Arc 10 Chapter 28: What's the Point, After All This Time?

Chapter 28: What's the Point, After All This Time?

—The Sword Saint.

—The Blue Lightning.

—The Admirer.

—The Mad Prince.

Each of these titles belonged to one of the beings acknowledged as the strongest in the world. The Dragon Kingdom of Lugunica, the Sacred Vollachia Empire, the Kararagi City-States, and the Holy Kingdom of Gusteko—each of the four great nations possessed a champion hailed as its mightiest, a transcendent existence whose strength had surpassed the boundaries of mortal comprehension. Yet, as was widely known, even among such extraordinary beings, one stood apart, possessed of a power that eclipsed the others.

The Sword Saint of the present generation, the strongest being to walk the earth—Reinhard van Astrea.

Reinhard was a man of whom it was said that no greater life would ever be born, whether one searched the entirety of the past, surveyed the present, or gazed into the farthest reaches of the future. His existence defied even the framework by which the strongest warriors of the four great nations were measured. And precisely because of that, a certain truth had been quietly overlooked.

—Concealed beneath the overwhelming brilliance of Reinhard's existence was another man, a warrior whose abilities should rightfully have earned him a place alongside the other three champions, yet whose renown had been grievously diminished. A man condemned to stand forever within the shadow cast by the glory of the strongest Sword Saint in history.

That man was—

'—Marcos.'

Heinkel's lips formed the name in a hoarse, feeble whisper. Heinkel himself was considered tall, yet the enormous man standing before him rose a full head higher. With a palm nearly the size of a child's head, the giant held Heinkel's sword firmly in its scabbard, suppressing his attempt to draw it with an ease that bordered on contempt.

What made it truly terrifying was that this was no mere contest of physical strength. Whenever Heinkel tried to draw the blade, the hand pressed down. Whenever he attempted to lower it, the pressure shifted with him. The hilt and scabbard remained perfectly joined, without so much as the smallest sliver of steel being revealed. As though that effortless restraint alone were enough to demonstrate the gulf separating Marcos, Captain of the Royal Guard, from Heinkel, who had occupied the position of vice-captain as little more than an ornament.

'—Take your hand off your sword, Heinkel.'

The command reverberated through the corridor in a deep voice that seemed to tremble in the pit of Heinkel's stomach.

Standing nearly two meters tall, with thick, powerful musculature sufficient to support his immense frame, the man wore a full suit of silver armor over a body honed through relentless training. Even in perfect stillness, the swordsmanship and commanding presence radiating from him could not be concealed. They made him seem larger still, so much so that he had been called a figure more giantlike than a giant.

Marcos Gildark—Captain of the Royal Guard of the Dragon Kingdom of Lugunica, a formidable warrior known by the epithet The Rock.

Even in his youth, when he had been no more than an ordinary knight within the order, the Sword Demon himself, Wilhelm van Astrea, had declared that Marcos was certain to become its captain one day.

'—!'

In an instant, cold sweat engulfed Heinkel's entire body. His back was soaked through, and greasy perspiration erupted across his face and neck. The cold sweat was fear, while the clammy sweat seemed a warning sounded by his survival instincts. Some distant, absurd part of his mind even found itself admiring the remarkable versatility with which his body expressed its terror.

'Lady Felt, Lady Filore, please step away from this man.'

While Heinkel once again committed the folly of surrendering to thoughts wholly inappropriate to his predicament, Marcos directed a sharp glance farther down the passage, toward the two girls peering out from the stairwell. At his instruction, Heinkel heard Filore and Felt draw in their breath.

'W-wait, Captain! Lord Heinkel is—'

'—SHUT UP!'

'Eh!?'

Heinkel's furious shout silenced Filore before she could speak further to Marcos. Yet the voice with which he had tried to feign a towering rage betrayed him, cracking halfway through and dissolving into a pitiful rasp at the end. He had no freedom to turn around. Nevertheless, he could vividly imagine Filore's crimson eyes widening in astonishment as she stared at his back, frozen by the sudden rebuke.

But it was necessary. He had to silence her.

Because even now, there was still a chance—

'So, having neatly installed yourself as Lady Filore's knight, you now infiltrate the royal castle with the intention of seizing Lady Felt and Lady Emilia. —Who put you up to this, Oathbreaker?'

Heinkel heard the disgust and contempt that even Marcos's carefully restrained voice could not entirely conceal, and his mouth twisted into a self-mocking smile.

—Yes. Even now, he could still make it appear that way.

He could claim that everything had been his own scheme. That he had exploited Filore, that Felt had merely been taken from her confinement against her will, and that neither girl had harbored the slightest intention of rebelling against the royal castle or the Divine Dragon Church.

