Chapter 64 - Dovan - 2

Renée quickly sent Bera away. She had given the order because she feared that if the overwrought Aisha rubbed her the wrong way again, she might have another fit and make a spectacle of herself in front of him.

She did not want him to see any more of her embarrassing behavior.

"... Please call me if anything happens."

Those were Bera’s last words before leaving. Renée gave him a perfunctory reply and sent him off, then gripped Aisha firmly by both shoulders.

"We’re not going to talk about that anymore, all right?"

Desperation and urgency were written all over her scarlet face. What she meant was: please, stop dredging up her embarrassing past.

Still unable to recover from her sobbing, Aisha answered between repeated hiccups.

"S-sorry..."

"No!"

"Hic...!"

With the sternest, most serious expression she had worn in recent memory, Renée leaned her face toward where Aisha’s head would be.

"Was there ever anything between us you needed to apologize fooor...?"

Aisha shook her head from side to side. Her tail stood stiff and rigid.

Although no answer came, Renée could feel Aisha’s movements through the shoulders she held. Only then did she nod in satisfaction.

"That’s right. Good."

Her hand stroked Aisha’s head.

That settled things for now.

A little relief rose inside Renée as she continued petting Aisha’s head. After a while, the girl, who had been terrified all this time, gazed up at her.

'... She’s not going to get angry?'

She had been certain Renée would be angry, yet here she was letting it pass without a word and stroking her head. It left Aisha wondering.

'If it were me, I’d have had them flogged...'

Just how generous did someone have to be to pretend none of this had happened?

Looking at Renée, Aisha found herself thinking that not just anyone could bear the title of Saintess.

... Indeed. Renée’s decision to let everything go unpunished so she could bury her own embarrassing past was deeply moving the young girl.

Utterly unaware of Renée’s intentions, Aisha felt herself gradually calming under the hand gently stroking her head. Before she knew it, her eyes narrowed and she began to purr.

It was not a conscious act, but something her instincts as a cat beastfolk had prompted her to do.

As Aisha stopped trembling and began purring, Renée’s earlier fluster faded, and she let out a small chuckle.

A child was a child after all, she thought.

'I think a little more coaxing should do it now.'

With that thought, she hugged Aisha tightly and patted her back.

"No more tears now, okay?"

"Yes..."

Aisha’s face flushed. Only now was she embarrassed about having abruptly buried her face against the floor and burst into tears.

"Um, Your Holiness..."

"Renée."

"... Huh?"

"I’m Renée, not Your Holiness. We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends should call each other by name."

Aisha blinked at her, then nodded.

"... Then Lady Renée."

She spoke with her head bowed low, her cheeks deeply flushed.

Having her face buried in Renée’s embrace felt so awkward that Aisha fidgeted for no reason before finally hugging her back.

Renée’s laughter sounded beside her ear.

As she rested there with her face buried against Renée, a sudden thought came to her.

'... They’re big.'

Lady Renée seemed to be a bighearted person in more ways than one.

* * *

A week passed.

During that time, Bera turned away troops from two different factions on two separate visits.

He had used his platinum rosary. Rather than resort to harsher measures, he judged that settling things quietly would be better both for Renée and for Dovan’s work.

Bera continued his thoughts as he watched Dovan working with his back to him inside the smithy.

'There have been no problems so far.'

He had kept a close watch on the troops, thinking that in their impatience they might take Aisha hostage, but they showed no interest in her whatsoever.

They treated her with utter indifference, as though they did not care what became of her.

'Something is bound to happen...'

Bera knew exactly what form the resentment dwelling in the demonic sword took.

The emotion that flowed into him the instant their blades met, churning through every thought, could only have been born of profound hatred.

Where, and how, would something happen to bring the demonic sword to completion?

He had watched Dovan work for quite some time while pondering that question when the smith finished and turned toward him.

"What do you think?"

Bera’s gaze moved to what Dovan held in his tongs.

At their tips was a long ingot, still decidedly blunt in shape: the Proden Bera had commissioned him to work.

Looking at the Proden, which had yet to lose its red glow, Bera answered with audible admiration.

"You’re making remarkably quick progress."

"With you helping me like this, shouldn’t I finish your commission as quickly as possible? Ah, not that I’m cutting corners, of course."

There was a playful note in his words.

Seeing Dovan display the Proden with a boyish smile that belied his age, Bera found himself speaking without thinking.

"... You must truly love this work."

"Hm? Indeed. You cannot reach this level without loving it."

Dovan set the Proden on the workbench, then looked at the demonic sword hanging in the far corner.

"All the more so with a Masterpiece. It isn’t something you can create simply because you want to. You must become so absorbed that you lose yourself while crafting its body, then fill it with intent. Only then is it complete."

His voice carried longing, and passion besides.

"I have a rough sense of it. There is nothing more I can do for that sword in terms of craftsmanship. All it lacks is the intent to place within it. I have yet to find that, which is why I cannot complete it."

Intent.

A word Bargo repeated almost habitually. And one that still felt distant to Bera.

Following Dovan’s gaze to the demonic sword, Bera spoke almost in a murmur.

"... You will be able to do it."

"Is that meant to comfort me?"

"It is a certainty."

Dovan turned his gaze to Bera, letting out a soft chuckle.

"Does becoming an apostle let you know such things?"

