and gouged out his heart with the sharpness of a spear.

Indeed, this was ‘now.’

Crown Prince Gil Mephius had revived and revolted against his father, Emperor Guhl.

With only a small force, Gil had magnificently smashed through the army that the emperor had sent to suppress him. And, obviously enough, Folker himself had been defeated.

According to recent information, he had heard that the Garberan Princess, Vileena, had personally gone to reason with and drive back a scoundrel from her native land who had intruded upon Mephian territory. The young – or rather, the almost childlike – pair had now taken action. The old shell was being broken and new life was arising.

And thus, now.

Now, indeed.

Folker Baran drained his glass of its remaining water.

He inhaled, exhaled.

A sense of being refreshed spread to every corner of his chest.

“Understood.” Folker stood up as he spoke. He struck his right fist against his chest and clicked his heels together. “I, Folker Baran, will henceforth abandon my allegiance to the emperor and devote my life to Crown Prince – no, to Mephius’ future emperor, Lord Gil Mephius.”

In that instant, Walt leapt to his feet with the force of a gale. He parted his thick lips, looking ready to denounce Folker as an enemy…

“Likewise, I, Walt, will also devote my life to you.”

He stood in the same posture as the commander of the Black Steel Sword Division.

“L-Likewise, Yuriah Mattah.”

Setting aside Yuriah – the commander of the Bow of Gathering Clouds Division – who appeared to have been unable to hold out in that atmosphere, Walt’s decision was probably also the end of result of anguish and careful deliberation, and the gaze he turned towards Orba no longer held either animosity or desire for revenge.

“Good,” Orba also rose to his feet.

One after another, he took their fists in his hand and brought it to his own chest. It was the Mephian-style oath between lord and retainer.

Still wearing the mask of Gil Mephius, Orba said, “I will hold fast to your lives. To use them or throw them away depends on me. However, do not forget that you have eyes to ascertain how your lives are used, mouths to speak to me, and heads to think.”

After their discussion was over, Orba returned to his own room. With him were, of course, the guards that Pashir had assigned. This evening, one of them was a familiar face.

Miguel Tes. At the time of the Founding Festival, he had crossed swords with the masked Imperial Guard, Orba. Naturally however, he had not noticed that his current target for protection was the opponent he had fought against back then.

Pine torches and lamps had been lit all along the corridors. Perhaps because it was cloudy, the day had darkened early. The wind carried a hint of moisture and, unusually for the area, the temperature had dropped, so there might be rain coming.

He returned to his room. Miguel and the other guard stood on watch at the other side of the door.

“A change of clothes.”

Normally, Dinn, his page, would immediately have rushed up. The room was strangely silent.

Has he gone out?

Orba was about to continue to walk in without giving it any more thought when suddenly his feet halted. His nose twitched. As for why –

The room smells different – he sensed.

What, specifically, was different, he did not know. But his deeply-rooted survival instinct had been aroused.

There was clearly something different mixed in with the air he was used to smelling. Someone unfamiliar had set foot in the room. His eyes were suddenly pulled in a particular direction.

The desk he used for reading and writing. A carefully folded letter had been placed on top of it. He walked towards it and spread it open.

In that instant, the innumerable plans, stratagems and future expectations that he had built up from making Folker and the others his allies all soundlessly collapsed and vanished.

I know about you – it said.

It continued: Tonight, at the hour of the Two Dragon Eyes, I will be waiting at the old tower in the southwest corner of the estate. Come alone. If you do not, I will cancel this evening’s appointment and will instead spread Your Imperial Highness’ secret to the four corners of Birac.

For a while, Orba did not move a single muscle. The beating of his heart seemed to strike directly in his ears. As for the “secret”, there was only one he could think of.

That he was not Crown Prince Gil Mephius.

It was so very obvious that a somewhat bitter smile flashed across his face. His expression quickly tightened though. It was equally obvious that he could not allow his real identity to be revealed at this stage of the game.

Who is it? Who could know about it?

To tell the truth, he did not have the confidence to say that his disguise was so flawless that nobody would be able to see through it. When he had been in Solon, he had tried to pay attention to even the smallest things, but after temporarily disappearing then reviving in Apta, he had certainly often overstretched himself. He had even taken a spear and fought at the front lines. He had undoubtedly done things which would have been inconceivable of the former Gil, who had been known as a fool.