It was precisely to preserve that explanation that he had kept Filore from taking part in the preparations throughout the past half month. Naturally, it had been an insurance policy he would much rather never have needed. But now there could be no doubt that it would have to be invoked.

—They had encountered Marcos. They had been discovered by an opponent Heinkel could never hope to defeat, whether granted a hundred opportunities to challenge him, a thousand, or ten thousand.

'Old man…'

Beside Filore, whom Heinkel's shout had reduced to silence, Felt murmured those words. Something in her tone suggested that she had grasped the purpose of Heinkel's contingency. She really was an extraordinarily perceptive girl. Perhaps she was not descended from Lugunica's royal family after all. Filore, breathing with the stubborn incomprehension of someone unwilling to accept defeat, seemed a far more convincing member of that hopelessly softhearted bloodline.

And yet—

'You abandoned your duties as vice-captain, drowned yourself in drink, and left your son to clean up the consequences of your failures time and again. Now you've dragged a Royal Selection candidate into your affairs. What exactly are you plotting? —Answer me.'

'————'

'Answer me, Heinkel. For once in your life, try behaving like a knight.'

At those words, Heinkel's vision flared crimson.

For once in your life, try behaving like a knight.

To hear such a thing from a man blessed with the strength to conduct himself as a knight, blessed with opportunities to prove himself, blessed with courage itself— Something black and viscous welled up from the very bottom of Heinkel's heart. Marcos should have known. He should have known what Heinkel had lost, what he had abandoned, and for whose sake he had abandoned it. Knowing all of that, knowing how Heinkel had continued to struggle and flounder despite everything, what right did Marcos possess to condemn him?

'Spare me your self-pity, Heinkel.'

'—Ah.'

'There are countless people who face hardships no less terrible than yours, yet still raise their heads and refuse to surrender. You were born into circumstances more fortunate than theirs, and even those advantages you squandered through your own conduct. —Who, exactly, do you imagine will sympathize with you?'

Heinkel could say nothing.

Not a word.

The voice was neither raised in anger nor sharpened into a contemptuous snarl. Its terrible evenness carved deep into his entrails. And with those words still lodged within him, Heinkel bit down on the inside of his cheek, using the pain to force his head upright. There, directly before him, were Marcos's frigid eyes. Heinkel met that gaze head-on and opened his mouth.

He would utter something vile, something suitably malicious, a declaration that would allow him to invoke the insurance he had so carefully prepared.

All he needed to say was—

'—Hiu…'

But from his constricted throat, not even the single word Yes emerged.

'—You truly haven't grown at all.'

It was a remark scarcely distinguishable from a sigh, something suspended between disappointment and weary resignation. Yet the enormous fist that followed it swept aside every trace of the quiet exchange that had preceded it. Marcos struck Heinkel in the side of the head and sent him crashing into the stone wall.

'Gah—'

The masonry caved inward beneath the impact, and fractures raced outward in every direction, spreading like lightning across the floor and ceiling. Heinkel's involuntary groan vanished beneath the thunder of breaking stone. He crumpled to the ground, fragments of masonry raining down over his head.

He had been punched. That was all.

Marcos had scarcely assumed a fighting stance. It had been a single blow, delivered with the casual movement of someone brushing aside an obstruction, and Heinkel's body had been hurled away like a brittle twig.

Once, in the Vollachian Empire, Heinkel had been forced into an encounter with a Dragon under circumstances he had never desired. The pressure he now felt from Marcos was precisely the same as what he had experienced then.

—The overwhelming realization that the being before him belonged to an entirely different order of life.

'Lord Heinkel!!'

Filore's voice reached him as though from an enormous distance, a cry perilously close to a scream. Amid the shattered masonry, Heinkel planted a hand against the floor and attempted to lift himself. But the hand that should have supported him slipped, and he fell face-first into the rubble in a thoroughly disgraceful heap.

Agony flashed through his nose.

Blood began to drip. When some of it trickled down his throat and sent him into a fit of coughing, an unforgiving boot struck upward beneath his chin.

'Gah—!?'

His face snapped skyward, and his entire body followed, hurtling vertically into the ceiling. Before he could fall from the place where he had nearly become embedded in the stone, Marcos seized his leg and swung him violently back toward the floor.

—No.

He was wrenched from the floor and hurled upward again.

The rising motion smashed him into the ceiling.

The descending motion drove him into the floor.

Ceiling.

Floor.

Ceiling.

Floor.

Up and down he went, battered between the two surfaces as though he were nothing more than a doll being swung about by a child at play.

'S-stop…'

'Begging again? It's always the same with you.'

His plea, choked out through blood and stomach fluids, was swallowed by the violent rush of air. And then, at last, it was granted.

Every part of his body had been slammed against floor and ceiling alike, and the ordeal ended only when Marcos flung him toward the already fractured stone wall. The accumulation of impacts surpassed anything Heinkel's mind could comprehend. He could no longer distinguish which parts of his body remained intact and which had been ruined. He did not know.

