Chapter 25 - Just Gilberton

'An egg of agony, eh.'

Galahad murmured, rubbing the area around his heart.

The egg of agony Corton had gifted him was unlike anything he had encountered before. Since he could sense no mana from it at all, it was not a magical device.

'Is its concentration too high? Or is it sealed?'

His only clue was the faint sense of familiarity that had brushed past him as he swore his oath. It resembled the mass of pure mana he had sensed while fighting the Demon.

The egg of agony had settled near his heart. With every heartbeat, it seemed to whisper that it would eat his heart if he broke his oath.

It felt as though a ghost had taken up residence inside his head.

'An ordinary person would have gone mad already.'

What a piece of garbage. If its victim went mad, they could not keep their oath, so it actually defeated its own purpose.

Galahad's lips curled into a broad smile.

'What a marvelous little mystery...'

He recalled Number Eight's report that Dawn was distributing remnants of the Imperial-Demon War. This appeared to be one of them.

He had probed Corton about it, but all he got was that it was a reward for establishing trade with the Fifth Battalion.

Even if it came from a high-ranking Demon, having Adrianna touch the area around his heart would solve the problem. Her peculiar nature grew more powerful the higher her opponent's mana concentration was.

Of course, he had no intention of doing that.

'Why waste something so precious?'

Even if he did destroy it, he intended to discover how it worked first. Though once he figured that out, there would be no need to destroy it in the first place.

'How does it work? I never set a deadline. Doesn't that mean I can simply leave the oath unfulfilled?'

The moment he thought that, pain surged from his heart. For an instant, it felt as though someone had taken a bite out of it. The agony was enough to draw a groan even from Galahad, who was quite accustomed to pain.

'... Does it read thoughts? Does it have a mind of its own?'

He tapped lightly near his heart and asked, but received no answer. It merely urged him to keep his oath.

'Perhaps I'll kill her in ten years or so.'

He tried the question as an experiment, and agony erupted again. It was worse than before, as though warning him not to get cheeky. Clutching his heart, Galahad sank to the ground.

'It does have a mind of its own. And that was mana. Highly concentrated mana...'

Galahad reflected on what he had just felt. It had lasted only an instant, but he had sensed it unmistakably.

'An object with a mind of its own. What a treasure.'

He wanted to try it once more, but the thing seemed angry. Reluctantly, he left it for another time.

"Tell me honestly. What sort of commission is it?"

Gilberton's question was serious, his face full of unease. His instincts were quite sharp.

"You're better off not knowing."

After a moment's consideration, Galahad shook his head. Telling him might be entertaining, but needlessly letting him in on it was certain to become a nuisance.

Just then, Tom held out the bundle. His face was so troubled that he looked ready to cry.

"This is too much for me to manage."

"Tom, should a man be whining like that? You ought to be asking for more."

"This is too much."

It was a perfectly reasonable advance from Corton. To think he considered this paltry amount too much. Galahad clicked his tongue softly.

"If you won't take charge of it, I'll have to entrust it to someone else. Hmm, who should it be? Gwen?"

"N-no! She'll give it all away as charity."

"I agree. Gwen is too softhearted to carry money around. Damian, then?"

"He'll spend it all on delicious food."

"A growing boy is a frightening thing. Well then, just Sir Gilberton?"

"I'll just take care of it myself."

Tom nodded with a resolute expression.

"A wise decision. You'll do well. I'm a good judge of people, you know."

"Thank you! I'll guard it with my life!"

"... What do you mean, 'just Gilberton'?"

Gilberton belatedly raised the question. Tom peeked inside the bundle and counted its contents all over again.

"I should go and see Damian."

Galahad quietly got up.

"No, what does 'just Gilberton' mean?"

Damian was behind the barracks. Holding his rusty sword, he jumped in place and rolled forward, sending snow flying wildly around him. Then he sprang to his feet and swung. The line traced by his sword was a mess.

"He's been doing that the whole time."

Gilberton, who had followed Galahad outside, watched Damian with a peculiar look.

"That's not sword training. It's not conditioning either. Isn't he just playing? He does that for ages, comes inside to eat and sleep, then goes right back to it. With talent like his, I don't understand why he won't learn swordsmanship."

His voice was full of dissatisfaction. He seemed eager to teach Damian swordsmanship.

