Chapter 111 - Ballad (2)

Bards wander the world, singing.

Of legends, heroic deeds, love, and sentiment.

And of life.

The world calls their songs ballads.

* * *

The Iron Kingdom of Chervil lay in the west of the continent.

Verdi, in the south of that vast kingdom, was an insignificant land more often called the backcountry or the outskirts than by its proper name. As befitted such an insignificant land, its people were insignificant too.

The people of Verdi were unlike other residents of the Iron Kingdom. Their lives revolved around practicality rather than might. They farmed, raised livestock, made milk and cheese, or produced wines worthy of becoming local specialties to sell in the cities. Most had never held a sword in their lives. Almost all the blades they handled were farming implements or kitchen knives.

It was a place where uneducated country folk who could barely read lived together. One day, a clever child was born in a village in that remote backcountry. He came from an ordinarily poor household and grew up under parents who were not particularly bright, but hardworking. Having spent their entire lives making cheese, they wanted their child to do something else. Those hardworking parents knew that their beloved child, whom they treasured beyond measure, was clever in a way they were not.

And so they decided to send him to the highest and most distinguished lord in that backwater. If he stayed with them, he would surely spend his whole life making cheese, then die.

Thus the child came to live in a manor rather than a shack.

"You're the new servant?"

"Yes! That's right!"

The child who had come to live in the manor spoke boldly, just as he had been taught.

"Please call me Sancho!"

Sancho.

The child with that name grew steadily, as boys do. He lived tending a house that was small for a manor, but grander and more splendid than any other in the backcountry. Beginning as a servant, he became a butler, and before he knew it, he was the most capable member of the household.

And then...

"Sancho, look at this."

The butler, who had grown from a young man into middle age and become part of the manor itself, saw his master's ecstatic smile. It was so radiant that he thought, So a person really can smile with that much joy.

"Come closer, my good man."

The now-middle-aged butler approached to see the little thing that had brought his master such joy. As he drew slowly nearer, he saw a tiny newborn lovingly swaddled in a blanket.

"Hold him. Go on."

Unable to resist his master's insistence, the butler took the newborn into his arms. Though no one had instructed him, he received the little thing more carefully than he would have held a glass.

"Well?"

He was small and fragile.

Precarious as a candle flame that a single puff could extinguish.

His breathing was soft.

He was light. So very light.

"You know, I've never lived with a clear purpose. Not since the day I was born. I've simply let myself be swept along by the current. Wandering, you might say."

"..."

"But today, I think I've realized what I ought to live for."

His master's tousled hair. His dust-covered face, smiling like a boy. And the dazzlingly beautiful little newborn. The warm sunlight of the Caravan estate coming through a narrow opening.

"This fragile, fleeting thing. Protecting him from this cruel world."

The butler—Sancho—still could not forget that day.

"Help me do it, my friend."

"..."

"You're my best friend, aren't you?"

Sancho still could not forget the warmth of that day.

"... What is the young master's name?"

Sancho could not forget the feel of the little thing that had gripped his finger that day.

"Arhan."

Perhaps he never would.

* * *

Dense undergrowth.

An old man rode an old donkey, racing along a dark mountain trail.

It was a ridiculous sight.

An old man and an old donkey.

They were far removed from the world's leading players.

Young men. Knights.

The protagonists who possessed wealth and honor, won the continent's acclaim, mingled with beautiful women, and inspired the admiration of countless people were supposed to be young, strong, and beautiful.

"Run, Paddle."

Sancho was nothing like a protagonist.

The cleverness that had made him special in Verdi was utterly ordinary compared with the scholars of the cities. His memory was a little better than most people's, and he was quick with figures. That was all. He had no flashes of creativity, no exceptional understanding, and no talent for applying what he had learned.

Sancho was neither special nor remarkable.

There were no protagonists in the world who were neither special nor remarkable.

"Keep running. Just a little more."

Sancho was not handsome either.

He was a short, plump, potbellied man whose clothes fit too tightly. No noble lady or princess would fall in love with him for his looks.

And now, Sancho was no longer young.

He had grown very old, and the supreme being who had visited the Caravan estate long ago had left terrible scars across half his face. City guards had even mistaken him for a leper and driven him away.