And yet—

'You never could be reasoned with.'

'Ah—gh!'

Marcos's descending heel crushed Heinkel's right hand against the floor. The hard sole destroyed the back of his hand and his wrist. Heinkel instinctively tried to wrench his arm free, but it would not move, as though trapped beneath a mountain of stone. Then Marcos twisted his foot. The four fingers other than his thumb produced a succession of sickening cracks.

'G-AAAAAAH—!'

'Stop howling. It's unbearable to listen to.'

Even as Marcos condemned the ugliness of his screams, Heinkel bared his teeth. He sank them into Marcos's ankle, trying desperately to tear the crushing weight away from his hand.

It was useless.

Marcos's other foot struck him in the face, kicking his head aside and stamping a deep impression of his boot across Heinkel's forehead.

'Give it up already.'

Marcos delivered the command with an almost careless indifference, having demonstrated the absolute disparity between their strength.

Give it up?

What a ridiculous thing to say.

His will to fight had scattered to the winds long ago.

No, to begin with, he had never possessed anything so grand as a will to fight. From the moment he had reluctantly agreed to assist with this insane undertaking, not a single fragment of such determination had existed within him.

Of course.

Of course that was true.

How could it have been otherwise?

Heinkel had known from the beginning that there was no possibility of this plan succeeding.

'Why are you always like this?'

White light burst across his vision. Marcos had seized the back of his head and smashed his face into the floor with all his strength.

'You never learn from your mistakes.'

He was lifted by the front of his clothing, his feet dangling helplessly above the ground.

A fist drove into his abdomen.

With nowhere for the force to escape, every organ within him seemed to erupt at once, joining in a chorus of suffering.

'What is it you want to do?'

A second blow.

A third.

A fourth.

A fifth.

The impacts continued.

Each blow silenced that chorus for an instant, only for it to resume in an even more hideous cacophony. Though it was his stomach being struck, Heinkel felt as though the contents of his skull were spilling out, leaving him incapable of forming a single coherent thought.

'What do you want to become?'

There had been something.

Something, surely.

Words he had wanted to say.

Things he had needed to do.

Desires.

Things he could never bring himself to abandon.

Something of that sort.

Something.

There had to have been something.

There had to be.

'Tell me, Heinkel Astrea. —How many more times, how many more people, how much longer must you go on disappointing others before you're finally satisfied?'

Marcos released his grip on Heinkel's collar. His toes touched the floor, but his legs could no longer support his weight. He pitched forward, striking his knees and forehead against the stone before collapsing facedown. Blood spread outward across the floor, pooling around his motionless body. His mercilessly shattered face disgorged an enormous quantity of blood from his nose, mingled with vomit. His organs, battered and churned by the repeated blows, expelled their contents in a bloody discharge from below.

'————'

He could not stand.

Could not stand.

Could not—

'Please! Stop! I'm begging you, don't hurt Lord Heinkel anymore!'

Blood poured from him above and below.

He was drowning in what his own body had spilled, teetering on the brink of suffocation, and still a girl's shrill, desperate voice sought to protect him.

How utterly ridiculous.

There was nothing here worthy of such cries.

Nothing deserving of such pleas.

'Lady Filore, this man is using you.'

'No! That's not true! It isn't like that… It isn't! Lord Heinkel only agreed because I was the one who—'

'Idiot, shut it! Don't go ruining the old man's last bit of pride!'

'—But, Felt!'

Their desperate exchange unfolded somewhere beyond Heinkel's fallen head.

Felt was right.

Filore was wrong.

Against the Rock standing before them, those girls had no conceivable means of escape. Reinhard might be the one whose strength drew the world's attention, but Marcos, too, was such an existence. The objective of their plan was no longer to fulfill the conditions for victory. That possibility had vanished. Now the only meaningful question was how much damage they could avoid before throwing themselves upon their enemy's mercy. That was the situation they faced. And that was why Felt was right, and Filore was wrong.

'That's enough, old man! Keep this up and you're gonna die!'

'Lord Heinkel…!'

Felt, who understood what had to be done, and Filore, who even now could not bring herself to surrender the ideals she cherished, were both calling out to him. Unfortunately, he possessed no strength with which to answer either of them. His breathing had dwindled to the feeble gasps of a dying insect. Merely preventing himself from drowning in his own blood and stomach fluids required everything he had left. Besides, pleading for the beating to stop, begging that Heinkel not be killed—such words were wasted upon him. They needed to be addressed to Marcos, the man who had reduced Heinkel to something resembling a filthy rag.

As for Marcos himself, perhaps his anger had finally become too great to contain. Or perhaps the limits of his patience had at last been exhausted. There had certainly been occasions before when Marcos had looked upon Heinkel with contempt, but it had been a long time since he had physically crushed him to such an extent.

