Chapter 9 - A Good Blade

With both the academy and the Intelligence Bureau located in the capital, Galahad had spent most of his time there.

The capital was exceptionally clean. Smooth stone paved the streets, and a sewer system kept them free of filth. Everyone walked about in raven-black suits, and the scent of perfume filled his nose.

That owed less to the bastards washing regularly than to the mages employed by the imperial household.

The North, by contrast, was appalling. He had heard it was bad, but seeing it for himself, he realized that hardly covered it.

Half-melted snow mixed with livestock dung squelched in the streets, and the people were black with grime and painfully thin. It made him wonder whether the Black Death had swept through the North alone.

“The standby troops are in there?”

The place Gilberton had brought him to, where the standby troops lived, took things a step further. Most of the houses had collapsed, with crudely built wooden dwellings scattered among them.

A man with a bad leg crawled along the ground while a fellow missing a hand watched him and snickered.

“Yes. Everyone useful is at the front.”

“So only the dregs who can't go to the front are on standby.”

“More or less.”

“He dumped his leftovers on me.”

'So that's why the Grand Duke restricted me to men on standby.'

In other words, he was telling Galahad to rummage through the scrap heap and see what he could find.

Heads turned as Galahad in his neat coat walked beside Gilberton, an armed knight. Those who cursed him as a damned kept man hurriedly hid when Gilberton looked their way.

“I'm quite famous. I suppose I should practice my autograph.”

“You're happy to be called a kept man?”

“Of course. Isn't meeting a beautiful, capable woman and living the easy life every man's dream?”

“Not mine.”

“What's your dream, then?”

“I...”

Gilberton had started to answer without thinking, but clamped his mouth shut.

“Why stop halfway through? There are two things that make people angry. Do you know what they are?”

“What?”

“Stupid mages and clever knights.”

“Never mind the stupid mages. Why would clever knights make you angry?”

“A clever knight's sword gets slower. Yours must be very fast.”

“...?”

Gilberton pointed to one side, where a cluster of things resembling huts stood. Huts, of all things.

'They're no different from orcs.'

Galahad wondered how anyone survived in a hut somewhere this cold.

Gilberton stopped in front of the shabbiest, most ramshackle hut of the lot. A boy sat beneath what looked like four or five strands of straw tied together.

With his thoroughly disheveled hair and worn-out clothes, he was the very picture of a beggar, but his looks were rather impressive. Even the grime coating his face failed to hide his noble air. He looked like a young aristocrat, and his eyes were remarkably clear.

Gilberton pointed at him.

“Damian. He has a bizarre way with a sword.”

“A bizarre way with a sword?”

“It isn't swordsmanship, but he's astonishingly good at killing Demons.”

“He doesn't look like he's even grown any hair down there.”

“Does that matter?”

“I'm joking. If he's young and fights well, why is he here at the castle?”

“The platoons Damian belonged to were wiped out by Demons. He was the sole survivor.”

“If he survived a platoon being wiped out by Demons, you ought to take better care of him. Wait, platoon...s?”

“It happened about four times. No other platoon wants to take him, so he's temporarily on standby. He'll probably be assigned as a scout soon.”

Gilberton trailed off. The sole survivor of four annihilated platoons.

“Any chance the boy did it?”

“None. A thorough investigation has already been completed.”

Galahad gave a thoughtful hum. Being at the front, they would have investigated all the more rigorously. If they had still found no evidence, the boy was most likely not responsible.

“But his skills are useful.”

“Yes. That much is certain.”

Galahad tapped the ash from his cigarette and approached the boy. Bruises and scars covered him, some not yet healed.

'Is he being bullied? I have no use for a weakling...'

Galahad clicked his tongue softly.

The boy had his face tilted toward the sky and his mouth wide open.

“Are you eating snow?”

“I'm thirsty.”

“I see. Does it taste all right?”

“It tastes like lemon today.”

Galahad hid his cigarette behind his back. The boy continued eating snow.

At this idiotic behavior, Galahad looked at Gilberton, who shrugged. Clicking his tongue, Galahad sat beside the boy. Only then did the boy look at him.

There wasn't a single emotion in those eyes. They were familiar eyes, similar to those of a man he had seen at the Intelligence Bureau. Brothers? No, that fellow had been black.

The difference was that, unlike that man's eyes, which had been steeped in murderous intent, the boy's were still clear.

The boy spoke.

“You look unusual.”

Galahad's lips curled upward at the unexpected assessment.

“You look unusual yourself, Damian. Your face has quite a noble air. Were your parents aristocrats?”

“No. My mother's a whore.”

For the first time, Galahad was at a loss for words at this unexpected introduction to the boy's parentage.

“An impressive woman. Not just anyone can be a whore, you know. It means she's attractive enough for people to pay. And what does your father do?”

“Well, he's one of four men.”

“Schrödinger's father.”

“Schrödinger?”

“It means mysterious.”

Damian murmured “Schrödinger” several times. He seemed to like what the word meant.

“I've come to get you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I hear you're quite good at cutting things up.”

