—『Sword Saint』. —『Blue Lightning』. —『Apostle』. —『Mad Prince』.
All of these are titles bestowed upon the strongest in this world. In the Kingdom of Lugunica, the Vollakia Empire, the Kararagi City-States, and the Gusteko Holy Kingdom—the four great nations—they are each hailed as the mightiest, transcendents who have reached a strength beyond human comprehension.
However, as is widely known, even among them, the one renowned for standing a head above the rest is the current 『Sword Saint』, Reinhard van Astrea, the strongest being alive.
Scanning past, present, and future, there are those who even say that no life surpassing him will ever be born; Reinhard’s existence does not fit within the mere framework of “strongest of the four great nations.” Yet because of that, there is a fact that gets quietly overlooked—namely, that, concealed by the aberrant existence that is Reinhard, the renown of a powerhouse who ought by rights to be praised alongside the other three has been grossly undervalued.
The one who had no choice but to remain in the shadow of the most powerful 『Sword Saint』 in history—that person is—
—Marcos
In a hoarse, feeble voice, Heinkel’s lips formed the man’s name. Heinkel was on the tall side, yet the giant looming a full head taller than him easily pinned down his drawn sword with a hand as big as a child’s head. The terrifying thing was that this wasn’t mere brute strength: whenever he tried to draw, it was restrained; if he tried to lower it, it was pressed; hilt and scabbard stayed perfectly aligned, not even a hair’s breadth of blade visible.
As if to underscore the difference in class between Marcos, Knight Commander of the Royal Guard Knights, and Heinkel, who had been made to sit in the figurehead vice-commander’s seat.
—Take your hand off the sword, Heinkel.
A low voice that rumbled from the pit of the stomach echoed down the corridor. With a frame nearing two meters, thick muscles befitting that bulk, and a trained body encased in silver full plate, even in stillness he seemed larger yet for the sword aura and dominance he could not conceal; some even said he was more giant-like than a giant.
Marcos Gildark—Knight Commander of the Kingdom of Lugunica’s Royal Guard Knights, a stalwart warrior known by the epithet “the Boulder.” Even in his youth as just another knight in the order, he was the man of whom that 『Sword Demon』, Wilhelm van Astrea, declared there was no doubt he would one day take the commander’s seat.
—
In an instant, cold sweat drenched Heinkel from head to toe. His back was soaked, and clammy grease-sweat spurted from his face and neck. The cold sweat was fear; the greasy sweat was his survival instinct ringing the alarm—and he almost had to admire how deftly his own body managed to be afraid.
Lady Felt, Lady Filore, please step away from this man.
While Heinkel once again committed the folly of letting his bad habit of out-of-place thoughts take over, Marcos flicked a sharp glance toward the back of the passage—to the two peeking this way from the stairs. At his instruction, Filore and Felt audibly sucked in a breath,
W-wait, Knight Commander! Lord Heinkel is—
—Shut up!!
Huh!?
On impulse, Heinkel’s angry roar silenced Filore, who had spoken up to Marcos. But the voice he tried to make sound rough and furious cracked, and the tail end rasped pathetically. He didn’t have the leeway to look back. Even so, he could picture Filore, so addressed, her red eyes wide as she stared fixedly at his back.
It hurt his chest. But it was necessary—to shut that mouth. For now, at least—
“So you neatly slipped into the seat as Lady Filore’s knight, only to set your sights on Lady Felt and Lady Emilia and infiltrate the Royal Castle. —Whose instigation is this, 『Backsword-Bearer』?”
In the voice that smothered all emotion, Heinkel sensed the irrepressible disgust and contempt, and his lips twisted in self-mockery. —Yes, for now, he could still make it out to be that.
It was all Heinkel’s scheme; Filore had been used for it, and Felt, too, had simply been dragged along—there was no treasonous intent toward the Royal Castle or the 『Dragon Church』. To make that excuse hold, he had kept Filore out of the preparations for the past half month.