Today, however, the spectacle of Heinkel dragging a Royal Selection candidate through the royal castle to exploit her in his own scheme must have offered the perfect opportunity. An act so reprehensible, so conveniently deserving of punishment, that Marcos could finally unleash the anger that had accumulated over the years. Not merely the frustrations of recent days, but the grievances of a lifetime. At last, he had a legitimate reason to strike. That was why, even though Heinkel could no longer resist, even though he was utterly helpless, Marcos continued with such relentless brutality—

'—What's the point, after all this time, you damned idiot?'

With an irritated click of his tongue, Marcos stepped forward.

A fist was coming.

The instant Heinkel's mind registered that fact, the rushing force of the blow struck the side of his face.

His cheekbone shattered.

His body spun halfway around and crashed into the corridor wall yet again, this time on the opposite side. Before he could fall from the cavity his impact had left in the stone, Marcos seized him by the collar and wrenched him backward.

A knee drove upward into his falling back.

His spine, pelvis, and ribs groaned beneath the impact, the bones cracking and splintering as Heinkel vomited a great torrent of blood.

'Ah—aaaaagh!'

He flailed an arm wildly through the blood pouring from his mouth. Marcos caught the wrist. The arm was pulled taut, and a blow struck the outside of the extended elbow.

The joint snapped. White bone thrust through torn flesh and skin, protruding from the ruined limb.

'Ugh… ah… guh—'

Heinkel's mouth opened in a fresh cry of agony. Marcos thrust his hand into it. Then he forced his fist open inside Heinkel's mouth.

A hard, ugly crack sounded as Heinkel's jaw was wrenched from its socket. Several of his molars shattered as well. Blows rained upon the sides and back of his skull, fists and elbows striking again and again.

'—!'

Half of his already blurred vision fell into darkness.

Perhaps an eye had been destroyed.

His nose was crushed, his mouth mangled, his arm broken, his organs battered to ruin.

There was scarcely a place upon his body that had not been drenched in blood.

The violence was relentless.

To call it merciless, to call it without compassion—such words were hopelessly inadequate.

It was something crueler than simply killing a man, more repellent than mere torture, an act from which the eyes instinctively recoiled.

Had Marcos truly lost himself to rage?

Heinkel had never believed him to be a man capable of continuing to brutalize an opponent he had already so thoroughly defeated, as though venting his fury upon a corpse.

And yet why?

Why did the man continue to strike him?

To kick him?

To grind him beneath his feet?

Why would he persist in such savagery against Heinkel, who had long since abandoned every thought of resistance?

No.

Who had never possessed the slightest intention of resisting in the first place—

'—Even after all this, you still intend to draw your sword?'

—.

————. ————————.

What?

'————'

Heinkel had not the faintest idea what Marcos was talking about.

Draw his sword?

There was no question of intention when not even the smallest spark of energy remained within him.

His right arm had been broken at the elbow, his wrist crushed, and every finger pointed in some unnatural direction. His face had been struck and pulverized again and again. The right half of his vision was entirely black. His mouth was filled with blood, and the thin, ragged breath escaping between the gaps in his ruined teeth was unmistakably the breathing of a dying man. What purpose could there be in questioning the fighting spirit of someone who was barely clinging to life?

Through the half of his vision that remained, Heinkel could see Marcos, splattered with the blood torn from his body. Beyond him stood the two girls who had been forced to witness the battle—

No.

The utterly one-sided violence.

One girl stood with her cheeks drawn tight, her expression rigid. The other's enormous eyes were brimming with tears, her hands clasped before her chest as though in prayer. Their faces alone told him how intolerable the scene had become.

And then—

'—Ah?'

A faint sound brushed against his eardrums, drawing a bewildered murmur from his throat.

It came from his waist. From the beloved sword hanging at his side, suspended by the belt still fastened securely around him.

A quiet, clear sound.

The unmistakable whisper of steel sliding free of its scabbard.

'————'

His right arm had been broken and crushed.

His face had been smashed and pierced.

His organs had been battered until they seemed to burst, his body forced to disgorge blood and vomit from above and bloody waste from below.

And yet—

The left hand he had somehow protected through all of it was drawing his sword.

'Ahh… I see…'

There was nothing complicated about it.

Marcos had never been the sort of contemptible man who would violate the spirit of knighthood by continuing to assault a fallen, helpless opponent incapable of doing anything to defend himself.

Heinkel had simply still been standing.

He had simply still been trying to draw his sword.

'Still…'

—Do I still want to play at being a knight?

