Rakuin no Monshou - Book 12: Chapter 5: Darkest Black

Part 1

At that same time –

Through what twist of fate was it that the two people who, in Solon’s palace, had once engaged in a battle without blades – Emperor Guhl Mephius and Orba, the former gladiator – had been forced into the same kind of predicament at the same time?

Orba’s consciousness was still within that pitch-black darkness. The lights which had made it look like a starry night sky were still gathered together to form an old man’s face, and those gigantic eyes seemed like they were enveloping Orba; when he opened his mouth wide, it was as though he were going to swallow Orba’s insubstantial body whole, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes.

A sorcerer.

That, he understood. The man could be nothing else. And on top of that, he had spoken about ‘Garda’. That was the name of a man that Orba himself had killed in the west, but, some time ago, when he had paid a brief visit to Taúlia, the famed strategist, Ravan Dol, had revealed that “Garda might be alive.”

Did Garda have two or even three lives? Was the one Orba had defeated an impostor? At any rate, it did seem true that the man, who appeared to be one of Garda’s subordinates, had set a magic trap and lain in wait for Orba.

Shit.

Orba tried to grind his teeth. But his physical sensations felt far away. As though his consciousness and his body had been separated and were dozens of kilometres apart, there was a considerable time lag between when his body showed a reaction, and when that reaction returned to him as a ‘sensation’.

By the time he realised it, a cold fear had risen in a corner of his heart. If just one single part of his body were able to move freely, he would not fear any enemy trying to hinder him. But now that even the sensation of having a body felt far away, he had no means to oppose the enemy.

As though reading his thoughts, the stars glittered distortedly, and a wicked smile formed on the old man’s face –

Just as he was thinking so, one after another, they turned into shooting stars and flew wildly about, drawing trails of light as they did so.

He had no time to follow them with his eyes.

“Guh!”

Did his voice actually escape from his lips, or was it only in his mind?

As sharp as arrows let loose by a mighty warrior, the light crawled inside of Orba’s body. Not just once, twice, or three times, the stars which should have been suspended in the air betrayed their own destiny, and overwhelmed him with their successive strikes.

No sooner had they wreaked white-hot havoc in his body that they reassembled and formed the old man’s figure again. A body should, by nature, only admit the existence of a single soul within it, but now, a second being was starting to assert its presence inside of him.

Orba screamed from the intense pain. Maybe it was because being in the same fleshy container meant that the agony was also shared, but he could feel the screams of the old man who had introduced himself as Zafar reverberating inside of him.

“Who are you – who are you? Who. The. Hell. Are. You!?”

The darkness that was drifting before Orba’s eyes now changed.

He could dimly make out Mephius’ throne room. On the other side of a flight of stairs, Emperor Guhl Mephius sat in state.

For a second, Orba forgot about the pain as he stared at him. It was none other than the scene that he had experienced just ten or so days earlier.

The Emperor’s figure seemed to flicker like a candleflame in the wind, and the pillars with their decorative carvings, the tapestries on the wall, and the courtiers lined up on either side, all scattered into a thousand points of light, drifted for a moment, then formed another scene.

The next thing he saw was the glare of the sun that seemed to be baking the ground white. A man stood opposite him. Studded shoulder pads, a belt made from hide, and a curved sword in his hands.

Orba caught his breath.

Even though he had long forgotten his face but, confronting each other like this, it came back as vividly as though it were yesterday.

This was the man that Orba had confronted when he had first stood, sword in hand, in the arena – in other words, the first gladiator that Orba had killed.

The aggregation of stars forming the gladiator’s shape soon changed and the lights once more scattered and dispersed.

It was like a mirror reflecting his memories. Scenes from what he experienced up until now were projected in no chronological order, with none of them being developed long.

Among those memories –

There was Ryucown, whom he had crossed swords with. There was Queen Marilène, walking forward even as the mob that surrounded her hurled abuse and threw things at her. There were many scenes in which he was leading soldiers on the battlefield. There was the instant in which he had leaped towards the sorcerer who had called himself Garda. There was the quiet night sky with its twinkling stars that he had looked up at with his brother, Roan, and their childhood friend, Alice. There was the evening hour in which heaven and earth seemed to blaze red as Orba held Shique’s cold corpse…

Orba could do nothing to stop them.

It felt as though the sorcerer who had crawled inside him was groping through his memories and letting them all out.