Of course, it was a contingency he would have been happiest never to use. But the need for that insurance had been guaranteed—he had run into Marcos.
He had been found by an opponent he could never hope to defeat—even if he had a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand chances to challenge him.
Old man...
Beside the silenced Filore, Felt murmured softly. The tone of her voice was proof that she had grasped what Heinkel’s “insurance” meant. She really was a perceptive girl. She was probably not of the Lugunica royal line; it was Filore, with her sighs of resignation and poor sense, who felt more convincingly like a member of that softhearted clan. And with that—
「You abandoned your duties as vice-captain, drowned yourself in drink, and kept making your son take responsibility for your own messes—now you’re dragging the Royal Selection candidates into it; what are you scheming? — Answer me.」
「――――」
「Answer me, Heinkel. For once in your life, show me you can act like a knight.」
At those words, Heinkel’s vision flushed blood-red. For once in your life, like a knight—hearing that from a man blessed with the strength to act knightly, with the opportunities, with the courage, sent a tar-black impulse oozing up from the depths of his heart.
Marcos should know. What Heinkel had lost, what he had thrown away, and for what he had done it. Knowing that and still seeing Heinkel struggle and flail—what right did he have to reproach him?
「Quit sniveling, Heinkel.」
「――ah」
「There are plenty of people who, like you, are put in dire straits yet don’t falter and keep their heads up. You were born into a position more fortunate than any of them, and you ruined even that by your own actions. — Who is supposed to pity you?」
He couldn’t say it. Anything. That level, even without a shout or a snarl, the flat voice gouged deep into Heinkel’s guts. With his insides still being carved out, Heinkel bit the inside of his cheek and raised his face with the pain. Right there were Marcos’s ice-cold eyes; he glared straight back at them and opened his mouth. To spit out one venomous line worthy of cashing in the insurance he’d laid down—
「――hii」
But from his constricted throat, not even the one word he should have said—‘That’s right’—would come out.
「――. You really haven’t grown in the least.」
It was a sigh-like murmur, neither quite disappointment nor dejection. But the massive fist that followed that single line ignored the quiet exchange up to then, smashed into Heinkel’s temple, and slammed him straight into the stone wall.
「Ka」
The stone wall caved in under that blow, radial cracks racing like lightning into the floor and ceiling. The moan that escaped was swallowed by the crash, and fragments of stone rained down on Heinkel as he crumpled.
He was hit. That was all. Without even taking a proper stance, with a single swat like brushing away a nuisance, Heinkel’s body was sent flying like a slender twig. Back in the Vollakia Empire, Heinkel had been forced to face a Dragon in a way he never wanted, but the intimidation he felt from Marcos was exactly the same—as when you’re confronting a lifeform built on entirely different foundations.
「Lord Heinkel!!」
A scream-like voice—Filore’s cry—sounded far away. Amid the fallen bits of stone, he planted his hands to try to push himself up. But the hand that should have found the floor slipped, and Heinkel disgracefully dropped his face into the rubble. A searing pain lanced the tip of his nose, and blood dripped down. As that blood ran into his throat and he coughed, a merciless toe smashed into Heinkel’s jaw.
「Gah—!?」
His face was kicked upward; Heinkel’s body shot straight up and slammed into the ceiling. As he stuck there, half-buried in the ceiling, a hand seized his leg and, by brute force, smashed him down into the floor. No—he was yanked up from the floor again, hurled to the ceiling with an upswing, then down to the floor with a downswing. Ceiling, floor, ceiling, floor—he was swung up and down as if in a child’s doll play.