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　 　　△▼△▼△▼△

'————'

The ridiculous whistle of breath through Heinkel's blood-clogged nose echoed down the corridor, absurdly out of place amid the tension that had seized the air. He was silent, but silence was not the same as stillness. He was playing at being a knight, though he had long since forfeited any right to call himself one. And yet, he had drawn his sword. For what purpose?

No answer worthy of the question came to him.

There was only his shattered body, his consciousness drifting somewhere beyond the edges of lucidity, and something he could hear through the gathering haze.

Not a sound belonging to this moment.

It was—

'—I'll have you, Lord Heinkel.'

An irresponsible voice resurfaced within a mind whose thoughts seemed to have drained away with its blood. The voice of a foolish woman, a girl with no judgment whatsoever, who had declared without hesitation that even if she lost everything, someone would still remain at her side. That voice lingered in his head.

'—Congratulations.'

He heard a voice offering its blessing.

Not in sarcasm. Not in mockery. But in genuine celebration of the position he had accepted, of the very way of life he had chosen.

The voice of one who understood what a sword ought to be drawn for, yet was himself condemned to a life in which he could not freely uphold that conviction.

That voice remained within his heart.

'—How adorable! Heinkel!'

He heard a beloved voice.

A voice unbearably distant, impossibly far beyond his reach, and yet one he cherished beyond all measure.

That voice remained within his soul.

His head.

His heart.

His soul.

What else?

What else had to come together before it would be enough?

'U-OOOOH…!'

With a roar that scarcely deserved to be called a voice, the remnants of an ideal long since beaten into something resembling a corpse stirred once more.

The accumulation of years of training, ingrained so deeply within those broken remains that even ruin could not scour it away, moved Heinkel's left arm.

There was no stance.

No step forward.

Nothing that could conceivably be called proper swordsmanship.

The stroke was little more than a wild sweep, dragged along by the weight of his collapsing body. To call it a sword strike would have been an insult to every sword ever wielded.

And yet, that flash of steel reached Marcos's thick neck.

'————'

The eyes narrowed within Marcos's stern, imposing face, a countenance entirely befitting a man known as the Rock.

The blade had reached him.

Marcos had neither drawn his own sword nor attempted to deflect the attack with his gauntlet. Instead, Heinkel's blade had been stopped by the gray stone that now covered the skin of Marcos's massive neck. His neck, as thick as a tree trunk and hardened by relentless training, was encased in layer upon layer of rising stone. A heavy armor of rock had formed around it, and that armor received the blow of Heinkel's steel with effortless indifference.

Sparks scattered. The blade rebounded, sending a violent shock coursing through Heinkel's left arm.

—Upon the rocky shell covering Marcos's neck, the attack had left nothing more than a single pale line.

'It's over.'

A fist drove into Heinkel's unguarded torso, left wholly exposed by his desperate swing.

'————'

He felt no pain.

The instant the fist made contact, his vision transformed.

The world alternated between darkness and light, extinguishing and rekindling itself over and over.

Only after the impact had battered his entire body, after he had crashed into a wall and slumped against it with his legs sprawled uselessly before him, did Heinkel understand that the flickering world had been the result of his body tumbling end over end through the air. Half embedded in the fractured wall, he sagged helplessly.

A high, sharp sound rang out beside his hand. The sword still clutched in his dangling left hand had struck the floor without strength or purpose. This time, truly, nothing would move.

Not his fingers.

Not his eyelids.

Not even his tongue.

'————'

He heard footsteps approaching.

One step.

Two.

Three.

Marcos advanced slowly along the corridor, each footfall pressing against the stone. Heinkel could sense the man's approach upon his skin, and with every passing moment, he prepared to confront the end drawing inexorably nearer.

It was ending.

Was this how it would end?

Would he finally be allowed to reach that ending?

Could it really be Marcos?

Would Marcos be the one to bring this terrifyingly foolish life of his to a close?

And the most ridiculous thing of all was that Heinkel could not imagine such an ending bringing him the slightest relief—

'…Shhtop…'

He addressed the words to the slender back that had hurried past Marcos and planted itself before him.

'No. I won't stop. Of course I won't.'

The girl spread both arms wide, standing between Heinkel and Marcos as though she could shield him with her own body. Her face was deathly pale, drained of every trace of color. Tears she could no longer contain ran down her cheeks, and her teeth chattered beneath the crushing force of Marcos's presence, an overwhelming aura that seemed almost bestial in its ferocity.

And still she stood.

Filore stood before the broken, bloodied wreck of Heinkel, protecting him.

'Please move aside, Lady Filore.'

'N-no. No, I won't. I refuse. I cannot do that. I will not move from this place.'

'That man is using you.'

'No! That's not true! None of this is true! I was the one who asked him to do all of this!'

Marcos edged closer, speaking with quiet insistence. Filore raised her voice in reply, as though the very act of speaking might summon the courage she needed to hold her ground.