“Not a sorcerer? Not even a flunky to Barbaroi?” Zafar was gasping in pain, but there was a trace of doubt in his whispered voice. “Then, how? How could you, a lowly slave, a mere body-double set up by Fedom, have completely reshaped out diagram of Fate?”

While he spoke, Orba’s past continued to flickeringly appear and disappear.

“I don’t understand. It can’t be… Some ‘power’ must be interfering. If we’re talking about a hero, then the signs of a hero being born should have appeared beforehand. In which case, either amending the diagram of Fate or killing him in infancy would have been easy. Who is this bastard? It’s like he just appeared from some other world. So what…?”

Just as the old man’s voice suddenly died out, Orba’s past, which had been unfolding at dizzying speed, abruptly stopped dead.

It was a memory so vague that at first, Orba himself could not tell who was being projected in that scene.

The reflected scenery was that of Fedom’s town house in Solon. This he remembered. It had been a huge turning point in Orba’s life. Reclining back in a slovenly, arrogant manner, Fedom, the domain lord of Birac, had announced to him that:

“You’re going to become the Crown Prince of Mephius.”

Right, it was the moment when he went from being a gladiator to becoming Gil Mephius’ body-double. But the one who was holding Zafar’s attention was neither Fedom nor Orba. Next to the Lord of Birac was a person standing as still as a shadow. That man had left a uncanny impression on Orba. A strange man, who appeared young at first glance yet, depending on how the light hit him, who also seemed very old.

He’s… a sorcerer?

Orba suddenly realised. When he had been talking with Fedom, hadn’t he heard something about that man being responsible for putting the iron mask on him? Moreover, he was the one who, with just a touch of his fingers, had broken that mask – which had not budged in two years, no matter how much strength Orba had used on it – right in half.

What was his name?

Right, Herman – Orba remembered as Fedom called him that. However –

Impossible – a voice immediately rose in denial. Zafar’s.

The scene that remained frozen in time and space started to shake.

Herman? That name… It can’t be. The face is different as well… That man… no, that ‘esteemed gentleman’ is – is, without a doubt, Lord Garda’s…

Meanwhile, Orba’s body was still lying in the grass on the ground. Pashir was kneeling beside him and the Mephian soldiers formed a circle around them.

The Dairan soldiers had, by then, already found what was apparently the sniper who had taken aim at the prince. However, he had already died. He had apparently fired a desperate shot just before his flame of life had burned out. The bullet had missed however, immediately afterwards, there had been another soldier who had attempted to cut down the crown prince, but Gil had dealt with him himself.

On Kayness’ orders, they had thoroughly searched the surroundings to check that there were no other enemies lying hidden.

Gil Mephius’ chest was still heaving painfully, and his shoulders were violently rising up and down. “Bring His Highness into the mansion,” suggested Kayness. “We were expecting a battle at dawn, so a number of doctors have already been summoned. They can treat him.”

Pashir nodded and was about to follow the suggestion, but Orba’s hand was still tightly gripping his arm. It bit into him with the strength of an iron band, and, after thinking for a moment, Pashir frowned.

“Orba,” he glanced behind him.

Kain, in the iron mask, stared blankly back for a moment, not realising that it was his name which was being called. “Orba!” when Pashir barked at him in rebuke however, he hastily stood to attention.

“I’m leaving you in charge of my unit. Take the horses and go provide reinforcement to Lord Eric.”

“M-Me?”

Pashir signalled that, yes, him. Fundamentally, he would have preferred to go himself, but he felt that, as someone who knew Orba’s real identity, he had to stay by the crown prince. He was afraid that, during the course of the medical treatment, it would be all too easy for him to be unclothed and for the slave brand to be exposed.

“Fly the flag of Mephius as obviously as you can. Loudly advertise that we’ve defended Dairan. That way, we’ll be able to unnerve the enemy while raising morale on Ende’s side.”

“It’s fine, Orba. I’ll go with you,” Gilliam stepped forward.

They still did not know what Eric’s situation was. The three hundred soldiers who would march forward would also serve as a large-scale reconnaissance party. Kayness Plutos would chose men from among the survivors of Darowkin’s unit, and send them with them.

“They’ll take you to the best place to cross the river with the horses.”