「S-stop……」
「Begging for it? That’s always you.」
His plea, laced with blood and stomach acid, was swallowed by the side-blast of impact—and, in a sense, granted. After being slammed without reserve from head to toe against floor and ceiling, it ended with him being hurled into the cracked stone wall. The accumulated shock went far beyond Heinkel’s comprehension; he had no idea what parts of his body were intact and what were no longer intact. And yet—
「What an unreasoning bastard.」
「A-gh—!」
Marcos’s descending heel crushed Heinkel’s right hand by sheer force. The hard heel shattered the back of his hand and his wrist, and when he tried to yank his arm back on instinct, it didn’t budge, as if wedged between boulders. Then the foot twisted, and four fingers—everything but the thumb—made an ugly sound.
「G-yaaah—!」
「Quit screaming; it’s unbearable.」
As Marcos reviled the kind of character that let out such filthy screams, Heinkel bared his teeth. He bit into Marcos’s ankle where it was crushing his right hand, trying to tear it free. It was useless. The other foot kicked his face, branding a deep shoe print into his brow.
「Give it up already.」
Marcos, flaunting the overwhelming difference in power, tossed the words away carelessly. Give up? What a joke. His will to fight had scattered to the winds long ago. In the first place, anything so grand as “will to fight”—he hadn’t had a shred of it since the moment he grudgingly agreed to go along with this affair.
That’s right, that’s right, of course it is. Heinkel had known from the start that a plan like this could never work.
「Why are you like this?」
His vision popped white. A hand seized the back of his head, and his face was smashed down into the floor with all its strength.
「You never show the slightest remorse.」
My collar is seized and I'm hoisted; with my feet dangling, a fist drills into my belly. The impact has nowhere to go, and it's like every organ inside me explodes, striking up a chorus of pain.
"What is it you want?"
Two shots, three, four, five—the blows keep coming. The grand chorus cuts off each time and, every time it starts up again, grows uglier; even though it's my stomach being pummeled, it's like the contents of my head are spilling out—I can't think at all.
"How do you want to end up, you?"
There was. There must have been. Something—there was. Things I wanted to say, things I had to do, hopes, things I couldn't throw away—something like that, something, must have been there. It must have.
"Hey, Heinkel Astrea. — How many more times, how many more people, how much more are you going to disappoint others before you're satisfied?"
Marcos's hand, which had been gripping my collar, lets go. Unable to hold myself up on the toes that have touched the floor, I pitch forward, slam my knees and forehead into it, and blood spreads with Heinkel, who rolls over face-down, at the center. From a mercilessly shattered face, torrents of nosebleed and vomit, and entrails that have been beaten and churned over and over, flow out as bloody stool.
"——"
Can't stand. Can't stand. Can't... stand.
"Please! Stop it already! Don't hurt Lord Heinkel any more!"
Blood runs from above and below; a girl's shrill scream tries to shield Heinkel, who is drowning in his own spilled blood, on the verge of drowning. It's grotesquely comical. There's nothing here that deserves that scream, that appeal.
"Lady Filore, you're being used by this man."
"No! It's not like that... it's not like that! As for Lord Heinkel, I, myself—"
"Idiot, cut it out! Don't ruin the old man's pride!"
"—ngh, Felt, but—!"
Over my fallen, motionless head, a desperate back-and-forth is taking place. Felt is right. Filore is wrong. Faced with the 'crag' standing in their way, the girls will never be able to escape. People only ever bring up Reinhard, but Marcos is that kind of being too. By now this plan isn't about meeting the win conditions, but about how to reduce the damage and beg the other side for forgiveness; the perspective has shifted to that. That's why Felt is right and Filore is wrong.
"Enough already, old man! At this rate, he'll die!"
"Lord Heinkel...!"
The voices of Felt, who knows what must be done, and Filore, who even now can't quite abandon her dreamy ideals, both call out to Heinkel.
Regrettably, I don't have the strength left to answer either voice. I'm literally on my last breath, and all I can do is keep from drowning in my own blood and stomach acid. To begin with, whether it's "stop already" or "don't kill him," the one they need to appeal to isn't Heinkel, but Marcos, the one turning Heinkel into a rag.