“Ah. I'm pretty good.”

“Impressive confidence. I've opened a Special Operations Unit today. You should join.”

“I'd rather not.”

At the flat rejection, Galahad looked at Gilberton. Gilberton shrugged. What an irritating face he had.

“Why?”

“If I join, everyone will die. You seem like a good man, mister. I'd be sorry if you died.”

His voice was remarkably firm. Galahad narrowed his eyes.

“First of all, I'm not old enough to be 'mister.' Think of me as an older brother. Gilberton over there is the old man. Now, call me brother.”

“Brother.”

Gilberton's face crumpled as Galahad pointed at him and mouthed, “Old man!”

“Second, I'm not a good man. I'm trying to become one, but it hasn't been easy. And third, did you kill your platoon mates?”

“The Demons killed them.”

“Nasty Demons.”

“Nasty Demons.”

Despite what he was saying, Damian's voice was utterly calm.

“If you blame yourself for that, won't the Demons be upset you've stolen their credit?”

“That's true too.”

“You're easy to talk to.”

“But everyone will still die if I join.”

“Don't worry about that. I'm rather hard to kill.”

Damian looked Galahad up and down.

“You look frail.”

“Appearances aren't everything.”

After a moment's thought, the boy nodded.

“All right. I didn't have anything else to do anyway.”

“Damian, from this moment on, you belong to the Special Operations Unit. This is by order of His Highness the Grand Duke. Now, rise, young man.”

“Yes, brother.”

Damian rose with a loose swagger, his sword dragging along the ground.

Gilberton could make no sense of the two of them having that bizarre conversation and rising in perfect accord. Unfortunately, neither sought his understanding.

* * *

Damian looked as though he had been starving, so Galahad took him to a tavern.

“I'll bring the others, then. Stay out of trouble. There are mercenary scum mixed in here, and even His Highness has given up on the place. If you die here, they won't even find your body.”

Gilberton left after repeating his warning several times.

'They won't even find your body.'

Galahad rolled the words around in his mouth.

“Do you get into trouble a lot?”

“Ordinary people mistake a genius's extraordinary actions for trouble.”

“Aha.”

Galahad patted Damian's head as the boy nodded.

A man who appeared to be the tavern keeper spat. A rusty iron club was attached to one arm. A northern Captain Hook, apparently.

“Get the hell out! I told you never to come back! You little jinx!”

“You don't have much of a reputation.”

“Apparently not.”

“At your age, all you need to do is greet people properly and they'll like you. Go on, try it.”

“Hello.”

“Bow your head a little lower.”

“Hel...”

“Fuck, who's this fucking moron?”

Galahad clicked his tongue softly at the coarse profanity. The tavern keeper waved the iron club on his right arm. Was that supposed to be a threat?

“I'm Galahad. A pleasure to meet you, my splendid one-armed friend.”

“Who's your friend? Fuck—”

Galahad casually placed a hand on the man's club. As the man opened his mouth to curse again, sparks flew from it.

His mouth working soundlessly, the man staggered and slumped against the side of the entrance.

“He says we can go in. Come along.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No, he's just having a little nap. He'll have a lovely dream.”

Galahad stepped firmly on the man's bulging belly as he climbed over him and entered the tavern.

A loud hubbub, lukewarm air, and the filthy stench of sweat were the first things to greet them.

“Lovely.”

Men missing an eye or some other part of themselves were talking loudly. Wrinkled women burst into shrill laughter among them.

Bones no one had cleared away and broken cups covered the floor so thickly there was nowhere to step. Somewhere, someone was singing a bizarre song.

As they entered, the clamor stopped dead. Every eye turned toward them.

Red-eyed bastards blew their noses noisily. One fingered the sword tied at his waist.

“They seem to hate you almost as much as they hate me.”

“It's my fault.”

“No, it isn't. You have my word.”

Galahad raised a hand high and shouted.

“Hello, everyone! I'm Galahad, commander of the Special Operations Unit! If you've got all your limbs and confidence in your skills, come apply! Character is no concern!”

The already hostile atmosphere grew even more charged.

“No manners here at all. Not a single one of them returns a greeting.”

At Galahad's grumbling, Damian belatedly waved.

Galahad chuckled and headed toward a table in the center. It was a fine table, covered in blade marks.

“Order anything you want to eat.”

“Really?”

“I don't tell lies.”

Damian's eyes sparkled. He really must not have been eating well.

Galahad raised his hand to order. The man who came over wasn't a member of staff, but someone who had been drinking at the next table.

He slammed his fist onto the table. “That must hurt,” Galahad murmured, looking up.

The man curled his lips at Galahad.

“Fuck, I thought I smelled some Demon's rank cock. There's a fucking mage here.”

The heavily bearded man placed a hand on Damian's shoulder and stared at Galahad.

'So he's the one.'

His fist was about the same size as the bruise near Damian's ribs. Galahad's gaze grew cold.

“First of all, magic and Demons are entirely different things. Say that in the capital and someone might call you an ignorant bastard, so be careful.”

“... What? An ignorant bastard?”