“Much appreciated. Right then, come on, Iron Tiger,” said Gilliam, leaping onto a horse as though in part to spur ‘Orba’ on.

“Aaaye,” Kain, disguised as ‘Orba’, answered in a despairing tone, having apparently resigned himself as he also clambered onto horseback. “Later, when His Highness the Crown Prince wakes up, I’m getting at least one sarcasm in.”

Kain positioned himself in the vanguard and, with Gilliam acting as his adjutant, they started off with their three hundred men with the Dairan soldiers serving as their guides.

The clouds of dust that they kicked up were carried away by the wind and vanished in the pitch-black darkness.

It was not yet dawn.

Part 2

Lance Mazpotter galloped at the head of the cavalry unit.

Although he was past his prime as a warrior, he still cut a very dashing figure as he leaned forward and drove his horse onwards. With the light from the airship acting as a signpost, he was in the middle of chasing down Lord Eric of Ende.

Judging that they were closing in, Lance held a spear beneath one arm. He was managing the reins with one sturdy arm, and his single eye gleamed sharply at the signs that bloodshed was once more imminent.

But then, the unexpected occurred.

A messenger soldier caught up with Lance –

“What, His Highness?”

Hearing the report, Lance had no choice but to stop the horses. Kaseria Jamil’s attack force on Dairan had retreated.

When he looked back towards the south, faint flames and white smoke were rising under the starlight. The attack should have been a success. Once the enemy camp had been set alight, the blaze stocked Kaseria’s fighting spirit and lust for slaughter, and those would not be satisfied with such a short time to rampage.

The situation was unclear.

“Aaye,” Lance was a man who had experienced innumerable battle fronts. He was not so ambitious or impetuous that he would lose his judgement over the bait dangled enticingly in front of him.

“Messenger, lead us to His Highness. All of you, come!”

Coming to a snap decision, he forcefully hauled his horse’s head around and set off after the messenger.

Prince Kaseria Jamil of Allion, meanwhile, was also on horseback, riding hard as his body was jolted up and down.

He was nowhere near as calm as Lance. The sense of slaughter he had just experienced in Dairan and the reverberation of cannonfire were like a trail he drew behind him, his eyes were still hazy from the “bloodlust, his muscles demanded their next victim as soon as possible, and beneath his armour, his breathing was ragged and rough.

But above all else –

That man…

More than for the crimson blood, more than for the dying screams, more than for the pitiful trembling, which traveled through his sword to his muscles when the steel ran through his victims, that was what the prince of Allion was strongly crying out for in his mind.

That dark-skinned Mephian warrior who had fought with him on equal terms.

His form was constantly etched into the underside of Kaseria’s eyelids, the response to their clash of steel still lingered in his arm. Not only had he not been able to bring him down, he had been wretchedly driven away.

Looking behind him, he saw only the lingering trails of dust that they had kicked up, and there was no sign that the enemy had left Dairan in pursuit. Kaseria spat out spittle and curses.

“Shit, shit, shit!”

If they’d gotten cocky and chased us, we could have ambushed them.

He could not understand why they were not giving chase. But because of it, Kaseria thirsted for blood all the more. Only by immersing himself in battle as soon as possible would he be able to drive that swordsman, who he had not been able to defeat, from his mind.

And at that moment, Kaseria Jamil got lucky.

North of Dairan, soldiers were waiting by the river with lights to guide them across, but in order to shake off any enemy pursuit, he had deliberately taken a different and more tortuous route, which was when they unexpectedly came across another party.

It was Lord Eric’s unit, which had only just descended from the high ground with their comrades’ charge acting as their screen.

At first, Kaseria had not even imagined that the lord of Ende was among them. But when he saw the shadowy figures of what seemed to be enemies –

“Halt where you are!” he cried, and charged without letting them answer.

“Enemies!”

“Protect the Prince!”

It was the other party’s shouts that made him realise it. He did consider that it might have been a feint to lure them, but judging from the spirit with which they all steadfastly raised their swords, axes and spears, and took up defensive positions, he decided that it was not a lie.

Kaseria instantly broke into a smile. A smile that could almost be called innocent.

“Is Lord Eric there? My name is Kaseria Jamil, First Prince of Allion,” he roared, and from horseback, he struck out with the sharp tip of his blade.

His opponents loudly accepted the challenge.

“Woah, this is our chance to win.”

“Thanks be to the spirits for their divine grace. Slay Kaseria!”