Even Marcos must have had his fill of it; maybe he'd finally hit the end of his patience. He'd looked at me with contempt before, but it had been a long time since I'd been physically forced down like this. Right here and now, the image in his eyes of Heinkel dragging around the Royal Selection candidates to use for his own schemes was vile and convenient. At last he could rightly slam down the anger that had built up day after day—no, over long years—like this.
Which is why he can be this relentless with a now defenseless, helpless Heinkel—
"—It's Too Late for That Now, you bastard."
With a click of his tongue, Marcos steps in. A fist is coming—that's what my consciousness picks up, and in the instant after, the gust of that onrushing fist smacks my cheek, shatters my cheekbone, and sends my body half a turn before I crash into the corridor wall again, this time the one on the opposite side. My body, buried in the wall, has its collar seized; as I'm yanked backward and thrown down, a knee juts up into my back. From spine to hipbone to ribs, the bones creak and splinter, and I gush blood.
"O—aaah—!"
As I flail an arm, spilling blood, he catches my wrist; an impact slams in from the outside on my straightened elbow, and from the snapped arm, white bone peeks through torn skin and flesh.
"U—agh... guh"
As my mouth opens to loose a scream, Marcos rams his hand into it. He forces his fist wide inside, and with a hard crack my jaw pops out of joint. He breaks several molars, and my temple and the back of my head are hammered over and over—by the iron mallet of his fist, by his elbow.
"—"
Half of my already blurred vision goes pitch-black. Maybe an eye has been crushed. My nose is caved in, the inside of my mouth is a wreck, my arm is broken, my innards are bursting—there isn't a spot on me not soaked in blood.
It was relentless. Words like 'ruthless' or 'merciless' don’t begin to cover it. More cruel than simply killing, more the kind of act that makes you want to look away than simply tormenting—had Marcos lost himself to anger? He was not supposed to be the sort of man who would keep kicking the corpse of an opponent he’d beaten down so one-sidedly.
And yet, why does he still keep punching, kicking, trampling? Against Heinkel—who long since, no, from the very start, had not the slightest will to resist—
「――Even after all this, you still mean to draw your sword?」
――. ――――. ――――――――. What?
「――――」
I had no idea what Marcos was saying. As for drawing a sword—no such willpower stirred in me in the least. In fact, my right arm had been broken at the elbow, everything from the wrist down smashed, all my fingers pointing in the wrong directions.
My face had been struck over and over, crushed; the right side of my vision was pitch-black, seeing nothing. The sound of breath forced through a mouth flooded with blood, through the gaps of my teeth, was that of a dying man; no one would bother to ask a man barely clinging to life about his will to fight.
In that half-gone field of view I could see Marcos, drenched in blood splashed from Heinkel, and beyond him the fight—no, the one-sided violence being forced upon two young girls as spectators: one with her cheek muscles taut, the other with her great eyes brimming with tears, hands clasped before her chest as if in prayer. From the sight of them alone it was plainly conveyed how egregiously cruel the scene before them was.
And then—
「――ah?」
At a faint, eardrum-trembling little sound, a murmur of doubt slipped from my throat. It came from Heinkel’s waist—from the beloved blade hanging from the sword-belt snugly cinched there. Quiet, keen, the sound of a blade being drawn, running along the sheath—
「――――」
With my right arm broken and shattered, my face crushed and pierced, my organs blasted, blood vomit and bloody stool wrung from me, even so, the left hand I had protected to the last had drawn the sword.
「Ah, I see…」
It was nothing of the sort. As I thought, Marcos was not some contemptible man who would keep piling on against a foe who had fallen helpless and could no longer move, in defiance of knightly honor.
It was just that Heinkel was still on his feet. Still trying to draw his sword.
「Still…」
—Do I still want to play at being a knight?
△▼△▼△▼△
「――――」
The blood-smeared whistle of my nose echoed foolishly down the corridor, taut with a grave air. I was wordless, but not soundless. I was playing at being a knight, but nothing fit to call one.