Wait.

Stop.

Don't say another word.

Heinkel's thoughts raced desperately, urging her to silence. But it was no use.

'I was the one who asked Lord Heinkel to help me save Emilia and Felt! I asked him to think of a way to get them out of the castle!'

'————'

'Lord Heinkel tried to stop me, again and again! He did everything he could to convince me to give up. He told me I would lose my position as a Royal Selection candidate, that I would lose my title as Saint, that everything I had would be taken away! But even so!'

'————'

'Even so, I was the one who asked him. I asked Lord Heinkel. —I asked my knight.'

The longer Filore spoke, the more the trembling faded from her voice. What a simpleminded girl she was.

As though raising her voice to rally her frightened heart could truly drive the fear away. As though anyone could make themselves brave merely by speaking loudly enough. And yet, before his eyes, Filore straightened her back, wiped away her tears, and met Marcos's gaze without flinching.

'That man is no knight. He is an Oathbreaker, a man who willingly cast aside his right to call himself one.'

Marcos was right.

'No. That is not true. This man is my knight. He has sworn an oath to me, and he is a true knight.'

Filore was wrong.

'————'

Their convictions met head-on, and Filore and Marcos stood glaring at one another. In height, in age, in strength, in every conceivable measure, the gulf between them was immeasurable. Yet in that contest of unyielding gazes, the first to lower his eyes was not Filore.

It was Marcos.

'I see.'

The words were brief.

They carried a sound like ancient stone, worn by countless years, finally splitting beneath the ceaseless fall of rain.

Having spoken, Marcos slowly unclenched the fist he had held so tightly closed. Then his lips moved, as though he were about to say something more. But before those words could emerge—

'—That's quite enough.'

A voice rang through the devastated corridor, clear and pure as the chime of a silver bell.

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'—Emilia.'

It was Filore who whispered the name in astonishment, turning toward the voice that had come from farther down the corridor. Unfortunately, Heinkel was in no condition to turn his head, much less look behind him. Yet the sharp clicking of approaching footsteps, accompanied by the faint ripple of cold air brushing against his skin, provided all the confirmation he needed as to the identity of the newcomer. Before long, a girl with long, flowing silver hair entered the edge of his vision. Emilia had emerged through the door that had remained closed until now and made her way toward them.

And that had been possible because—

'Seriously, give me a damn break. Just slipping past that monster and getting to the door felt like I was putting my life on the line.'

The accomplishment belonged to Felt, who appeared beside Emilia, muttering curses beneath her breath.

At the very moment Filore had rushed forward to shield Heinkel, Felt had seized upon the brief opening in Marcos's attention and darted toward the door of Emilia's chamber. She had managed to bring Emilia out and confront her with the scene unfolding in the corridor.

—What Emilia thought of the spectacle, however, was another matter entirely.

'That's enough, Marcos. Heinkel has a really, really sturdy body, but if you keep going, you're going to kill him. And I absolutely can't stand by and let that happen.'

'Even if this fool intended to exploit you for his own purposes, Lady Emilia?'

'Even then, it wouldn't be all right. Besides, Filore was doing her very best to explain that wasn't what happened. Isn't that right?'

With those words, Emilia glanced toward Filore. The girl, who had been staring in astonishment, abruptly returned to her senses and began nodding her head with frantic enthusiasm.

'Yes! Yes, exactly! That's right! Lord Heinkel wasn't trying to use Emilia or Felt! If anyone's the mastermind behind all this, it's me!'

'Don't put it like that! You're just making things more complicated! Point is, the old man wasn't trying to hurt me or Emilia.'

'That's exactly the point!'

Emilia and Felt took their places on either side of Filore, and the latter's expression brightened as though an army ten thousand strong had arrived to reinforce her. She thrust an emphatic finger toward Marcos. And indeed, three Royal Selection candidates now stood shoulder to shoulder. Together, they faced the Captain of the Royal Guard, Marcos Gildark, forming a united front before the battered and bloodied Heinkel. It was, by any measure, quite the spectacle—

'—To think that the esteemed Captain of the Royal Guard would find himself on the receiving end of the combined displeasure of three Royal Selection candidates. What a promising sight for your future.'

The voice belonged to neither of the three candidates, nor to Heinkel or Marcos. Another person had entered the conversation. Footsteps sounded from the same direction Emilia had appeared, from the room at the far end of the passage. The person who had been confined there alongside Emilia was—

'—Lady Ram.'

'You've certainly made a spectacle of yourself, Lord Marcos. Even if we altered the magical formula for today's purposes, after causing this much destruction, it wouldn't be surprising if someone else noticed. Have you lost your senses?'

Marcos slowly shook his head at the imperious rebuke of the pink-haired maid. She was Ram, the elder twin sister of the girl who had once enjoyed Priscilla's particular favor.