“I'm saying someone might call you that. Are you ignorant, by any chance?”

The man shook his head without thinking.

“Then I'm simply advising you to be careful, so people don't get the wrong idea.”

The man's face twisted. Yellow fluid seeped from his empty eye socket.

Perhaps Galahad's composure made him suspect there was more to him; he shifted his gaze toward Damian.

'Why do the people here look down on mages?'

Galahad was genuinely curious.

After a moment's hesitation, the man turned his eyes to Damian. Apparently, the boy had been his business all along.

“If you've got money to come to a tavern, you should be bringing it to me, you little bastard.”

“I don't have any money.”

“You come to a tavern with no money? Bullshit. I knew you were hiding money! You fucking bastard.”

“Does Damian owe you money?”

Galahad raised his right hand as he asked. The man ground his teeth.

“That's none of your business.”

“He's a member of my unit now. That makes it my business too.”

“Then are you going to pay for him?”

“We're not quite that close yet.”

“Fuck! Then shut up before I grind that face of yours into pulp!”

“Whoa. Calm down. Who knows? I might pay.”

“So are you going to pay, bastard?”

“Well, let me hear you out first.”

The man's face crumpled further. His jaundiced eye wandered for a moment. Then the men behind him rose and approached.

His shoulders rose again. A simple creature.

“One of the platoon mates this bastard killed was my friend. A very close friend.”

“Ah, I see. So you lent him money?”

“Why would I lend money to a bastard who gets his own platoon eaten?”

“Then why are you telling him to bring you money?”

“Because that bastard killed his platoon mates!”

“Did you kill your platoon mates?”

“No. I don't want to steal anyone else's credit.”

“Quite right. Stealing is wrong.”

“What the hell are you doing, you fucking bastard—”

“Just a moment, please.”

Galahad took a silver coin from his inner pocket and set it on the table. The man's mouth snapped shut. The men exchanged swift glances.

The tavern fell so quiet that not even breathing could be heard. There was a click as someone locked the door. A den of thieves, then. Galahad clicked his tongue softly.

“Was this dead platoon member part of your family?”

“He was a comrade who was as good as family.”

The man answered with a meaningful glance to the side. A sharp sound came from beside him, as though someone were drawing something.

“So he wasn't family. Why should you receive the money, then?”

“Because he was a very close comrade—”

“Well, strange as imperial law may be, there's no law that passes an inheritance to a comrade.”

“Fuck your laws—”

A torrent of coarse curses followed. Galahad could feel the mounting heat. Even a middle-aged woman stood holding a kitchen knife.

'What an uncultured place.'

Galahad clicked his tongue softly and looked at Damian.

“On second thought, you do bear some blame for your platoon mates dying.”

“You said I didn't.”

“They died because you were weak. Would they have died if you'd been strong?”

“That's true too.”

Galahad gazed at Damian. The boy's eyes came into focus.

Behind him came a clamor: blades being drawn, excited breathing. It was the song of people who didn't know their place.

“Everyone makes mistakes. What matters is not making the same mistake twice.”

“I see.”

Damian nodded.

“Now, I'm in danger. Save me, Damian.”

Galahad let out a small scream. At his bizarre behavior, the men drawing their swords stopped awkwardly.

“Yes, brother!”

Damian drew his sword with an energetic reply.

Damian's sword was in poor condition. Rust spotted the blade, and unwiped bloodstains marked it here and there. It was such a wretched sword that even a graze looked likely to give someone tetanus.

A silver line traced the air. It was an exceptionally clean line.

The man whose arm had fallen off collapsed, screaming. A spurt of red blood drenched Damian. He opened his mouth wide, just as he had when eating snow.

“Ahh!”

Damian let out an excited sigh.

'A butcher.'

Damian rolled forward.

His grip on the sword was extremely peculiar. Holding it in reverse, he looked like someone who had never held a sword in his life. His movements, too, were closer to a street thug's than a swordsman's.

They were crude and disorderly. Yet, strangely enough, they were sharper than those of any knight Galahad had ever seen.

The boy's gift wasn't swordsmanship. It was murder.

“Kill him! Kill the little jinx!”

“Die!”

The tavern descended into chaos in an instant. Damian moved smoothly through the wild barrage of attacks.

His movements were closer to acrobatics than swordsmanship.

'He certainly does have a bizarre way with a sword.'

By the time his cigarette was half gone, Damian was the only one standing in the tavern.

Galahad was sitting.

“Welcome to the Special Operations Unit.”

Damian nodded at Galahad's congratulations. The excitement on his face quickly cooled.

'A born killer, is he?'

He had acquired a good blade.

Galahad flicked his spent cigarette onto the floor.

Just then, the door burst open. Captain Hook from earlier came in cursing.

“You sneaky fucking mage! Fuck! How dare you catch me off guard—?!”

Captain Hook, who had been cursing so boldly, trailed off at the sight of the tavern turned red. Terror rose on his face.

After a moment's hesitation, he glanced around and was trying to slip back outside when Galahad spoke.

“Take our order, would you?”

Galahad raised his right hand.