Even so, I drew my sword. For what? I had no plausible answer. Only that, from my body broken in so many places and from the hazy distance of my consciousness, something could be heard.
It was not a sound of this very moment. It was—
『――Lord Heinkel is here』
A feckless voice resurfaces in a head whose thoughts are leaking out with the blood. Even when I threatened she would lose everything, the voice of a foolish woman, a girl with no judgment, who declared there would still be something left by her side—that voice remains in my head.
『――Congratulations』
I hear a voice of congratulation. Not a jab or a sneer, but a voice that blessed that station, that way of being. A voice that, even knowing what a sword is meant to be drawn for, was forced into a constraint that could not let that way be carried through—such a voice stays in my heart.
『――So cuuute! Heinkel-san!』
I hear a beloved voice. Far away, beyond, and yet only dearer for it—a voice that remains in my soul.
My head, my heart, my soul—what else do I need to have lined up?
「O-oooh…!」
Along with a voiceless bellow, the remnants of an ideal long since dead, and the accumulation of training ingrained into it, moved Heinkel’s left arm.
There was no stance, no step-in. It was a single swing, flung by the collapsing weight of my body—something no one could call a sword-strike even with their mouth torn open. And yet that blade-flash did, unmistakably, reach Marcos’s thick neck.
「――――」
On Marcos’s forbidding face—one truly worthy of being called『the Crag』—his eyes narrowed. The blade-flash had reached him. Marcos neither drew his sword nor tried to bat it aside with his gauntlet. It was simply that the blade-flash was stopped by the gray bedrock that covered Marcos’s thick neck—his skin itself sheathed in stone. A neck as thick as a log, honed hard; what covered it were layer upon surging layer of rocky shell, a thickly deployed armor of stone that caught a steel sword-stroke with ease.
Sparks flew. The blade kicked up, the shock shot through Heinkel’s left arm.――All that marked the rocky carapace over Marcos’s neck was a single white line.
「It’s over」
With his guard opened from launching the strike, a fist drove into Heinkel’s unprotected torso.
「――――」
I didn't even feel pain. The instant the fist touched me, my view flipped, the world strobing between darkness and light. I only realized it was because I'd been sent spinning end over end when the impact battered me from head to toe, I slammed into a wall and slumped against it, and at last sprawled out and went down hard.
Half-buried in the cracked wall, a shrill clatter rang by Heinkel’s limp hands as the sword dangling from his slack left grip tapped feebly against the floor. This time, not even his fingers, his eyelids, his tongue—nothing would move.
"——"
Footsteps approached—one step, two, three. As they steadily pressed down the corridor toward him, Heinkel felt Marcos drawing near on his very skin and braced himself to face, moment by moment, the onrushing end.
Is it over. Is it really ending. Will I be made to end it. Could it really be Marcos—the one to close the book on this monstrously foolish life. And the fact that I can’t imagine that bringing me any peace feels utterly ridiculous—
"… stop."
He said it to the slim back that had rushed past Marcos to plant itself in front of him.
"No, I won’t stop. I would never stop."
Spreading both arms, the girl planted herself before Marcos as if to shield Heinkel. Her bloodless face was pallid, her cheeks wet with tears she hadn’t been able to hold back; her teeth chattered under the pressure of Marcos’s aura, a presence that felt almost bestial—yet she stood. Filore stood there, protecting the battered Heinkel.
"Please step aside, Lady Filore."
"I-I won’t. I refuse. That’s not going to happen. I’m not moving from here."
"That man is using you."
"No! You’re wrong! I asked him to do all of this!"
As Marcos’s quiet words edged closer, Filore raised her voice as if to steel her own heart and shot back. My mind screamed to wait, to stop, to not let her say any more—but it was no use.
"I’m the one who asked Lord Heinkel to lend me his strength—to think of a way to take them out of the castle, to save Emilia and Felt."