"Keep going. Run."

An old man who was neither special nor beautiful nor young. An old man racing through the final stretch of his life, with no right to stand on the stage. An unsightly old man panting for breath after traveling only a short way along a forest trail. No one thought of him as a protagonist.

"We have to run. We have to."

But Sancho ran.

He had somewhere to return to.

"The young master is still fighting."

His donkey, Paddle, had grown far too old to run with Sancho on his back. Running along a rugged mountain trail rather than level ground was harder still. The gasping donkey limped. But he never stopped. As though he knew there was something he had to finish.

"Yes. He was fighting. Still."

And Sancho was no different.

"Even now..."

Sancho remembered what he had said.

He still remembered the cruel words he had spoken to his young master as the boy stood blankly, having lost everything. He still remembered the sorrowful words he had uttered to the boy he had failed to protect, cast alone into the world.

["Young master, you must forget."]

["Only then can you live."]

["A swordmaster can be killed only by another swordmaster."]

["Young master."]

"Run, Paddle. We mustn't be late."

Sancho had to return.

The old butler had to return.

He had to keep the promise he had made to his master, who had now departed this world.

["You're my best friend, aren't you?"]

The old donkey and the old man ran.

Through the darkness.

* * *

The instant I met the wooden stick Edan Rhapsody thrust at me, I could clearly see the 「path」 he had spread out. It would be more accurate to call it a world than a path. Another world, built by a single swordsman.

All 「paths」 were connected.

Master had been right.

The path extending from Edan Rhapsody was unlike that of an ordinary 「sword walker」. Only a single path extended from him. That one path spiraled outward from around him, filling the entire makeshift dueling ground. In other words, Edan Rhapsody all but ruled this arena.

One perfectly connected path.

There were no gaps in it. I could see no opening through which a path like mine might squeeze. The instant it touched his, my 「path」 would vanish without a trace. It was like pouring a bucket of water into a vast sea. Pouring water into the sea changed nothing. It merely became part of the boundless ocean.

Was the difference in our levels truly so stark?

Seeing it with my own eyes filled me not with despair, but almost with awe. I felt as though I might lose myself gazing at the dazzling, beautiful sword Edan Rhapsody had built.

But I could not.

"Hup—"

Using my burning breath as fuel, I surpassed my limits. For a fleeting moment, I tasted the power of the wings possessed by 「sword runners」. Acceleration. My thoughts passed beyond the realm of the superhuman. My time slowed until it seemed to stand still.

The world of stars that 「Lantern」 had longed for.

The world of wind that 「Gale」 had longed for.

I could not stop there.

What was my world?

Before this arrogant ocean, I had to forge a world of my own. Otherwise, the sea would swallow me, and its waves would sweep me away without a trace.

When I had first faced the sea—when I had crossed swords with Toma Rhapsody at the end of the Endless Duel—I had become steel. I had become a wisp of flame and burned him. I had to reach that state again. If I was not to drown in this ocean, if I was not to be swept away, I had to take flight. High. Higher still.

CRUNCH

The wooden stick Edan Rhapsody had thrust at me ate into my blade.

It was the result of a perfect world colliding with an imperfect one.

At that moment, it felt as though lightning had struck.

I could not tell whether it was enlightenment, fear in the face of death, or some mental illness akin to the madness that had afflicted my father. Perhaps it was simply a bolt of lightning.

I knew nothing.

And so I chased the lightning.

His 「path」 was perfect.

It was a realm I could not imitate. Then rather than imitate him, I would forge my own world. Edan Rhapsody had created an arrogant world, like the sea-like sword of his Great Family. Within that arrogant world, I saw the sun once more. Even an ocean that swallowed the world had a sun. Rising beyond the horizon, it made the sea shine and lit the sky with dazzling light.

Yes, the sun was everywhere.

It had been there on the day I was born, during my happy years, on the day I lost everything, and at the moment I first took up a sword. It had always been there.

What was the sun?

What was the world?

「... Ah.」

The nine goddesses and the seven chief gods.

What were those omniscient, omnipotent supreme beings who reigned above the sky? Why did those great beings, who always watched over us like the sun in the heavens, merely look on at my tragedy?