If one were to suppose that he had, for example, deeply knowledgeable retainers, capable subordinates or strong backers, then what he done until then was still just barely within the realm of possibility. His action of heading towards the front and most dangerous place in battle, however, was something that those who knew the former Gil would find difficult to believe.

Moreover, there was something else that was unclear.

Do they know as far back as my being a sword slave and that the replacement happened at the time of the wedding ceremony with Vileena; or do they simply mean that the Gil who showed up in Apta is an impostor set up by Rogue and the others to oppose the emperor?

If it was the former, it meant that they had all of Orba’s secrets in their grasp. If it was the latter, there was a high chance that it was at the level of their having suspicions.

Orba was of course not the real Gil, however the current Gil was the same as the one who had taken part in the pre-nuptial ceremony at Seirin Valley and who had been involved in everything since then. The circumstances around that were complicated and Orba’s own thoughts became tangled.

I just don’t know.

The tower at the southwest end of the estate must once have been used as a watchtower. Orba had a good knowledge of Birac since he had gone walking about a lot while staying there. After the extension works, the tower had become unnecessary and the lower floors were now used as a storehouse. It was a place that practically no one went to after the sun had set.

How many people could lie in ambush? It was not a very big tower. Even if the roof was made use of for lookouts, you could not fit in more than five or six soldiers.

Right.

Orba had made up his mind. It said to go alone. It had not been thirty minutes since he had seen the letter. And this had not given him much time in the first place. If he had been given a day or even half a day, he might have been able to come up with a plan, but as it was, every second counted.

Having set his mind, the tension that had been piercing his body and heart was replaced by the feeling of being full of energy. The sensation of having turned into a beast prowling in the fields looking for prey was oddly nostalgic.

It was a lot like the time he had been strutting around in Solon wearing the faces of both a gladiator and a crown prince, walking a tightrope on which he had to stay one step ahead.

I can’t die – he thought. If he died, his slave brand would be discovered and his companions would be treated as no more than despicable traitors.

This time, his real identity might already have been discovered, which meant that – I’m already as good as dead. Orba smiled at the strange thought that was.

Unlike his earlier, bitter smile, this one was somewhat ferocious.

This time around, will I be buried as a corpse, or will I survive to rise again?

It felt as though this was the crucial moment to go through here in Birac, where time had held fast. When he placed his sword at his waist, Orba’s mind tasted something close to ecstasy.

Part 3

The first thing he did was call for Miguel and the other soldier who were on guard at the door.

He ordered them to do a bunch of unimportant tasks. Bring him the duty roster for his personal guards since he wanted to rearrange it; ask the supervisor in charge of the army air carriers when he planned to finish replacing the parts on the new model of ships; and other similarly trivial tasks. Then –

“I’m so tired, I can’t keep myself awake. I want this all checked by the end of the day so go and get through it immediately.”

Since there was a lot to do, he ordered them to split the work between them. They looked disapproving, as expected.

“Commander Pashir gave us strict orders not to leave you.”

“Do you place Pashir’s orders above those of the crown prince?” Orba shouted angrily.

Miguel and the other one looked sour, but the tasks would not take more than a few minutes. The two of them left.

While they were gone, Orba changed clothes. He put on light armour and placed the iron mask over his face. He then waited about ten minutes outside the room for Miguel and the other to come back, at which point, he pretended to have only just come out the door.

“Oh? Iron Tiger. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Miguel raised his eyebrows. “What have you been doing up until now?”

“I received a secret mission from His Highness. Right, have you finished what he asked you to? He’s gone to sleep for the night. Says he’s leaving the rest to you.”

As he spoke, Orba brazenly walked up to them. The two men who had been made to run around at the prince’s whim shrugged and went back to stand guard in front of the door.

Orba went along the corridor and arrived at the entrance of the mansion. Recognising him, the soldiers on regular guard duty naturally stood to attention.

He knew that they had just changed over at dusk, so even if Orba suddenly appeared, he did not need to worry that they would be suspicious about when he had entered the mansion.

He stepped out into the gardens.

A thicket of trimmed shrubs ran alongside the building. There was no one around. Orba squatted down beside them and removed the iron mask. He then headed towards the southwest tower.

A single drop of water splashed onto his shoulder. A light rain had begun to fall. The wind had also turned chilly.

