Chapter 60 - Aisha Dragnoff - 3

Aisha felt utterly tongue-tied.

'Wait...'

Why had someone who had been all smiles a moment ago suddenly changed her attitude like this? Was there something wrong with her mind?

As that thought occurred to her, Renée spoke again.

"Don't take an interest in Bera. He'll be leaving soon—with me."

She wasn't interested.

What was so special about that guard that she should take an interest in him? He had a gloomy air, an irritable face, and, most importantly...

'He doesn't even have fur on his ears!'

Why would she be interested in someone without fur on his ears?

Aisha was angry. Angry at being made out to be some weirdo who liked people without furry ears, and angry at being snapped at out of nowhere.

Even so, a question occurred to her...

'... Does she really like him?'

Seriously, not as a joke, but for real? Someone without fur on his ears? What kind of taste did she have to like someone like that?

"Well? Why don't you say something?"

Renée lifted her chin.

Aisha floundered, unsure how to respond. Then the thought that she might lose this argument wounded her pride, and she managed an answer, a sly smile on her lips.

"Who knows? Don't you think we should hear what he has to say about it?"

"W-what did you say?!"

Renée screeched. Her face was bright red, and her shoulders heaved.

Sensing that she now had the upper hand, Aisha repeated something the mercenary captain was always saying.

"How can anyone live on home cooking alone? Sometimes you've got to eat out!"

Honestly, she didn't really know what it meant. But Aisha clearly remembered that whenever the captain said it, the woman who was always following him around flew into a rage.

Surely this blind woman would get angry too.

Aisha wasn't wrong.

At those words, Renée froze, then began to look as though someone had struck the back of her head with a hammer.

"N-no..."

Renée was at a loss for words.

She wasn't stupid enough not to understand what Aisha meant. In the context of their conversation, the home cooking had to be her, and eating out had to mean Aisha.

Yes. Aisha was declaring her intention to steal Bera away.

"Y-you shameless woman!"

Her voice was furious.

Aisha tilted her head.

'Where did that come from?'

It was a natural reaction for Aisha, who had blurted out the words without even knowing what they meant.

Meanwhile, another despairing scene was forming in Renée's mind.

Bera had turned his back on her and was walking away. Beside him was a petite woman with twitching cat ears. After showing Renée her back for a while, the woman turned her head toward her, smirked, and said,

"Meow."

Renée startled, her shoulders jerking.

Her head was burning, and her emotions were boiling over.

It was so unfair. She had only held his hand. She hadn't even hugged him yet, hadn't even kissed him. Why was this woman trying to steal Bera away?

She was so upset she felt like crying. No, a few tears were already coming out.

Someone might ask why she was crying over something like this, but Renée had an answer.

Wasn't this different from what had happened with the elves? Back then, it had been entirely her imagination. This time, her rival was declaring war right to her face.

And she was older, too. Her words carried the assurance of experience.

This was a crisis among crises.

"Hic...!"

A stifled sob escaped Renée's lips.

Alarm spread across Aisha's face.

"H-huh?"

"Hic...! Hic...!"

Seeing Renée suddenly on the verge of bursting into tears, Aisha forgot her anger and began to look utterly helpless.

"H-hey... Why are you crying...?"

"Sniff... Sniffle..."

Tears pooled in Renée's eyes. A trickle of snot was escaping her nose.

That was how emotions worked. Once they crossed a certain threshold, rational judgment and normal thought became impossible.

It was the same for Renée now. Aisha's provocation wasn't the only reason she was about to burst into tears.

There was her anxiety over a relationship that hadn't progressed at all in more than three years. Then there was the threat called Aisha, who had appeared in the midst of it all. Mixed with those was anger at herself for being unable to offer any retort. Together, they finally pushed her emotions over the line.

Her mounting frustration consumed her. Even as she thought that crying would mean losing, her body refused to obey, and she burst into tears.

"Waaaaah!!!"

"H-heeey..."

Thoroughly flustered, Aisha began trying to soothe her.

It was a strange situation: Renée crying, and Aisha comforting her.

That spectacle, too embarrassing to bear watching, only ended after Norn—who had sensed trouble halfway through and slipped away—returned with Dovan and Bera.

Only after everything was over did Renée learn that Aisha was actually a twelve-year-old child.

* * *

A little later, inside the smithy.

Looking utterly exhausted, Dovan heaved a deep sigh and spoke to Bera.

"I'm sorry. My apprentice was immature."

"... It's all right."

Bera answered Dovan's apology while staring aimlessly into space.

A scene was still playing through his head: Renée, tears and snot streaming down her face, speaking in a voice filled with misery.

["Cheating is baaad!!! Waaaaah!!!"]

He had arrived late to sort things out and didn't know what had happened. Still, seeing Renée say that the moment he arrived had prompted the exceedingly rare thought, 'What's gotten into her?'

It was a deeply irreverent thought, but... no matter how he considered it, some things simply weren't right.