"——"
"Lord Heinkel tried to stop me over and over! He tried to talk me into giving up—said I’d lose my standing as one of the Royal Selection candidates, my title of “Saint,” everything. Even so!"
"——"
"Even so, I begged him—Lord Heinkel. —My knight."
The more she spoke, the less Filore’s voice trembled. What a simple girl, to raise her voice to rouse a frightened heart—does that ever truly drive fear away? And yet, in truth, Filore straightened her back, wiped her tears, and fixed her gaze on her opponent.
"That man is no knight. He threw away his own right to be one—he’s a ‘Backsword-Bearer.’"
Marcos is right.
"No, he’s not. He is my knight—a true knight who swore an oath."
Filore is wrong.
"——"
Filore and Marcos clashed head-on, locking eyes. In this standoff where height, age, ability—everything—set them apart, it was not Filore who looked away first. It was Marcos.
"I see."
Short, it sounded like an old stone split by dripping rain. Marcos, having said so, slowly unclenched the fist he’d been clenching tight. Then, just as his lips began to form more words—
"——That’s far enough."
A clear, silvery bell of a voice rang down the ravaged corridor.
△▼△▼△▼△
"——Emilia."
It was Filore, at the far end of the hall, who turned toward the voice and breathed that in a daze. Unfortunately, the near-dead Heinkel couldn’t so much as move his neck. But the sharp click of heels and the faint ripple of cold in the air confirmed the identity of the intruder. At last, even the edge of Heinkel’s vision caught the girl with the long silver hair—Emilia—pushing open the closed door and coming all the way here. And that—
"Give me a break, would ya? Just slipping past to get to the door felt like I was betting my life."
Grumbling as she spoke, that was Felt’s doing, now standing shoulder to shoulder with Emilia. The moment Filore dashed in to shield Heinkel, Felt took advantage of a lapse in Marcos’s attention and lunged for the door to the room where Emilia was. She brought her out and made her witness the state of this battlefield—how Emilia felt about that, no one could say.
"That’s far enough, Marcos-san. Heinkel-san has an awfully sturdy body, but if you go any further you’ll kill him—and I absolutely can’t overlook that."
"Even if this fool is plotting to use Lady Emilia’s person for his own ends?"
"Even if that were true, it's still no good. Besides, Filore was just now explaining with all her might that it isn't. Isn't that right?"
Saying that, Emilia shot Filore a look. Jolted back to herself from her daze, Filore hastily bobbed her head up and down.
"Yes, yes, that's right! Lord Heinkel wasn't trying to use Emilia or Felt! If anyone were pulling the strings, it would be me!"
"Don't say it like that, you're making it more confusing! Point is, the old man wasn't trying to hurt us or big sis Emilia."
"That's what I’m sayin'!"
Emilia and Felt took positions on either side of Filore, and with the look of someone bolstered by a host of armies, Filore snapped her finger out to point at Marcos. In fact, the three Royal Selection candidates were now standing in a row together—facing Marcos, the Captain of the Royal Guard, as if to shield the battered Heinkel. It was quite—
"—For the Captain of the Royal Guard to be glared at by all three Royal Selection candidates at once—what an encouraging sight for the future."
That voice belonged to neither of the three Royal Selection candidates, nor, of course, to Heinkel or Marcos, but to yet another newcomer. Footsteps clicked; their source was a room at the end of the corridor, the same one as Emilia. The one who had been shut in that room together with Emilia was—
"—Ram."
"You made quite a mess of things, Marcos. Even if you rewrote the wards for today, doing this much, it's no wonder someone else might have noticed. Are you in your right mind?"
"I thought I'd take every measure I could, but in this state I haven't a leg to stand on."
As Marcos slowly shook his head, the pink-haired maid—Ram, the elder twin sister of the girl Priscilla had taken under her wing—snorted, "Hmph!" At that exchange, it was Emilia who furrowed her brows and asked, "What do you mean?"
"Um, from what I'm hearing, it sounds like Ram and Marcos are sooo close."