However, with each step that he took, Orba’s blood seemed to squirm noisily and his body temperature was on the high side.

Who would be waiting for him at his destination? An assassin sent by the emperor, or perhaps a traitor within their own camp? Or perhaps –

Garda.

The name flashed through his mind. He suddenly remembered the conversation he had had with the elderly strategist, Ravan Dol, when he had been to the west recently. An unidentified assassin had targeted Ax’s life, and the one to drive them away had been yet another unknown person. As the latter had been leaving, they had mentioned that:

“Garda is still alive.”

It was Orba himself who had killed the sorcerer who had appeared in the west claiming to be Garda. If there was a plot to kill Ax, it would not be surprising if the assassins stretched their hands out towards Orba too. Sorcerers wielded mysterious powers. Perhaps they had realised that he had the same face as Gil Mephius when they were investigating around Orba.

Well, whatever.

Whether those waiting for him were assassins, sorcerers or members of the Ryuujin tribe, he just needed to settle the matter with steel.

Fighting against the odds is business as usual.

He reached the tower.

He put his hand to the door. It opened unexpectedly easily. On the other hand, it was dusty inside. As he walked up the stair, cobwebs brushed against his head.

There was no light either. A faint light from a nearby mansion entered through a window above him, but visibility was dim. At the top of the tower, there was a room that the soldiers on watch had used to rest in.

So, would a demon appear or would it be a snake? Orba had been inwardly steeling himself for either, but when he finally reached his hand out and pushed open the door, he saw such a completely unexpected figure that his hand involuntarily tightened around the pommel of his sword.

It was Layla.

She was wearing clothes so flimsy that her skin showed through them. She drew near to Orba, her sensual body vividly displayed in the dim light.

Orba’s eyes darted left and right. There were stone walls immediately to either side. It was a small room and it did not look as though anyone else was lurking within it.

Within the room, a single lamp had been hung. A cover had been draped over it, no doubt to prevent light from seeping outside, and it was faintly projecting onto the figure of the woman.

“Your Highness,” Layla called out in a trembling voice.

If anything came, it would be from behind. Orba closed the door at his back.

“Your Highness,” Layla once again called out to him. “Why do you look at me with the eyes of one looking at a stranger? Do you not remember me, Your Highness?”

“Was it you who sent the letter?”

“So after all, even though you did something so horrible, I’m just a commoner girl unworthy of being taken. Will you say that it was not something important enough to be caught in any of the folds of your memories, Your Highness?”

She came closer by another step. Her voice and her entire body were shaking. It did not look as though she was wearing a weapon.

“What are you talking about?”

“You hateful person!” Layla spat out in a loud voice as she twisted her body. “You led me to ruin. You, the successor to a great dynasty… simply on a whim, simply playing around… I had just had my wedding ceremony and you wanted to force me to sleep with you.”

Layla…

At that moment, with startling abruptness, the name suddenly rose to the surface of Orba’s mind.

He had once gone out to Solon with the crown prince’s step-sister, Ineli, and several of his companions. The main purpose had been to accept an invitation from the veteran general, Rogue – the same one who was currently fighting alongside Orba.

On the way back, they had been surrounded by armed ruffians. Looking back on it, the origin of that had been a scheme laid by one of those noble wastrels. The people that he had paid to hire, however, had trampled over that noble’s expectations and had tried to take Ineli and the others hostage.

Whereupon, the noble boy had revealed his name.

“T-The one over there is His Highness Crown prince Gil!”

He had probably intended to intimidate their attackers, but instead, one of the men had flown into a rage.

“Gil Mephius. The bane of Layla, you won’t escape!”

Orba had allowed Ineli and the others to run away then had dealt with their opponents. He had extracted information at gunpoint from the man who had called him “the bane of Layla.”

That was all the man knew. The officer from the Imperial Guards and his family had vanished from Solon a few days later. It had even been said that they had been killed in order to ensure their silence, and so those who had been connected to that wedding had chosen to wipe the event from their memories. Because of it all, the man had lost the will to work and had started resorting to thievery.

That was Layla.

Taking advantage of Orba’s momentary surprise, Layla leapt towards him. The feel of warm flesh enveloped him.

The older girl was clinging to his chest, weeping. Just as he was about to shove her away, he felt a prickling sensation near his armpit.