'I took what precautions I could. But given the state of this place, there's no explaining it away.'

'Hah!'

Ram snorted at his admission. Emilia, meanwhile, frowned as she listened to their exchange.

'Um, from the way you're talking, it sounds like you and Marcos are really good friends, Ram.'

'No, Lady Emilia, you've misunderstood. It is not Ram who is such very good friends with Lord Marcos, but Lord Roswaal. Apparently, the two have been the closest of friends for fifteen years.'

'I must correct that rather unfortunate characterization. It is true that our acquaintance extends back fifteen years, but describing us as the closest of friends would be detrimental to my reputation.'

'Oh. Actually, that answer makes you sound even more like one of Roswaal's friends…'

'W-wait, wait, wait! What the hell are you all getting so relaxed about all of a sudden!?'

As Emilia thoughtfully raised a finger to her lips, considering Ram's and Marcos's answers, Felt interjected with an entirely reasonable objection to the absurdity of the situation. She pointed at Heinkel, whose body had been beaten almost beyond recognition.

'This rock-faced bastard was going completely berserk just a minute ago, like he was trying to kill somebody! Look what he did to the old man! So what the hell is going on here?'

'Indeed. There is something I would like to confirm first. Lady Filore, was what you said earlier true? Did you infiltrate the castle in order to rescue Lady Emilia and Lady Felt?'

'Eh? Yes, that's right! I came to rescue them. We worked out a proper plan and everything, and we managed to get Felt out successfully. Then we came here to rescue Emilia as well, and…'

'I see. —And was this something you conceived of your own accord?'

'Lord Heinkel and I worked out the plan together. But the idea itself was entirely mine.'

Placing a hand against her chest, Filore confessed without the slightest attempt to conceal the truth any longer. Far from displaying any shame, she seemed positively relieved to have finally spoken openly about the matter. At her response, both Ram and Marcos furrowed their brows.

Their meaningful reactions prompted Filore to speak again.

'Um, I still don't quite understand what's happening here, but… would it be all right if I treated Lord Heinkel? Nobody's going to stop me, are they? I mean, I'll do it even if someone tries, but still.'

'Yes, of course. We should get him healed as quickly as possible… Ah, although healing magic might not work very well here. There's a barrier preventing magic from being used…'

'Hehe. Don't worry, there's no need for concern. My Sacraments are not magic.'

As she spoke, Filore crouched directly before Heinkel. He could feel her gaze upon him from only a short distance away, but his broken body remained incapable of movement, and no words would come.

'You don't have to say anything. Your actions have already proven more than any words could.'

—He did not understand.

What, exactly, had Heinkel proven?

'————'

While he remained unable to comprehend her meaning, Filore gently laid a hand against his face. From the place where her fingers touched him, a soft warmth began to spread, gradually seeping through his battered flesh. It was unmistakably different from the sensation of healing magic.

—If this was truly a Sacrament of the Divine Dragon Church, then perhaps a power capable of producing results distinct from magic might also be capable of reaching things that magic itself could never touch.

Even as his own body was being healed, Heinkel found himself unable to keep that thought from passing through his mind. Meanwhile, leaving Heinkel and Filore to their work—

'So, what, Emilia's friends with that border margrave, the border margrave's friends with Rock-Face, and now Rock-Face and the maid have been plotting something together?'

'This may be difficult to believe, but… I actually came here today intending to escort Lady Emilia and Lady Felt out of the royal castle myself.'

'…Eh!? You were going to rescue us, Marcos?'

'Yes.'

Marcos nodded gravely, and Ram, who stood with her arms folded, elaborated upon his answer.

'Lord Roswaal had instructed me beforehand that if anything happened in the royal capital, I should seek Lord Marcos's assistance. He assured me that Lord Marcos would certainly lend us his strength. That is why Ram agreed to remain confined alongside Lady Emilia.'

'I made no unconditional promise of assistance. Such matters depend upon the circumstances. Given my position, it would be inappropriate for me to favor any single Royal Selection candidate. However, the present situation is different.'

'So you're saying you've decided things have gotten bad enough that you need to take our side?'

'Precisely. To that end, I reduced the number of guards assigned to this wing to the bare minimum, and in order to delay the discovery of our actions for as long as possible…'

'Ram assisted by rewriting the magical formula installed throughout this floor to restrict the use of magic. Part of its effect was redirected toward preventing the sounds of disturbances and conversations here from escaping beyond this area.'

'Ahh, now I get it. So that's why nobody came running, even after Rock-Face beat the living hell out of the old man.'

As the explanation reconciled the strange circumstances they had encountered, Felt nodded in understanding.

Filore, who had been listening closely despite concentrating on her Sacrament, suddenly interjected without removing her hands from Heinkel.