"Let us call it a swordsman’s intuition."

Bera could be certain because he had already seen the finished work in his previous life. But with no possible way to explain that, he could only offer such a vague answer.

'Completion...'

The completion of a sword that fed on hatred and poured forth resentment.

As he considered it, a question suddenly began taking root in Bera’s mind.

If the intent placed within that demonic sword was resentment—if Dovan had to pour out such hatred to complete it—was that truly in Dovan’s best interests?

Was it truly right for Bera to stand by and let it happen?

Was completing the demonic sword worth that much? Was Aisha Dragnoff, the wielder it would give rise to, indispensable to the battle against the Demon King?

A set of scales appeared in his mind.

On one side stood the future Dovan, who would have to pour out enough hatred to etch resentment into the sword. On the other stood the future Aisha, who would eventually reach the Demon King. They began to weigh against each other.

Which was more worthwhile?

Bera found the answer rather easily.

Renée had already taught it to him.

'... No greater cause can be achieved through an unwilling person’s sacrifice.'

His gaze grew somber.

If the sword could only be completed through such hatred, then at least by the principles Bera knew, stopping it was the right thing to do.

That was not the greater cause he sought. The principles he wished to uphold lay in another direction, so he would stand against it to the very end.

Yet he still hesitated, because he lacked certainty that this was truly right.

One question followed another, now presenting Bera with a different form of the problem.

'... What if Dovan wants to complete the demonic sword at that moment?'

At the moment some calamity occurred, when Dovan’s life hung by a thread.

If that passion of his drove him, to the very end, to place his hatred in the sword, would stopping him truly be for his sake?

His thoughts continued once more.

With his lips pressed tightly together, Bera pondered the questions at length.

* * *

Beneath the royal castle of the third kingdom in the alliance of kingdoms.

Baretta, a general of the bear tribe, followed the minister who had summoned him, walking deep into the palace’s underground levels.

"Where are we going?"

Baretta addressed the minister leading him in an irritable tone.

The minister answered without turning, continuing to walk with his eyes ahead.

"His Majesty wishes to see you."

"... Down here underground?"

No answer came.

Baretta clicked his tongue softly and continued following him.

A staircase spiraled down a cylindrical shaft. After a long descent, they reached an exceedingly thick steel door.

"This is..."

"Where His Majesty is."

THUD. THUD.

The minister knocked on the steel door.

It opened a moment later. Baretta’s face twisted into a scowl at the grating noise it made.

GRRRIND.

"Go in."

The minister stepped aside as he spoke.

Baretta stared for a moment at the minister, whose thoughts he could not fathom, then went through the door.

Inside was pitch darkness. Silence filled the space, broken only by his own footsteps.

As Baretta walked through it, a voice suddenly spoke.

"You’ve come, General."

He flinched, then immediately dropped to his knees with a thud.

Not even knowing where the voice had come from, he simply bowed his head.

"I greet Your Majesty."

"And the imperial descendant?"

"... My apologies."

Baretta felt his face crumple at the inquiry about Dovan.

It had already been a week since he had been forced to return empty-handed because of the apostle who had suddenly taken up residence there. The memory filled him with frustration.

Once again, the king’s voice echoed through the chamber.

"Yes, what could you do? He is an apostle, after all."

There was a faint hint of laughter in his words.

Sensing something strange in his liege’s manner of speaking, Baretta cautiously raised his head.

The voice had a peculiar rasp to it.

"Your Majesty?"

His surroundings were still dark.

Still nothing but pitch blackness and silence.

Baretta strained his eyes to find his liege in that space. It took another long while before he finally located him.

Even then, he could only make out a silhouette.

"General."

"... Yes."

"However I think about it, isn’t it ridiculous?"

"... To what do you refer?"

Even as he answered, Baretta continued tracing the silhouette.

His eyes were gradually adjusting to the darkness.

The silhouette was growing clearer.

"This deadlock. What is everyone so afraid of that they keep clamoring about a ‘greater cause’ and ‘legitimacy’?"

"Please withdraw those words."

"Withdraw them? Hardly."

Baretta narrowed his eyes.

His liege’s silhouette was almost fully defined.

"I believe they are all merely cowards’ excuses."

He could see royal dragon robes shrouded in darkness.

"I believe they are simply shouting at one another because they fear approaching the easiest answer, though it lies before them."

He could see long hair cascading down.

"So should I not lead those cowards, as the only courageous one among them?"

He could see a smiling face.

At last, Baretta saw his liege’s appearance clearly, and caught his breath.

"My liege..."

"This? It is a symbol of courage. A symbol of a ruler."

Suddenly, Baretta began trembling uncontrollably.

His liege—His Majesty, that enormous figure—turned. The smile on his lips deepened.

THUD.

The sound reverberated.

"Thus, I summoned you because I fear I must do you a small discourtesy, my general. This ‘symbol’ is not yet complete."

THUD.

The resounding steps drew closer.

Trembling from head to toe, Baretta stared at the enormous figure, now close enough for him to distinguish clearly.

The figure raised a hand.

"I will not forget you."

A low growl sounded.

Then the enormous figure’s hand swung faster than the eye could follow.

CRUNCH!

As his throat was torn out, a single word came to Baretta’s mind.

'... Haman.'

It was the name of the tyrant who had fallen dead in the distant past.