Rakuin no Monshou

Volume 7, Chapter 3: The Hero, Afterwards

Part 1

“You wouldn’t know where that kid’s gone to, would you?”

Gilliam, the one being addressed, already had a face that was flushed bright red. He had been in an excellent mood up until right that moment, but when he glanced at the person who had called out to him, for some reason, his expression turned awkward for a second.

“Oh, Shique. How about a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

They were on the first floor of an inn on Eimen’s central avenue. Gilliam was surrounded by Zerdians. At their entreaty, he had been passionately describing the fight that had taken place there, in Eimen. After all, he was a member of Orba’s unit, the one which had killed Garda. As soon as they saw him, there were any number of Zerdians who invited him for drinks. While being praised to the skies as a hero, with drink after drink being pressed onto him, Gilliam proudly told feats of courage that were no more than half-exaggerated.

Shique whispered stealthily into Gilliam’s ear.

“Don’t go on too much of a spree. Not all Zerdians have started liking Mephians. One bad move and you might find yourself stabbed in the back in a fit of jealousy.”

“I know. Which is actually exactly why I should go on a spree. Being sullen just earns you dislike.”

“I see. There’s that way of looking at it too,” Shique looked around at the Zerdians whose faces were every bit as ruddy as Gilliam’s. “More importantly, do you know where that kid is? I haven’t seen him since last night.”

“Who knows? Maybe he got invited by some big shots? He’s the one who killed Garda, after all. He’s bound to be in much bigger demand than we are.”

Gilliam was unusually glib. The nape of his neck was covered in innumerable beads of sweat.

“Right.” With that, Shique was about to leave the inn. When suddenly –

“Ah, eh? Sir Shique from Orba’s unit...”

“Sir Shique, where are you going?”

The good-looking user of twin blades was popular among Zerdian women. This was a region which by nature had no love for effeminate young men but, once he became known as a hero, that particularity served instead to highlight his exoticism, and those who were easily influenced by fads apparently saw him as something fresh and new.

Normally, Shique would have driven them away for being annoying, but, as he himself had just said, there was the issue of national feeling. Showering them all with his very best smile, he left hurriedly. With the crisis averted for now, Gilliam wiped the beer froth from his moustache. He turned to Talcott, a mercenary from the same unit who was sitting beside him.

“Well, better watch out, Talcott. If he finds out what we did to the boy, he might just be the one to stab us in a frenzy.”

After Eimen had fallen to Garda, the men had been conscripted as soldiers and most of the women and children had been imprisoned as hostages. When Garda was killed, the royal family, which had been taken to Zer Illias, returned, but the granaries were empty and the economy was at a standstill. Since even the half-grown crops had been harvested from the farms, the prospects for reconstruction were not particularly good.

Yet a great many soldiers were currently gathered there. Although the allied western forces, which had defeated Garda, had sent half of their troops home; the remaining half was still stationed in Eimen. Kings and lords from every country also remained, negotiating day after day about what to do from thereon.

On the orders of these statesmen, provisions and alcohol were being sent to Eimen from all over. Funds had also been collected in each country so that they could resume trade with the north as soon as Garda was defeated. So far, about half of the profits of all that had found their way to Eimen.

Where people gather, merchants follow. Barriers and check-points currently had no meaning in the west, nor were tolls being imposed to cross national borders. And with what little funds and goods they had on hand, the local people too were indomitably re-opening for business.

It hadn’t even been a week since Garda was killed, and the west was enjoying an unusually peaceful period, in which no blood wafted on the sand-laden wind. Amidst that –

“I’m going back. You lot do whatever you want.”

“Nah-ah, we’re not letting you do that tonight, Captain.”

This was the previous evening. Gilliam and Talcott, who had been drinking heavily that day too, were on either side of a third man, trapping him between them. Wearing a mask and slenderly-built for a warrior, that man was attracting the gazes of the passers-by. None of them needed to be told that this was ‘Ax’s swordsman’, the one who had killed Garda – Orba.