He instinctively thrust her away by the shoulders.

Layla staggered back and fell to the floor in a large cloud of dust, but when she stood back up, her expression held neither surprise nor reproach. Her lips were merely curved into the slightest of smiles. Orba was going to say something, press her for answers. He was not able to do either of those things.

The world seemed to suddenly violently lurch up and down, his knees lost their strength and he dropped down to them, almost collapsing altogether.

“What did you…” He could not even form his words properly. His tongue was numb and had lost all sensation. It was the same for the area around his mouth and he did not even know if his own mouth was open or shut, so every time he tried to speak, saliva dripped from it. Contrary to his sluggish body, one word was flashing and flickering ferociously in his mind: poison.

He tried to walk towards Layla. He collapsed after just three steps. Despite his loss of bodily sensation, the floor seemed to have melted into mush and he could not even walk straight.

At some point, a dagger had appeared in Layla’s grasp. There was a crest etched into the sheath. The emblem of the imperial family of Mephius. It was something that her father, Rone Jayce, had received when he became an officer of the Imperial Guards.

The blade that slid out caught the faint light of the lamp and gleamed. Slumped forward as he was, Orba just managed to stretch out his hand to the sword at his waist. For a moment, his fingers groped about in thin air. At long last, the came into contact with the hilt.

At the same time, Layla clenched the dagger in an underhand grip and lunged forward. At that instant, although separated by time and space, Gil and Vileena, the two whose countries had decided on their engagement, became similarly caught up in an assassination plot.

He rolled away to avoid it. From a crouching position, he drew his sword. While he staggered from its weight, he extended a foot forwards to brace himself. The world was still trembling. He just barely managed to maintain his stance.

Layla sprang forward once more.

Sword and dagger collided. Since his opponent was a young woman, normally she would have been blown away in an instant, but now, they were competing at almost the same strength.

No, Layla actually seemed to be pushing him back. As both blades shook incessantly, the dagger drew ever closer to Orba’s neck.

Her entire face covered in beads of sweat, her expression transformed into ferociousness, Layla’s smile widened. But by being able to lean all of his weight towards his opponent in that time, Orba had been able to recover his balance. He halted his breathing and wrung out the strength in his abdomen.

Layla was knocked backwards. Orba’s sword hummed. Her expression of pain was swiftly replaced by one of terror.

Orba!

At that moment, he felt as though a woman’s voice struck his ears. Orba gasped and halted his sword.

That voice he had heard was Alice’s. It was not just her voice. Layla’s very expression as she remained frozen in fear was that of the girl who had been his childhood friend.

Why?

Dragged down by the weight of the sword he had swung overhead, Orba could no longer stand and once again fell backwards.

His breathing was ragged. His heart was pounding so violently it seemed to be outside of his body. And he had strange feeling of pain, as though his swollen blood vessels were about to burst through his skin at any moment.

Ah! – amidst his flickering consciousness, Orba suddenly understood.

This was the very scene that he had watched over and over in his nightmares, unable to do anything. In the burning village, a soldier from the Black Armoured Division was catching up to Alice, who was trying to run away. She had fallen down and, with a vulgar smile, the soldier raised his bloodied sword towards her.

It was not a scene that he could have seen with his own eyes, but it was a nightmare that would replay on nights when he could not sleep easy, and it had now been instilled into his mind with the realism of an actual memory.

Thinking about it, Layla and Alice were women in similar circumstances. Purposefully or on a whim, a handful of those who held power had, out of greed and lust, driven their lives off the rails. What was the difference between the revenge Layla had sworn, and the revenge Orba himself had accomplished?

Layla slowly lifted herself up. The still gleaming dagger was a sharp light penetrating Orba’s hazy consciousness.

The shadows of several people raced beneath the starlight.

They were disguised as soldiers, and if someone had called out to halt them, they would surely have realised their faces were unfamiliar. However, there was no one else nearby.

The place they were heading to was the mansion’s southwest tower – in other words, where Orba and Layla were.

The lead shadow stretched its hand out towards the door.

Orba was not aware of the sound of someone running up the stairs, or that of the door being flung open. With the speed of a wild beast swooping down onto its prey, the person threw themselves at Layla’s back just as she was about to swing her dagger down towards Orba.

Layla’s body flew over Orba and rolled to the floor like a bundle of hay propped against a wall.