'W-wait, may I ask something? If that's the case, then the reason Lord Heinkel was beaten so terribly by the captain was…'

'A thoroughly pointless conflict in which two people on the same side were tearing each other apart.'

'I disagree. I consider neither the conflict pointless nor that man an ally.'

'—!'

Marcos's unflinching refusal to acknowledge Heinkel as someone who shared his intentions sent a visible pang across Filore's face. Yet, unfortunate as it was for her, his judgment was perfectly understandable. Heinkel's conduct over the years could not be so readily erased by a small change in his recent behavior.

'Marcos, since you were preparing to take us out of the castle, does that mean you're coming with us?'

'That is my intention.'

'Is that really all right for the Captain of the Royal Guard? Things in the capital are already falling apart all over the place, ain't they? If the captain himself disappears on top of everything else…'

'If corruption cannot be purged without bloodshed, then we must not shrink from spilling blood. Besides, the Royal Guard is not an organization that will collapse merely because I am absent. I have faith that its members are men who keep within their hearts an understanding of how they ought to raise their swords.'

Marcos spoke with absolute conviction. His decision had already been made, and he had no intention of wavering. Emilia lowered her chin in acknowledgment of his answer, then turned toward Filore.

'Filore, we're going with Marcos. As for you and the others…'

'Of course I'm coming with Emilia and everyone else! That was my intention from the beginning, and besides, it's not as though I can safely remain in the capital as things stand. And there's something else…'

'Something else?'

'I want the captain to understand. I want him to see that Lord Heinkel really is a proper knight.'

'————'

At Filore's impassioned declaration, Marcos narrowed his eyes without speaking. There were years of actions behind his judgment, actions that had rendered Heinkel unworthy of his trust. No accumulation of fine words could easily outweigh them. Ignoring Marcos's reaction, Felt scratched her head while Emilia smiled.

'Yes, then let's go together! Thank you, Filore. Doing something like this is going to cause all sorts of really serious problems for you, but you still worked so hard for our sake.'

'Oh, please! This much is only natural. After all, I'm Emilia's very best friend, and as for Felt, well, our relationship is rather… what should I call it? Complicated! But we're practically sisters, aren't we? …Practically sisters! Aren't we!'

'You like the sound of that or something? Why'd you have to say it twice…?' Felt sighed in exasperation.

At the same moment, Filore lowered the hand she had been holding over Heinkel and released a long, deep breath. Perspiration glistened upon her forehead, and her breathing had grown slightly labored.

Nevertheless, she nodded to herself with satisfaction.

'There. That should be enough to get us through the immediate danger. Lord Heinkel, do you think you can stand?'

'…No. Sorry, but…'

Without a mirror, Heinkel had no way of knowing what his face looked like. Still, the pain from his battered skull, shattered molars, and broken right arm had unquestionably subsided to a considerable degree.

Of course, the extraordinary resilience of Heinkel's body was already well established, for reasons of its own. He could not say how much of his recovery was the result of Filore's Sacrament and how much was attributable to the abnormal properties of his own flesh. Either way, he would need a little more time before he could rise—

'—We cannot afford to waste time discussing this. Excuse me.'

With those words, Marcos strode over without ceremony, effortlessly lifted Heinkel in his powerful arms, and slung him roughly over one shoulder as though he were no more than a piece of luggage.

In the process, he pried the sword from Heinkel's grip and returned it to its scabbard.

'Captain…! Does this mean you've decided to trust Lord Heinkel!?'

'No. It merely means that if I decide to cut him down, there is no reason I must do so here.'

'Th-that would be pointless! Even if you cut his body clean in half, I'll simply use my Sacraments to put him back together again!'

'Enough! You can argue about that later! We have to get out of here before somebody finds us!'

Emilia admonished Filore, who was still snapping at Marcos as he carried Heinkel, then looked around at everyone gathered in the ruined corridor and urged them onward. Each of them understood that this decision would carry them beyond the point from which they could return. Each had resolved to accept that consequence. Having studied their faces and found that resolve reflected in every one of them, Emilia gave a deep, answering nod.

And then—

'—We have to meet up with Subaru and all the others. I'm sure they're doing something really, really reckless right about now, and I'm worried about them!'

'Pretty sure Big Bro wouldn't wanna hear that coming from us, considering we're the ones breaking out of a castle.'

Exchanging such remarks, the group set out to leave the royal castle, their numbers having grown beyond what either of the original escape plans had anticipated.

And as they made their way out—

'Lord Heinkel, you were magnificent! I'm so very proud of you!'

'…Yeah, well, my nose is broken.'

For some inexplicable reason, Filore looked positively radiant with pride, despite having watched Heinkel reduced to something scarcely distinguishable from a blood-soaked rag.

And with his body still too damaged to move, that weary retort was the most Heinkel could manage.