How could the world go so wrong?

Why was the sword that had destroyed everything I had revered as a hero? If the gods worshipped by the kingdom's countless religions truly existed, why did that bastard receive no divine punishment? Why did he grow greater with every passing day, while I, who had lost everything, grew ever more insignificant? Why had he become the swordmaster among swordmasters, chosen by heaven, while I had to remain a boy in the backcountry who could survive only by forgetting?

「At last, it is about to bloom.」

What truth lay hidden in the tragedy I had suffered? If everything my father had said was true, why did the gods grant no blessing to the boy who had sworn revenge?

The stern laws of the continent declared:

The wicked shall be judged, and the good rewarded. Child who has lost everything, you shall be compensated. Greedy one who possesses everything, you shall lose what you hold.

If such laws truly existed, why had I received no compensation? If such laws truly existed, why did the continent's countless sinners still live with everything they held intact? Why did this world go so wrong? Why was it shaped in such an incomprehensible, irrational way?

Why? Why on earth?

「Yes. That is it.」

My second heart, my mana heart.

My blood vessels, my 「path」.

The swords I had eaten. The souls contained within them. The techniques I had built up until now. It felt as though all of them were being dismantled. Why was everything that constituted me arranged this way? Why did what was mine exist? Why did I exist?

Why was the world beneath my feet so wrong?

I could not understand any of it.

I could not accept any of it.

I doubted everything.

At that moment, everything I was came apart. It came apart, then assembled itself anew. A single path extending from my heart circulated through my entire body. One blood vessel made a circuit from my head to my toes. Having completed its circuit, the path pierced my back and slowly grew, like a flower blooming. The path that had sprouted in my heart at last grew into a form everyone could see. Everyone here knew its name.

「That is your world.」

Only now did I understand the landscape I had seen.

The sky, and the earth.

The sun, and steel.

The sky I had seen was a world gone wrong.

The sun I had seen was the gods gone wrong.

Everything I had seen was a reality gone wrong.

My earth was my people.

My father, afflicted by madness, who had fought to the very end.

My neighbors, who had fought a swordmaster with farming tools. My mother, who had wept and told me to promise never to take up a sword again. Petel, who had struggled against a wrongful fate until the very last.

My steel was my Suspicion.

My Suspicion, which had refused to accept the wrongful reality this world presented and remained standing tall. My Suspicion, which had stayed rooted in the earth, unmoving, no matter how fiercely the sun glared or what storms raged. My crooked Suspicion, which could not accept this world gone wrong, this reality gone wrong, these deeds that outraged heaven and humanity alike. That was my steel.

"Ah."

Why was the world like this?

Why did the gods merely watch?

Why was judgment never passed?

Did the rewarding of good and punishment of evil truly exist?

The moment I reached that question, a hazy landscape appeared. Within it were sky and earth. In the deep blue sky, the sun blazed fiercely. Beneath the sun stood a boy, alone. The lone boy gazed blankly up at the sun. The boy asked:

Did God truly exist?

『Suspicion.』

The fundamental question I had harbored for so long.

The instant I reached that blasphemous, impure question, a distant voice sounded once again.

My own voice.

『Ironically, humanity came one step closer to God not through faith, but through Suspicion.』

With those words, my consciousness grew dazed.

The two blades within me.

Blades melting as though consumed by fire. Beyond them, I saw a pale, indistinct blade. Little by little, I felt I was beginning to understand what it was. The third blade, whose identity even I had not known. The final sword Master had spoken of.

But I was one step short of reaching it.

Yes. Just one step.

And then—

"Young master!"

Someone's voice rang through the frozen world.

The knights. My people.

Through their ranks, an old man was shouting.

"I haven't either!"

The old man was someone I knew very well.

"I still haven't forgotten either! I haven't been able to accept a single thing that happens in this damned world, this world gone wrong!"

The butler.

The butler who had left this place.

"So don't forget! You mustn't forget either, young master!"

My Sancho.

"You will!"

The words he shouted, as though tearing them out of himself, were enough to carry me that missing step.

"Become! A swordmaster!"

More than enough, truly.

"Without fail!"

THUMP THUMP

A thrilling heartbeat resounded.