The three of them were standing in front of the impressive gates to a building. It had once been a merchant’s mansion, but since it became vacant after its owner was killed by Garda, Zerdian pimps had pooled their resources to buy it, and it was now a house in which prostitutes received guests.

Gripping Orba’s arm, Talcott launched proudly into a lecture.

“In Tauran, prostitutes who also work as dancers are known as dancing girls. Their status is way above that of normal whores, you know? They’ve had the foundations of etiquette and the performing arts hammered into them. They’re proud and haughty, and they don’t particularly try to flatter guests. The opposite, in fact: they’ll drive out any guest they don’t like. Some of them have been bought out of service by royalty, and there are even cases of them becoming queens. For Zerdian ‘connoisseurs’, you become a man by having a good time with dancing girls.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“So, Captain, you’re going to be having a good time too,” Gilliam brought his ruddy face nearer to Orba’s, his breath reeking of alcohol. “Don’t worry, everything’s been taken care of beforehand. If Orba himself visits the joint, its status will really go up, so we’ve been told that going there will be practically for free.”

“Why would I?”

Orba struggled to break free from their grip. His feet were almost treading the air. When he commanded his military unit, he was – partly thanks to the mask – enveloped in an aura that made it hard to tell what his age was. Right then, however, he seemed entirely like a sixteen, seventeen-year-old boy. Among the people who were peering attentively at him, wondering if this was the famous Orba, there were quite a few who gave up and left, deciding that “he’s just a show-off impostor who’s wearing the same mask.”

Gilliam smirked.

“You’re not not interested in women, right?”

“Why would I feel like doing anything with a woman I’m meeting for the first time?”

“That’s seriously strange,” Talcott stared narrowly at Orba. “It’s because it’s the first time meeting them, and you’re paying them, that there won’t be any future complications. Living for love is fine: polishing your skill with women during your spare time is what makes you a real man-about-town.”

“Let go.”

“Now, now... look here, Captain. This is both for your sake and for ours as former inhabitants of a foreign country.”

“What?”

While Orba looked about ready to bite at any moment, Gillian embarked on an explanation.

“A masked hero might sound mysterious in a legend, but when it comes to reality, it’s just fishy.”

“...”

“And on top of that, even though everyone’s praising you to the sky and back, you’re the kind of straight-laced guy who sits there looking gloomy, doesn’t go drinking with anyone, and doesn’t go and have fun with women; so there’s going to be plenty of jealous guys out there who are going to start being suspicious of you, wondering if there isn’t something up with you. ‘Really, that guy managed to do what we couldn’t... so yeah, sure, he’s incredible, but that’s why he’s looking down on us Zerdians and we really hate it’, is what they’ll be thinking.”

“Dancing girls come in five different ranks,” Talcott chimed in as Orba started to stop resisting. “Among those, choose one who’s from the middle rank, and who Zerdians would rate last for looks, to play around with. ‘Whaat? Mephian tastes sure are weird, huh?’ is what you want to get them to think. And just from that, they’ll start feeling much closer to you.”

“If you don’t like it, make yourself look more cheerful. Drink plenty. Try to show yourself being scolded by Ax for going on a spree. Me, I figure that’d be way more difficult for you.”

Orba did not protest and stopped struggling and kicking. Seizing their chance, Gilliam and Talcott, looking like they were half pushing him, entered the establishment. No sooner had they taken a single step indoors that they heard the reedy sound of a flute.

We did it – the two of them exchanged winks behind Orba’s back.

From the start, they had an agreement with the owner that if they managed to bring Orba, they could get in for free; so that previous long-winded reason was something that had been added afterwards. “Shall we take him by force?” Gilliam had suggested, but Talcott had shaken his head.

“That capt’n of ours, he looks like he’s a real hard nut to crack, but actually, it seems to me that he’s as simple as can be. You leave it to me. This is what I’m best at.”