“Pa…shir,” Orba muttered in a hoarse voice.

It was indeed Pashir. Having witnessed the scene between Alnakk and Layla, he had been keeping an eye on her just in case. Having received a report that she had headed alone towards this tower, he had hurriedly returned from patrol duty and had only just made it in time.

“Are you alright, Prince?”

“Pashir!”

This time, Orba raised his voice with all his strength as several shadows lurking in the darkness leapt out behind Pashir. If it had been anyone other than Pashir, their neck and chest would instantly have been sliced through. Sparks flew as he raised his sword without bothering to turn around to look.

As soon as one was defeated however, another rushed into the room. There were a further two or three behind him. It was pure luck that, in that instant, Orba managed to raise his sword up and parry a blow aimed at his face.

The enemy were outfitted like Mephians, but they swarmed around Orba without a single yell of self-encouragement, or a single threatening word. These were the movements of trained assassins.

Orba edged back towards the wall. Not because he was cornered, but because he wanted to get rid of the blind spot at his back.

Oh – the eyes of one of the assassins gleamed.

The tip of a blade moved to the right, feinted, then fell to the left. Orba drove it back. He had not chased it with his eyes. From the experience of countless battles piled up in his memories, he had guessed – or rather, he had almost been certain – what the enemy’s movements would be.

However, now that he had no strength in either his arms or legs, stopping blow after blow was heavy-going.

Sitting where she had slammed into the wall, Layla watched Orba desperately put up a resistance. The smile on her lips had all but vanished.

Just like Orba, who was suffering from having been poisoned, she was far from being in her usual state. She was hypnotised. The intent to kill Gil Mephius was occupying the upper surface of her consciousness. Although that aim had all but been accomplished, her breathing was ragged and her eyes were open as wide as they could be. There was no sense of relief flooding her chest.

Why? Layla wondered hazily.

What she felt instead was loss. It was a feeling she had already experienced time and time again. She had lost her home country and her fiancé. Her father was almost killed before her eyes. She had seen the western people, who had taken care of her, be hurt.

No, this… was not what she was feeling. In the part of her mind that should have been utterly occupied by the desire to kill, the solitary figure of the Garberan princess flickered like smoke from a flame.

The Princess had headed to Solon and, according to what she had heard, she had confronted Salamand’s forces. At the same time, she had been shot and taken to Zaim Fortress. There were no doubt many reasons for why the princess had taken those actions, but one of those must surely be because it was for Gil Mephius.

She would lose him.

That girl would experience the same sense of emptiness that Layla had.

A mysterious and unstoppable urge welled up from deep within her.

While her desire to kill Gil was genuine, her conviction that she had to prevent him from being killed was equally genuine. It was contradictory, but then people were always creatures who could hold conflicting emotions.

The intensity with which they clashed, however, was far greater than anything Layla had ever experienced until then. If it carried on for too long, it might destroy the body and mind of the vessel called Layla.

Which was why it was easier to abandon her mind to another. It was better to simply indulge in the desire to kill Gil. For the sake of revenge at having lost everything.

But the feelings that went against that were also strong. She was terrified of losing a relationship that she had just barely managed to forge.

At that moment, a scream tore out from Layla’s mouth.

At the same moment, in the arboretum within the mansion’s courtyard, a shadowy person remained as still as a statue. It was Zafar.

Standing next to the fence, he closed his eyes and raised both hands to chest-height, and placed his fingers into a complicated pattern.

It could be said that he was also in a state of self-hypnotism. Zafar was carefully “watching” the events within the tower through Layla’s eyes. Just a little more and the crown prince’s assassination would be complete…

“Who are you?”

A voice suddenly called out from behind him. For all that he was a user of sorcery, Zafar had not noticed anyone approach him. He whirled around incredulously and his eyes fell on a figure that surprised him even more.

“Barbaroi!”

The word unintentionally burst from his lips. With an equally instinctive movement, he jumped backwards.

The one who had appeared among the shadows was a young girl with dark brown skin – Hou Ran.

Having stayed in the dragon pens until late, she had noticed that there was something unusual about the dragons. Ran herself had once told Vileena that the very bodies of dragons were endowed with ether. Because of that, they were sensitive to its flow. Without paying any attention to the guards who tried to stop her, Ran took one of the small-sized Fey dragons out of its cage and had gone looking around the mansion.