"No, that's a misunderstanding, Emilia. The one who's sooo close with Marcos isn't Ram, but Roswaal. I hear they've been bosom friends for fifteen years."
"That sounds unseemly; allow me to correct it. It's true we've known each other for fifteen years, but calling us 'bosom friends' would be injurious to my honor."
"Ah, that answer sounds sooo much like one of Roswaal's friends…"
"H-hey, hold it! What are you all getting chummy for all of a sudden, huh!"
After Ram and Marcos's replies, Felt, unable to stomach how relaxed things had gotten, chimed in from beside Emilia, who had a finger to her lips. She then pointed at the Heinkel who'd been smashed to a pulp,
"This rock-face was rampaging like he meant to kill a moment ago. Thanks to that, the old man ended up like this. What the hell is going on?"
"Right. I'd like to confirm something… Lady Filore, was what you said earlier true? That you snuck into the castle to help Emilia and Felt?"
"Huh? Yes, that's right! I came to save the two of them. I worked out a solid plan for it, got Felt out successfully, and riding that momentum brought Emilia this far, and…"
"I see. And—you came up with that yourself?"
"I devised the plan together with Lord Heinkel. The idea itself was my own."
Hand to her chest, Filore confessed as if she had no intention of hiding anything anymore. Far from being ashamed, her answer sounded almost relieved to have said it, and both Ram and then Marcos knit their brows. Faced with their meaningful reactions, Filore said, "Um," and then,
"I still haven't quite grasped the situation, but… may I treat Lord Heinkel? No one's going to stop me, right? Even if you do, I will."
"Yes, of course, do that. Heal him quickly… Ah, but here healing magic might not work very well. They've made it so magic can't be used…"
"Heh, it's fine, don't worry. My sacrament is not magic."
As she said this, Filore crouched down right in front of Heinkel. Feeling her gaze so close, Heinkel still couldn't move and said nothing.
"You don't need to say anything. Lord Heinkel's actions were proof enough."
I don't understand. What is it Heinkel proved?
"——"
Heinkel, still not understanding, felt Filore’s hand gently touch his face. From there, a soft, warm sensation slowly spread. It was certainly a feeling different from healing magic. —If this is a sacrament of the 'Dragon Church,' then this thing that brings results unlike magic might reach what magic cannot. Even while his own body was being healed, Heinkel couldn’t help thinking that. Leaving Heinkel and the others aside—
"So, Sis Emilia, that frontier margrave and Stone-face are friends, and they were plotting something with the maid?"
"That may be hard to believe, but... today I also came here intending to take Emilia and Felt from the Royal Castle."
"...Huh!? Mr. Marcos was going to take us?"
"Yes," Marcos nodded soberly, and Ram, arms folded, added.
"From the start, Lord Roswaal had told us that if anything happened in the Royal Capital, at that time we were to rely on Lord Marcos. He said he would surely be of help... so Ram accepted being confined together with Emilia."
"I never stated 'surely.' It depends on the circumstances of the moment. In my position, it is also undesirable for me to take sides with a single one of the Royal Selection candidates. However, in this case the circumstances are different."
"So you figured it was a situation where you had to take our side, too."
"Exactly. For that, we reduced the guard on this wing to the minimum personnel and, as far as possible, to delay the discovery of the situation..."
"With Ram’s help, I rewrote the formula that restricts the magic laid on this floor. I redirected part of its effect into a ward to keep any commotion or voices here from leaking outside."
"Ah, I see. So that’s why, even though Stone-face beat the crap out of the old man like that, nobody came running to help."
As the explained circumstances lined up with the puzzling facts, Felt nodded in understanding. Then, even while concentrating on the sacrament, Filore, who had been listening in, said, "H-hey, can I ask something?" without stopping her hands,
"Um, in that case, the reason Lord Heinkel got beaten down so badly by the Knight Commander..."
"So it was pointless infighting, allies crushing each other."