As though echoing their fervour, Kaseria and his troops gained even greater impulse.

Shielded by his comrades, Eric Le Doria for a moment stared, dumbfounded, at the mounted warrior who seemed about to cleave his way straight to him.

That’s Kaseria?

Like a young branch shaken in a storm, even though he was on horseback, he was moving constantly, bending left and right, spurred on by his own recoil, and unleashing sword thrusts in rapid succession. He was unquestionably skilled, but –

Isn’t he like any other hothead?

Eric had let his comrades sacrifice themselves to allow him to leave the battlefield. His blood was boiling feverishly. He grabbed his own spear and raised it to eye level. The tip was pointed straight at Kaseria Jamil, who had just beheaded another Endean soldier.

By now the battle front had stretched out so wide that no single person could have been able to grasp a complete picture of it. All around, it had devolved into confused mêlées. Wherever a drawn blade gleamed, a sharp spear retaliated, armours clashed against each other in a crash of noise, and cries of every description echoed through the night.

Ende and Allion both originated from the same Magic Dynasty. Although the form and names differed somewhat, the same belief in spirits was handed down in both, and voices could be heard on all sides calling to the spirits for protection.

The horses’ hooves and the infantrymen’s feet sharply tilled the soil, and fresh blood watered it incessantly like red rain.

The ‘wind’ was blowing confusedly. Just when an allied unit seemed to be pushing forward overwhelmingly, carried from behind by the ‘winds’ of victory, the enemy, which should have been scattering, would unexpectedly met with allies, causing the ‘wind’ to suddenly shift and blow in the faces of the previous victors.

Even a man like Lance Mazpotter was toyed with by the chaos. He had been riding to join up with Kaseria’s forces, but the messenger, who had been serving as their guide, had lost sight of their destination. Which was only to be expected given that Kaseria had followed his instinct and changed his course this way and that, until he eventually ran into Lord Eric’s force, which Lance himself had originally been chasing. Even the prince’s messenger, who should have alerted his allies to this fact, was wandering hopelessly around the battlefield, looking for someone somewhere that he could notify.

Lance was made to feel that he was on a fool’s errand. Clicking his tongue, he was wondering whether he should call an airship and send out scouts when he spotted a group approaching from the south. He realised that they must be reinforcements sent out from Dairan.

Although naturally, he didn’t go so far as to grasp that this was a unit comprising Mephian soldiers, he could tell at once that – there’s not that many of them.

He did not have eyesight that could see through the darkness, but he was a man who had spent most of his life at war. He understood instinctively from the sound of hooves, the clank of the harnesses, and the amount of wind they kicked up.

Which meant that Kaseria had not just recklessly gone charging in the dark. The enemy should have sent out reinforcements upon receiving the messenger from Lord Eric, and there should have been more of them. Was it thanks to Kaseria that the enemy numbers had been thus reduced?

Lance decided to go out and meet these newcomers from the south so as to prevent the frontlines from becoming even more chaotic. On the other side, they also noticed this group which had quickly moved into a line to block their way.

They were roughly equal in number.

Kain, who was leading the Mephian forces, could have chosen to step back at that point.

“Who goes there?”

“Orba the Iron Mask, spearhead to His Imperial Highness, Crown Prince Gil of Mephius!” but the path of retreat was cut off the moment he answered Lance’s call.

“Mephius?”

A look of surprise swept over Lance’s face. He had not expected that not only Garbera, but also Mephius, which was supposed to have a tense relationship with it, would show up here.

“Turn back now,” Kain shouted as he drew his sword. “We proceed forward in honour of His Imperial Highness Gil. This cannot be what Allion expected. To retreat here will bring you no shame.”

Perhaps he unintentionally sounded so old-fashioned because he was aware that he was putting on a show.

“I’m much obliged for your concern,” Lance, however, remained perfectly calm.

The enemy’s numbers were about the same as their own and there was no sign of reinforcements coming to back them up, so he took a firm grip on his spear and put himself at the ready.

“In my ignorance, I do not know the name ‘Orba’, but you have all the appearance of being a brave known throughout the three countries. I, Lance Mazpotter, will personally keep you company,” Lance was all the more a gentleman when he was on the battlefield.