A knight volunteering to teach his own swordsmanship. Galahad was mildly surprised. Ordinarily, knights demanded years of service as an errand boy, along with payment, before passing on their skills.

By that standard, Gilberton was a good knight.

"I once had a colleague rather like Damian. We worked together on a job, and he would drink himself silly and spend all night bedding women. Two at a time, no less."

Galahad began talking about the man Damian had reminded him of when they first met.

'Was the agent's name Lady?'

Lady had been a man who reeked of a beast, as though he had only just learned to walk on two legs.

"When I'm working, I watch even what I eat, never mind drinking. To me, he looked insane. It was a fairly important job."

Gilberton nodded with an uneasy expression.

"So I said something. I had quite a temper back then. Do you know what he said to me?"

"What did he say?"

"He asked if I'd ever seen a wild beast train."

Galahad chuckled at the old memory.

"Like you, I thought it was bullshit. So I went in expecting to do the job alone..."

Just then, Damian rolled forward twice in succession. At first glance, the movement looked ridiculous, but the line his sword traced was precise.

"He really was a wild beast."

Galahad nodded, clicking his tongue softly at the vivid red memory.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"The point is, there are different ways of doing things. Force him into a mold and you'll only break him. A wild beast has its own ways. You just need to feed him well."

Gilberton narrowed his eyes, still brimming with dissatisfaction.

It was inevitable. He was an honest knight who had built himself up through sweat and toil. Damian, on the other hand, had been born a wild beast.

The gap between them could not be bridged.

"If you feel that strongly, why don't you two have a spar? Damian!"

Damian, who had been rolling forward, leaped up and approached with his sword dragging behind him.

His face and clothes were a mess of snow. His cheeks were red as though frozen, and a long trail of snot ran from his nose. He looked like a neighborhood child who had been running around in the snow. A rather muscular one.

"Gladly."

Gilberton adjusted his grip on his sword and nodded. He seemed to have been waiting for this.

"Damian, have a bout with Sir Gilberton."

"Should I kill him?"

"No, you mustn't kill him. Believe it or not, he's our deputy commander."

"Oh, okay."

Gilberton's face crumpled.

"I served in the First Battalion."

"I know. That's why your pay is so high, isn't it?"

"I'm not taking a pay cut."

"... Did anyone ask you to?"

Gilberton drew his sword and stepped forward. Judging by his expression, he too was curious about Damian. A born knight.

Facing Damian, he took a textbook stance, extending his sword at a slight angle. Damian, by contrast, simply let his sword hang.

"Give me even one scratch, and I'll call it your win."

"Okay."

Damian saw no reason to refuse.

Before anyone could say to begin, Damian darted forward, feet pattering over the ground. His stance was so low that his strange movements made him look as though he were crawling on all fours.

It could easily have been disconcerting, but Gilberton calmly slid his left foot back and lowered his stance slightly.

Damian swung his sword as though hurling it. It was less swordsmanship than the swipe of a beast's forepaw, wild and unrestrained.

Gilberton's blade blocked him. Just then, Damian twisted his sword, sliding it along Gilberton's blade. It looked less like a sword than a living snake.

"Hmm."

With a low grunt, Gilberton shoved with his guard. Damian lost his balance for an instant, and Gilberton seized the opening to press his sword forward. Damian toppled backward.

He landed so hard that the accumulated snow flew up in a furious flurry. A sword shot through the white cloud. It was Damian.

He lunged like a wild beast, swinging his sword wildly, but Gilberton's blade was solid. There were no openings.

'He's enjoying himself.'

Gilberton was accommodating Damian. Rather than keeping his distance, he exchanged blows at close quarters, where Damian had the advantage.

Even then, the gap was overwhelming.

"Faster!"

Instead, Gilberton kept narrowing the margin until it was increasingly precarious, as though trying to draw more out of Damian.

Watching him smile as he received Damian's blows, Galahad clicked his tongue softly.

'What is so enjoyable about swinging a sword around?'

The bout ended when Damian abruptly collapsed. His stamina spent, he fell flat on his face, dropping like a machine whose battery had run out.

Gilberton, by contrast, was not even breathing hard.

"I think I understand what you meant."

Gilberton spoke as he put away his sword.