As it rang out, my eyes opened wide. An indescribable power surged from my heart. I saw Edan Rhapsody's wooden stick eating into my blade. I could not meet it head-on. I twisted my blade, lowered my body, and retreated. Edan Rhapsody could not catch me as I withdrew.

Because...

"You..."

My retreat had happened like a mage's teleportation. Movement at a speed beyond superhuman power.

"Those wings—what in the world?"

Wings.

In the manner of a 「sword runner」.

"... And what is this?"

Edan Rhapsody's expression twisted.

Flames flickered on his wooden stick. They spread to his body, burning the world around him. I looked at the frowning Edan Rhapsody. What did I look like? I did not know. I could hardly see myself.

I could tell that something had sprouted from my back.

But the thrilling heartbeat had not yet ended. It still resounded, as though heralding the beginning of an opera. And the wings that had sprouted from my back had not yet finished changing. As though there were still somewhere further to go.

And then...

『I was born in war.』

The shape of the pale, unidentified third sword began to grow clearer. The blade had begun to shine within me. Its appearance was all too familiar.

『A phoenix blooms from the ashes.』

A voice so weighty that it seemed to drown out every sound in the world resounded. A deep, commanding voice, like the growl of a lion. Its air was unfamiliar, yet strangely familiar.

Considering who owned that sword, it was only natural.

『The world cast me into the fire.』

The treasure of the Caravan family.

The sword wielded by the Caravan family's founding ancestor and greatest family head, the strongest swordmaster in history. Judging by what my father had told me, it had been forged at least five hundred years ago, yet it remained impossibly sharp. A blade gleaming with an edge that seemed capable of cutting through anything at any moment.

The first sword I had eaten.

『The world broke me and crushed me.』

As the voice continued to resound, an old man's face came clearly into view.

The face of a hero.

Wrinkled, but with eyes that blazed like blades.

The great swordmaster who had come to save a boy who sat broken on the floor.

『But the world could not kill me.』

My master, who had called to his young descendant from the middle of the ruined manor's sitting room.

「Have you forgotten the first words I spoke to you?」

Liam Caravan.

「Eat me, descendant of Caravan.」

His sword...

「Then you will obtain what you desire.」

...was my third sword.

* * *

They had run beyond their limits.

The old donkey died.

The old man did not.

He lived to reach the stage of the young.

A brilliantly shining stage.

Reaching the place where a new age was unfolding, the old man returned where he belonged and said what he needed to say. He could barely breathe, his mouth tasted of blood, and his vision swam yellow, but even so, he did what he had to do.

["Sancho, people say I'm mad. Do you think so too?"]

He remembered the things his master had said.

["I don't think so. Who is mad? Am I mad for imagining the world we might someday build, or are those who see the world only as it is and meekly accept the bizarre things this broken world presents to them the mad ones?"]

His master, afflicted by madness.

His mad master's eyes had blazed like the sun.

The words sounded impressive, but in truth he was merely reciting passages from a chivalric novel. Yet the words his master had spoken as he went along leading a scrawny horse still moved Sancho's heart.

["To dream an impossible dream, fight an unbeatable foe, bear unbearable pain, and reach for the unreachable stars in the sky. That is my destiny, Sancho."]

Yes. Even now.

Everyone had called it madness, but the old butler could not forget his master as he had been then. He could not forget those eyes, shining as brightly as stars.

["No! Please, listen to me. This is madness. Let us run. This is no different from a moth flying into a flame. The greatest act of madness a human being can commit in this world is to choose death when no one is trying to kill him!"]

The old butler remembered even his master's end.

That radiant yet poignant end, when he had finally leaped into a star and burned to death.

"Ah."

The old butler's master had failed to become a star.

But...

"Ahh."

His son.

The son he had left behind after burning away his life.

The boy who had been left alone beneath the blazing sun, on earth that had swallowed countless deaths, was shining brilliantly at this very moment.

The boy who had grown up with an innocent man's romantic dreams, a gentle lady's love, a fumbling nurse's affection, and an ordinary butler's care...

"Are you watching? Are you watching from heaven?"

...had, before anyone knew it, become a star with a sword in his hand.