He had decided to take on this unit so that Mephius’ participation would not affect Kaseria’s main force. With that in mind, he should spread out his position and cut the enemy off from the north, then, if more reinforcements arrived, they could gradually pull back their line of defence.

Seeing that he had not been able to shake the enemy, Kain steeled himself. If the flag of Mephius was to fly undaunted, then he no longer had any other choice but to move forward.

“Kain,” Gilliam whispered in his ear. “This guy’s good. You’d do best to stare him down and hint that reinforcements are coming. Dairan is nearby. The enemy won’t want to be kept in one place for too long, so they’ll be quicker to get antsy.”

Before becoming a gladiator, Gilliam had seen active service as a soldier. He had a far better understanding of the subtleties of the battlefield than Kain did. Kain also knew what Gilliam was getting at, but –

“What it is? You’re the spearhead to the Crown Prince of Mephius, aren’t you? I said I’d keep you company. So aren’t you coming?”

When he heard himself being ridiculed, he could not stay silent. He was not the usual ‘Kain’. He was currently wearing the iron mask.

It’s fiiine, I just need to prod them a little and the enemy will retreat, right – he answered Gilliam in a low voice then raised his sword high.

“Well then, here I come!” he shouted as he kicked his horse’s flanks.

Lance drove his horse forward at the same time. With the riders galloping from both sides, they soon collided.

Their weapons did not cross.

Kain’s sword never reached as Lance’s spear struck him in the chest.

He fell from his horse.

“Splendid.”

Lance said in a loud voice as he turned his horse around and returned to where Kain had hit the ground.

“Is what I’d like to say, but…” he smiled down from horseback, like a father looking a son who was not very bright, “let it be known throughout Mephius, famous for its might, what happened to the Crown Prince’s spearhead. I, Lance, have taken Orba’s head.”

Gilliam did not even have time to shout at him to stop.

After his spear, he now took his sword – a slender, crescent-shaped blade that he had often used when he served Atall – adjusted his grip on it, and dexterously slashed out.

As blood spurted, Kain’s head fell with a thump.

He did not cry out once before he died.

All the colour had drained from Gilliam’s face. Before his eyes, Lance snapped his fingers. An enemy soldier noiselessly drew up and crouched down, stretching his hand out towards the iron mask. He probably intended to pluck it off as a war trophy.

At that moment, as though erupting from the ground, voices resounded all around Gilliam. Pouring from the mouths of the Mephian soldiers were wordless roars, cries, noise, curses…

“W-Wait!” Gilliam turned back but, once again, he was not in time to stop what happened.

Orba, the swordsman in the iron mask, was the subordinate that Crown Prince Gil Mephius trusted the most. Whenever Prince Gil undertook some heroic activity, Orba would unfailingly take part in the fray. Even with his outstanding swordskills, he was often entrusted with undercover missions, never feeling the need to advertise his own achievements any more than necessary, and never voicing a word of complaint.

Among the Mephian soldiers, there were those held the belief that – he is the very ideal of a warrior.

Orba had been defeated.

And mocked.

And now, they were about to strip him of his mask. That was showing contempt for every shred of dignity that he had in life.

It was hardly surprising that the Mephian soldiers let out a roar and started to charge. Leaving Gilliam behind, they hurled their horses past him.

Clicking his tongue as he did so, Gilliam spurred his own horse forward. He could feel the blood going to his head. Or, perhaps because he had known Kain for a long time, he might have been even more worked up than any other of the soldiers.

As a result, the front lines were extended to this point which vaguely coincided with the northern border.

Part 3

When war approached, the people of Dairan went through orderly motions.

They closed the windows and bolted the doors. They blew out the candles. Holding their children, mothers went to hide in cellars or in granaries, while the men either took up weapons to protect their homes, or they assembled in one place and got ready in case a group of riders, their sheepskin cloaks flying in the wind, somehow managed to break in.

They were used to that kind of situation.

But this night, the people of Dairan were unusually frightened. And not only because of the assault that Kaseria had led.

The townspeople could not dispel their fear and unease even after Kaseria’s forces had been driven away by Mephius’ troops.

The cause, along with the ever increasing sounds of war and the news that Lord Eric stood isolated on the battlefield, was because of the roars of dragons, repeatedly reverberating.

Several kilometres south of Dairan, the dragons had suddenly grown unruly. The large-sized Houban, who had been pulling the cage, had toppled over while foaming at the mouth. The three hundred soldiers who were travelling thought at first that it had been shot by enemies lying in ambush somewhere.