"I do not think so. Neither that it was a futile quarrel, nor that that man is an ally."
"—"
At Marcos’s curt refusal to consider Heinkel of the same mind, a pang ran across Filore’s profile. Still, unfair as it is to Filore, it is only natural for Marcos to think that. Heinkel’s past conduct is not so light that a bit of changed behavior could overturn it.
"Mr. Marcos, if you’d made preparations to get us out, does that mean you’ll come with us as well?"
"That is my intention."
"Is that okay for you, Knight Commander? The Royal Capital’s already all kinds of shaky, right? If on top of that people hear even the Knight Commander is gone..."
"If blood must be spilled to drain the pus, we should not shun bloodshed. Besides, the Order will not collapse just because I alone am missing. I trust those who have kept in their hearts how they ought to raise their swords."
Having already decided and with no intention of being swayed, Marcos stated it flatly. At that answer, Emilia dipped her chin and looked to Filore.
"Filore, we’ll go with Mr. Marcos. What about you...?"
"Of course I’m going with you, Emilia! That was my plan from the start, and I can’t very well stay in the Royal Capital as it is. And also..."
"And also?"
"I want the Knight Commander to understand something. That Lord Heinkel is a proper knight."
"——"
At Filore’s spirited declaration, Marcos narrowed his eyes in silence. No matter how many words one strings together, there is a pile of deeds that do not deserve trust. Ignoring Marcos’s reaction, Felt scratched her head, and Emilia smiled.
"All right, then let’s go together! Thank you, Filore. Doing something like this is going to cause really big trouble, but you did it for our sakes."
"No! This is only natural. Because I’m Emilia’s very best friend, and with Felt we’re, like, what? It’s complicated, but we’re like sisters, aren’t we! ...Like sisters! Aren’t we!"
"You fond of that line? Why’d you say it twice...?"
As Felt let out an exasperated sigh, at the same time Filore lowered the hand she had been holding aloft and released a long, long, deep breath. Beads of sweat on her brow and slightly out of breath, she nodded with an “All right,” and—
"This should tide us over for now. Lord Heinkel, think you can stand?"
"...No, sorry."
With no mirror, he couldn’t tell how he looked, but at the very least the pain in his battered head, shattered molars, and broken right arm had eased considerably. That said, Heinkel’s physical toughness was, for certain reasons, beyond dispute. How much of this was the effect of the sacrament, and how much the result of his body’s abnormality, he couldn’t say. In any case, he would need a little more time before he could stand—
“—We can’t spare the time for argument, so pardon me.”
With that, Marcos strode up without ceremony, hoisted Heinkel’s body up with ease, and slung him over his shoulder like baggage. At the same time, the sword he had been clutching was wrenched from his grip and shoved back into its sheath.
“Knight Commander... you believed Lord Heinkel!?”
“No. It merely means that, if I were going to cut him down, I could do it somewhere other than here.”
“I-It’s useless even if you do that! Even if his torso were cleaved clean in two, I’ll just reattach it with the sacrament!”
“Enough! Save the bickering for later! Let’s go before we’re found!”
Emilia chided Filore, who was snapping at Marcos as he carried Heinkel, then looked over the faces of those present and took the lead. Each of them, by making this decision, was prepared to step into a situation from which there would be no turning back. Seeing that resolve on every face, Emilia gave a deep nod in return. And then—
“—We have to link up with Subaru and everyone else. I’m sure by now they’re all doing something sooo reckless, so I’m worried!”
“He probably wouldn’t want to hear that from us either, seeing as we’re the ones busting out.”
Exchanging such words, the group, now larger than any of their plans had accounted for, left the castle. And as they were slipping out of the castle—
“Lord Heinkel is truly remarkable. I’m so proud!”
“...My nose is broken, though.”
Despite having watched him get beaten into a rag, Filore was somehow brimming with pride; all Heinkel, unable to move, could manage was that much of a reply.
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