Galahad pointed at his hand. Between his bare hand and wrist, unprotected by a gauntlet, was a tiny red line. The scratch was so slight that it had not even drawn blood.

"Didn't you say earlier that even one scratch would mean your defeat?"

Gilberton's face crumpled.

"I scraped it on the ground. It wasn't Damian's sword."

"How pathetic."

"It's true. If Damian's sword had cut me, the mark would be wider than this—"

"Yes, you're Gilberton through and through."

"... Gilberton? What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're Gilberton."

Gilberton went on at length about why the scratch could not have come from Damian's sword. No matter how often Galahad said he understood, it did no good.

"Food's ready!"

At Tom's announcement, Damian sprang to his feet. Only then did Gilberton go over to him.

"They say it's time to eat!"

A breathless voice came from behind. Galahad turned to find Gwen, blackened all over.

"Haven't you overdone your tan a little?"

"... Pardon? Oh! I was practicing magic! I couldn't get the distance right!"

"I see. You're doing well."

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"Ah, go ahead without me. I still have work to do."

"Work? Shall I help?"

"Oh, please don't."

"You'll have to hurry back! It won't taste good cold!"

Grinning, Gwen ran off to the barracks. Galahad waved after her, then turned away.

There was still one more thing he needed to obtain: a deal with the wicked Fifth Battalion commander who had conspired with the sinister Black Magic Society.

'The Black Magic Society. Magic-stone deposits. The Fifth Battalion. Demons...'

Galahad reviewed the cards in his hand once more. Mark was an exceedingly calculating man. Offer him the most rational option available, and he would accept it.

The way to offer him the most rational option was simple.

'Just eliminate all the others.'

Galahad put a cigarette between his lips and set off.

* * *

Mark, commander of the Fifth Battalion, had a great deal on his mind.

Lately, the intervals between Demon attacks had been growing shorter and shorter. It was a bad sign.

War cost a great deal of money. From the soldiers' armor and swords to their food, the expenses were no trifling sum.

'If not for the magic-stone deposits...'

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

He looked up at the knocking. The door opened, and Galahad, commander of the Special Operations Unit, entered.

Corton was scum, but he was as sly as a rat. If Galahad had returned after going out with him...

'They've struck some sort of deal.'

Why had Galahad come to see him again?

'Blackmail?'

Dealing with Mages was frowned upon in the North. But if those Mages were researching Demons, he could frame the situation differently.

Demon research was among the Empire's most strictly enforced prohibitions. Conducting it meant they were an anti-Imperial organization.

Moreover, the income from the magic-stone deposits through the Black Magic Society was substantial. Mark was confident he could persuade the other commanders on those two grounds. That was why he had taken the Society in.

"Do you have any tea? I've done a great deal of talking today, and I'm rather thirsty."

Galahad had already seated himself and was casting a sidelong glance at Lumian.

When Mark nodded, Lumian bit his lip and left.

"Did everything go well?"

Mark went straight to the point.

"We're fellow alumni, so we had quite a long chat for the first time in years. The Mages you've joined hands with call themselves the Black Magic Society."

"I see."

"You knew, didn't you?"

"Of course not."

Of course he knew. Mark was not foolish enough to admit people into his fortress without knowing who they were. He had simply weighed the benefits against the costs and found the former great enough to outweigh the latter.

"Ah, did I mention that on my way here, I killed an intermediate-ranking Demon nearly as strong as a high-ranking one, sixteen mole crickets, and two Mages?"

Mark's eyes narrowed at the sudden boast.

"Yes."

"There were actually three Mages."

Just then, the door opened and Lumian entered. He set an iron cup before Galahad, steam rising from it.

Galahad sipped his tea with refined elegance.

'Three Mages, not two...'

His intent in bringing that up after mentioning the Black Magic Society was obvious.

'Was the Black Magic Society behind it?'

Mark's mouth went dry. The Society's collusion with the Demons was something he had never anticipated.

This was...

'The worst possible outcome.'

Mark narrowed his eyes. To minimize the damage, he needed to seize and kill the Society members in the fortress immediately.

But then he could no longer operate the magic-stone deposits.

With Demon attacks becoming more frequent, abandoning the deposits meant choosing a slow death. This was not a choice between bad and worse, but between swift disaster and slow disaster.