However, inside the cage, which had toppled over at the same time, the dragons had all simultaneously started struggling and howling, and even the intrepid Mephian soldiers were getting ready to flee. A rampaging dragon made no distinction between friend or foe. No matter how outstanding a trainer was, calming dragons sent into a frenzy by blood, and especially several at the same time, was impossible.

Hou Ran was no exception.

Although her complexion had changed colour, she called out to the dragons, desperately trying to soothe them, but the scales that reflected the distorted light thrown on them by the soldiers’ torches continued to heave, and they opened their maws wide, drool trailing from their fangs, to howl in terror.

“Run!” Miguel, who had been left in charge of the unit, yelled, his face ashen. Losing the dragons would be a mark of his own ineptitude, but losing a full three hundred soldiers would be far worse.

“Hurry inside Dairan! Oi, Loire, galop on first and tell the gatekeepers to thrown open the gates. Have them assemble riflemen!”

A little further east from that point, which was almost as noisy as the battlefield, within the high grass was the sorceress, Tahī.

She was licking her moist lips.

From time to time, she parted them as though to emit her voice, but absolutely no sound escaped.

Only Tahī could hear the voiceless voice that she was exhaling, and not with her ears, but with her consciousness.

How many sorcerers would believe, if it were explained to them, that in doing so, she was manipulating the small amounts of ether that dwelt within the dragons? Most would probably be sneering before the explanation was even half over, having decided that was just the nonsense of a fool who was ignorant of the basics of sorcery.

This was anything but normal magic.

Sorcery existed solely thanks to ancient artefacts, and to be able to handle ether through one’s own living flesh was possible only for beings that far transcended humanity. Such as, for example, the Dragon Gods that were said to have ruled this world in the far distant past.

Tahī had been born with this extraordinary talent and had received the teachings of the elders of the Dragon Gods’ faith, allowing her to polish her skills and her power. They called her: “A rarely-seen success.”

To be accurate, they said that she was ‘the second’.

Take, for example, how Jeremie, the former First Prince of Ende, had once used the power of magic tools that were handed down within the country to incite wild dragons into attacking Dairan. If it had been Tahī, she would only have needed to approach within a fixed distance and ‘talk’ to the ether within the dragons.

In order to manipulate several dozens of them at will, she would of course need to rely on the help of magical tools and to make preparations beforehand, but if it was simply to make them agitated, then it was just a matter of awakening the wild nature that slept within them.

In all honesty, this task was so boring that she couldn’t help but yawn.

Zafar’s instructions were to keep Hou Ran in check. Apparently, she had gotten in the way when he had previously tried to assassinate the crown prince. In order to prevent that from happening again, he seemed to want Tahī to use her sorcery to lure her away. Still –

How stupid, Zafar. Are you getting scared, at your age?

Tahī found it strange. Keeping someone occupied was so half-hearted. Wouldn’t it be easier to just kill her?

Collecting the thoughts that were flying from her, she concentrated them into a single image around her forehead. The crimson ‘wave’ that Zafar had observed in the city of Idoro gradually intensified before being released, as sharp as a spear.

Her aim was unerring, and it struck a Baian who was struggling as though to break out of the cage.

It was just as Hou Ran had stretched out her hand through the gap between the bars. The Baian gave a start, its scales heaving, then, as though in response to Hou Ran’s action, it nudged its head closer to her. As Ran approached it with her own face, it opened its jaws wide, and bit down towards her with fangs that could crunch through the bones of a horse or an ox.

Hou Ran looked up in shock, and reflected in her eyes was the shape of a crimson ‘wave’, coiling around the Baian’s forehead.

The next second, a spray of fresh blood drenched the surroundings and the dragons who were hit by it, driven to crave more flesh, and more blood, rushed to attack the Mephian soldiers…

– was what was supposed to happen.

In that instant, however, it was Tahī herself who was struck hard and staggered back.

There was no visible injury. For a moment, she was stunned, not understanding what had happened. And then she realised: in the space of a breath, the ‘wave’ had flown backwards and had come crashing against her.

A single word had ridden along with the wave. One which made no sense to Tahī.

It sounded something like: “Milbak.”

And as she came back to her senses, she noticed a figure approaching, eyes fixed straight at her.