It was that Fay which had sniffed out Zafar with the sense of smell peculiar to dragons.

“Damn it!”

Zafar seemed to hesitate for a moment as to what would be the best thing to do, but then made up his mind and cleared the fence that was a high as a person in one leap, then darted away with hurried steps.

In that instant, his power of control weakened. In the struggle that had been taking place within Layla, one of the conflicting feelings finally won over. And that made her move in a way that she herself would not have expected.

She threw herself amidst the gleaming steel.

His mind still in a haze, Orba watched her do so. It was almost as though her body were drawn to that weapon-filled space. The assassins’ swords were going to smash through her skull from either side.

For a moment, the scene was reflected in Orba’s eyes as though everything had slowed down.

Layla’s figure seemed to overlap with that of another person. This time, it was not Alice, but the figure of his mother who, when he had been a child, had tried to protect him when their house had been attacked by Garberan soldiers.

Shit!

Black flames instantly burst up within Orba’s veins. It was only for a moment, but as they coursed once around his body, they took with them the paralysis and numbness that was holding him down. Before he even realised it, his foot had kicked against the floor and he was grasping Layla tightly as he rolled in mid-air.

A sword swung down at his back.

His clothes tore and blood sprayed.

He was lying face downwards and pressed against Layla, and the assassins once again rained their naked blades down towards him. They were so close and so fast that they could no longer be avoided.

In that moment when he was finally about to sever the life of the false crown prince, one of the assassins, whose mind no less than his body was supposed to have been trained to its utmost limits, opened his eyes wide in shock. Even in the darkness, his eyes could clearly make it out.

“Wait!”

He held back his companion who had likewise been about to give Orba the finishing blow. The other man also halted his steps when he saw what his comrade had.

His clothes were ripped and Orba’s violently heaving back was exposed to the air. On his back across which blood was trickling was, unmistakably, a slave brand.

“The plan has changed,” said one of the assassins in a low, viscous-sounding voice. “Don’t kill him. We’re capturing that man.”

As he spoke, he kicked Orba’s arm and made him release his sword. He had probably exhausted all his physical strength and did not move even as the man was about to seize him by the scruff of his neck.

At that moment, Orba unleashed his last remaining strength. He drove the dagger that he had taken from Layla deep into the assassin’s heart.

The man died without having time to shout out in pain, and Orba used his corpse as a shield to deflect the blow that came from the man behind him. Whereupon, Pashir, who had finally won his fights near the entrance to the room, came running up and, with the swiftness of a gale, promptly cut down the two remaining men.

The fighting and secret assassination attempt on the crown prince were swallowed by the shadows at Zafar’s back as he ran and soon disappeared from sight. He was far swifter than would be expected from his appearance.

As he raced through the dark town and past the loitering drunkards, Zafar’s head was still reeling from the shock of having met that girl earlier.

The plan had failed. While on the one hand, he was feeling a strong sense of personal failure, it was not as though there had been no results at all. As evidence of that, as he approached the town’s back alleys –

“I saw.”

Zafar’s lips twisted into the shape of a smile.

“We do not need to intervene. By following its inevitable course, the stream of History will soon remove that obstacle.”

Orba was lying in a pool of blood. His entire body was covered in it, as well as in sweat. His breathing was ragged. Layla was once more leaning against the wall, apparently asleep.

Amongst the people who were in uproar after having woken up and learned that there had been an assassination attempt against the Crown prince, Pashir left, carrying Orba on his back.

“I heard it before,” he commented in a whisper. “Why do I keep following you, was it? Then can I ask something? Since when? And for how long are you going to be the crown prince?”

He had guessed it for a while now. On a past battlefield, when Gil Mephius had been in danger, Pashir had heard the gladiator called Shique cry out, “Orba!” Suddenly, all the things which gave him a sense of unease made sense. Even if it was absurd, it had to be the truth.

And today, Pashir had seen the slave brand with his own eyes. Orba, still being carried on Pashir’s back, still breathing unevenly, replied something. Then he suddenly went quiet. He seemed to have fallen unconscious.

I see.

Pashir answered anyway.

“In that case, me too. Instead of throwing Mephius to the flames, I’ll watch a new Mephius being born. Even if it means risking my life. Don’t ask why. You wouldn’t answer either if I asked you that.”