'Why is he telling me this?'

Galahad commanded the Special Operations Unit, but his forces were woefully small. More importantly, he lacked a base of support.

What might he want from Mark?

'A base or troops, then.'

Galahad might now have the upper hand, but he and Mark were in different weight classes. Leverage only worked when the two sides were at least somewhat evenly matched.

'If I insist it's just bullshit from an Imperial...'

Mark tapped the table.

Galahad was leisurely sipping his tea. With his refined manner, neatly swept-back hair, and immaculate clothes, he was the very picture of an aristocrat.

He was thoroughly out of place in the North.

"What do you want?"

Mark went straight to the heart of the matter.

"I'd like to establish the Special Operations Unit's headquarters here at the Fifth Battalion."

It was the request he had expected. Mark nodded.

"Very well. I'll clear out the supply depot for you."

"The supply depot looked rather small."

A unit of only five people, and he thought the supply depot was too small? Mark did not understand, but nodded anyway.

"I'll give you a company building."

"A company building? I suspect it would smell of Sir Gilberton's feet."

"If you have something in mind, say so."

In response, Galahad pointed down. Mark lowered his head to follow the finger. The floor.

After frowning for a moment, he understood.

"Are you asking for battalion headquarters?"

"It's the largest building here. Warm, too."

Was he joking? Mark seriously considered it. What sort of bastard would ask for battalion headquarters? Surely it was a joke.

Then he saw Galahad's eyes and realized it was not. This lunatic genuinely wanted battalion headquarters.

"Why does a five-person unit need battalion headquarters?"

"Headquarters is the face of a unit, isn't it? I like a large, tidy face. Do you object?"

A building was only a building. The unexpected request had caught him off guard, but he did not particularly mind.

Battalion headquarters in exchange for the Black Magic Society. Assuming it was only until Mark found a solution...

"Agreed."

"Excellent."

Galahad nodded as though he had known Mark would accept.

"Of course, we don't intend to use all of it. We'll be away more often than not. That would be wasteful, wouldn't it? I detest waste. How many floors does this building have?"

"... Three."

"Then you can use the first and second floors. We'll take the third."

Mark narrowed his eyes at Galahad's magnanimous tone. He meant for Mark to keep providing security. He was foisting the building's maintenance onto him as well.

"Very well."

"Ah, there's one more thing."

Greedy bastard.

Mark narrowed his eyes.

"I hear there are factions among the commanders. They're divided between Adrianna, the Second Battalion commander, and the Third Battalion, I'm told."

So he wanted to come under the Fifth Battalion's umbrella.

'Was demanding the building a power play to prepare for this?'

Mark nodded.

"Yes, there are factions."

"Does the Fifth Battalion have one?"

"No."

"Excellent."

Galahad put a cigarette between his lips and snapped his fingers. It lit, filling the air with the scent of lemon.

"As long as the magic-stone business continues, I can subsidize your unit's operating expenses. In exchange, I'd like you to carry out a few missions. Obtaining accurate information on mana-stone prices, for instance..."

"You've misunderstood something. I don't mean that the Special Operations Unit will come under the Fifth Battalion."

At those words, Mark clicked his tongue softly.

'Does he want an alliance?'

He was overreaching, driven by absurd pride. The Special Operations Unit and the Fifth Battalion were not even remotely comparable in scale.

The Special Operations Unit had only five members. The Fifth Battalion, by contrast, had ten companies, with even more platoons beneath them. The Special Operations Unit was smaller than a platoon.

And yet he wanted to stand as equals? Ridiculous.

For the first time in a long while, Mark laughed aloud. Then his expression turned icy.

"An alliance? How absurd. Have I humored you so much that you think I'm a joke? Do you think sharing the title of commander makes us equals? Fine, submit a report if you want. That doesn't mean—"

"Ah, I phrased that misleadingly."

As Galahad shook his head, Mark reined in his temper.

'He misspoke, then.'

Of course. With such an enormous difference in scale, how could they discuss an alliance? However bold he might be, he would never make such an absurd proposal.

"What I meant wasn't an alliance..."

Mark anticipated what would come next and planned his response, ready to handle whatever might emerge from Galahad's mouth.

Then Galahad spoke.

"I'm telling you to come under me."

Mark had no response.