Bera squeezed his eyes shut.

"... Let's get back to business."

"... Very well."

An awkward air hung between them.

* * *

In a spare room in Dovan's house, set aside for occasional overnight guests, Renée lay on the bed, wrapped tightly in the blankets and groaning.

"Ugh..."

Beneath the blankets, her eyes were squeezed shut and her face burned red with shame.

Only once she had cooled down a little did she realize what she had done.

'With a twelve-year-old... '

She had gotten into a serious argument. No, if that had been all, she would have been lucky.

'I-I lost... '

She had even lost. Provoked by a little child, she had sobbed and bawled her eyes out.

As self-loathing and shame welled up, Renée made the same resolve she had once made before.

'... Let's die.'

Rather than live in such disgrace, she would die and find glory. Her tongue poked out between her lips.

But she had no real courage to die. All she could do was tremble from head to toe and writhe in self-loathing.

With every twist of her body, the blankets wrapped around her squirmed.

As she lay squirming, a scene suddenly came to mind, making her whole body jerk.

["Cheating is baaad!!! Waaaaah!!!"]

'Why!'

Why had she done that? Why hadn't she endured that one moment instead of making such a scene?

Self-loathing swept over her like a tidal wave, followed by anger at herself.

Renée couldn't bear it.

"... Hella?"

No answer came.

With the tiny shred of reason she had left, Renée confirmed that she was alone in the room, then kicked off the blankets with all her strength.

"Aaaaaaah!!!"

Once again, Renée despaired over the fact that she had no divine powers to turn back time.

* * *

Bera marveled at the samples Dovan brought out.

'He's a master craftsman.'

He could tell at once.

'On a level to rival the Empire's meisters.'

The swords he was bringing out as mere "samples" were far beyond the ordinary.

It wasn't simply a matter of how well-made they were.

These swords gave Bera the same feeling he experienced whenever he held the work of those known as master craftsmen.

The visible gleam of the blade, its straight centerline, even the balance he felt when he lifted it—everything bore a distinctive character, one that might almost be called stubbornness, unmistakably identifying the work of the same hand.

That was what he could feel in these swords.

Dovan was a craftsman who had reached the level where he could imbue a sword with its maker's character.

"What do you think?"

"They're excellent."

Bera looked at Dovan as he answered.

'I didn't know about a craftsman like this?'

He was puzzled that he hadn't known of Dovan in his previous life.

Bera had taken his armaments seriously. Stubbornly determined not to be outdone by anyone when it came to equipment, he had gone so far as to track down every master craftsman on the continent and compile a directory of their names.

From the Empire's meisters to the dwarves of the east and the Magic Tower's magical engineers.

Even now, countless craftsmen's names were etched in his mind, but Dovan's wasn't among them.

Only one explanation came to mind.

'... Dead.'

By the time Bera had begun seeking out craftsmen in earnest, Dovan had already been dead.

'Why...?'

With a craftsman like this, nations should have been trying to secure his services and offer him protection. Why was there no sign of that?

As these questions made Bera's expression grow grave, Dovan spoke.

"I'm sure you know this, but a Proden sword takes a very long time to smelt. Once it has been smelted and shaped, melting it down again takes twice as long. So we must decide firmly what we're aiming for before we begin."

Dovan paused to look at Bera, then nodded toward the swords on display and continued.

"These samples are the designs I'm most confident in. Choose whichever feels right in your hand."

"... Yes."

At Dovan's words, Bera set his questions aside and nodded.

'I won't find an answer right away.'

For now, the right course was to keep an eye on Dovan and learn how he would come to die.

Having reached that conclusion, Bera examined the displayed swords again, assessing their qualities one by one.

Considering the length and width of each blade, its balance, and other such factors, he swung the swords through the air. Then he noticed a sword shoved away in a corner and narrowed his eyes.

'Is that another sample?'

As Bera began approaching the sword with that thought in mind, Dovan hastily stopped him.

"Ah, not that one."

Dovan rolled his wheelchair toward the sword with a creak and added,

"I forgot to put it away. My apologies. It's still unfinished."

"It's all right."

"How embarrassing. It wasn't coming along to my liking, so I tossed it aside in a fit of temper and forgot about it."

He spoke with a sheepish smile.

As he spoke, Dovan took hold of the discarded sword's hilt and pulled it out.

Bera's eyes widened at the sight of the sword finally revealed.

"That's..."

As it slid free, the sword looked nothing like something unfinished. It already seemed a completed work of art.

A slender, ink-black blade, a slim guard, and a rather long hilt extending behind it.

"Every craftsman has that ambition, doesn't he? To create the masterpiece of his lifetime. I have that ambition too, so I've been working on this... but somehow, it just isn't turning out well."

Bera couldn't focus on Dovan's words or his hearty chuckle.

He already knew what that sword was.

'... The demonic sword.'

The sword Dovan called unfinished was the demonic sword Aisha would one day wield.