Hou Ran.

Perhaps she had followed Tahī’s thoughts and detected her presence, for now she was pushing her way through the waist-tall grass, unfalteringly closing the distance between them, one step at a time.

She did not ask who Tahī was. Or rather, there was something strange about her. Her gaze held no trace of emotion as she stared at Tahī. No hostility, no hatred, no suspicion, no friendly feelings either, of course. There was something about them that had the vastness of a dream, as she simply approached in silence.

Even Tahī found it uncanny.

At the same time, realising that what she was feeling was probably fear, she was furious at herself.

As though that emotion was manifesting itself, a burning red flame was at Tahī’s raised arm. It coiled around it like a live dragon, and with a flourish of her supple limb, she hurled it free.

With an ominous roar, it charged towards Hou Ran.

Yet Ran did not halt her steps.

She looked as though she had not even noticed it, but just before the flames would engulf and kill her, she too raised her slender arm to above shoulder-level, and waved it once.

It was the same gesture as though she was swatting away an insect, and the dragon of flames vanished entirely.

“Whaat!” Tahī was utterly dumbfounded.

At the same time, something that was like clear wind seemed to surge up from Hou Ran then change into a spiral ‘wave’ that attacked Tahī.

With no time and no way to escape it, she was struck straight in the forehead by the ‘wave’.

She collapsed.

That…

Just before she lost consciousness, she heard what sounded like another person’s voice.

That woman, she definitely…

With the sound of the sorceress sinking into the meadow, Ran’s eyes suddenly opened wide.

From her manner, it was as though she had just woken up. She stared restlessly about her. After which, without taking the slightest notice of the inert Tahī, she hastily returned to the cage where the dragons were still showing lingering signs of excitement, and, sometimes gently, sometimes in stricter tones, addressed each one in turn.

Seeing the dragons gradually calm down, Miguel Tes was left speechless. In all honesty, when this dragon handler had left the cage, he had believed that even she was running away and abandoning her duties.

At Miguel’s command, the soldiers, who had likewise dispersed, timidly returned. Ran left them in charge of hauling the cage while she jumped onto a Baian. She used neither saddle nor reins. Riding with the back of the dragon’s neck between her knees, Ran emitted a sound and, as though being controlled by an invisible bridle, the Baian started forward.

“W-Wait!” Miguel hurriedly spurred on his horse and chased after her. “Where are you going?”

Ran did not answer. He could tell from her profile however that she was frantic.

Eei – having been left in charge of the dragons and the ‘dragon girl’, Miguel lamented that this time as well, there might be no opportunity to render distinguished service. Realising that she apparently intended to ride into town, he called out,

“Loire, one of my men, is supposed to have gotten the gates opened. I’ll go ahead and explain the situation to the soldiers. Got it, dragon girl? Tell His Highness how Miguel Tes took command of things. Hey, do you hear me?” Miguel yelled, the wind blowing straight at him as he increased his horse’s speed.

Just as he had said, he arrived at Dairan first, and requested of the Dairan and Mephian riflemen that had been assembled thanks to Loire’s message that they allow the dragon rider following after him to pass into the city.

“That’s one eccentric rider, you know? You might be surprised at first glance, but she’s carrying out a secret mission for His Highness.”

Ran, riding as one with the dragon, swept like the wind through the gates of Dairan.

The ones who saw this, for all that they were the self-proclaimed fearless soldiers of Dairan, could not repress their dread at the sight. Yet, that night, a seven-year-old boy happened to peep down from the window he had opened on the third floor.

During Kaseria’s attack, he had been evacuated to the roof with his mother, but since things were considered to have finally settled down, he had gone back to his room. And no sooner had he done so, than he saw a woman galloping on a dragon right beneath him. He thought that the sight of her, rushing headlong in the silent night, riding on everything that was wild and untamed, was –

So pretty.

Hou Ran finally arrived near the Plutos’ fortified mansion. This was just as Orba was about to be carried inside.

“What’s wrong?” while Pashir, who was at his side, called out in surprise, she leaped down from the dragon and raced as fast as she could towards Orba.

Orba, his face pale, was still muttering incoherently. For a second, Ran raised her hand as though she was about to slap him.

Before the soldiers had time to stop her, however, she seemed to think better of it and did something which astounded everyone there.

She leaned in and sealed Orba’s lips with her own.