Talcott was the one who had come up with the argument to persuade Orba, but since it would have been lacking in credibility coming from him, he left the actual coaxing to Gilliam. For that sort of thing, he knew himself well. After all, according to him, “a man of shallow relationships never finds love”, and there was a part of him that believed that women partners were special.

Stepping further in, they found several dancing girls whose naked bodies were covered in only the thinnest of clothing. In the dim light, several brown-skinned shapes drifted, dancing sometimes fiercely, sometimes gently to the sound of pipes. There was something uncanny about it, creating the illusion that one had strayed into another world.

The guests who were watching them seemed to be choosing their partners as they drank. However, as Gilliam had said, there were several ranks of dancing girls, and those in the higher ranks could decline invitations. That was especially true if it was a first-time customer. If a guest wanted a dancing girl to remember his face, he needed to pay frequent visits; and to attract her attention, he needed to prepare a wealth of gifts and topics of conversations.

Pledging an oath to a high-ranked dancing girl was a mark of status among Zerdian men, so they were not looking only for a single night’s pleasure and the competition could be fierce.

Orba, as had been suggested, headed for the area with the mid-rank dancing girls – known as the ‘flower rank’. Inside the room, the smell of cosmetics and perfume was almost offensively strong.

The Orba had come, and for a moment, the women almost stopped moving. Feelings of indefinable nervousness and elation ran through them. Although the well-trained women immediately resumed airily dancing in a circle, they did not forget to keep their gazes glued to that mask.

Orba sat on the floor along with the other men. While pretending to drink, he visually compared the women to each other. Gilliam had said to choose a woman that Zerdians would not consider good-looking, but – Damn it, I really don’t get Zerdian tastes. The dancing girls characteristically wore gaudy makeup, so he couldn’t help but think that they all looked the same.

The music that was playing sounded like a soft breeze.

The women formed a circle and, as though gazing longingly at an invisible moon, they all simultaneously stroked the empty air with their smooth arms. Just when each one of their fingers was about to brush the floor, the music abruptly changed and grew ferocious. All of a sudden, the women were clasping short swords in both hands. This time, it was a battle dance. Their long, supple legs nimbly changed position and intersected with those of the dancing girls on either side of them. The short swords clashed in mid-air, their thighs brushed against one another, then they swapped places two-by-two and challenged the next girl.

The dancing itself was well-worth seeing, but – This is stupid – Orba irritably shifted the position of his legs time and time again.

What Gilliam and Talcott had said was true... It was because he thought so that Orba had entered the establishment. Even though ingratiating himself with people was not his strong point, given that his position was now one that attracted attention, he was perfectly well aware that it meant he might also attract lethal animosity.

When he had been acting as Mephius’ Crown Prince Gil, he had been able to pull that kind of thing off reasonably well. He had been quite proud of perhaps having a talent for acting, but still, Orba had originally been no more than a sword slave. The role of “prince” was so disconnected from his reality that, conversely, it was for that very reason that he was able to treat it as performing a part in a play and pull it off.

In that respect, the role of “hero” was pretty tough. Besides the fact that the expectations of all those eyes fixed on him felt different, this time, he was not acting the part of someone with a different name and personality. On top of that, there was the issue between Zerdians and Mephians. Orba predicted that if he took the wrong attitude, then far from being a hero, he would become a target of hatred. Which was the only reason why he had, for the time being, gone along with Gilliam and Talcott’s forceful invitation.

Fine. Screw this. I’ll think of a different way – he decided, and started to stand up.

It was at that moment that one of the dancers fell against him. She had tripped.

The tip of her short sword plunged towards Orba’s mask. The surroundings broke out into unconscious screams but Orba, swiftly raising his hands, caught the woman’s wrist in one of them, and easily propped her by the waist with the other.

Looking at her from close up, she was a girl whose eyes were large – or rather, slightly too large. While he was staring straight at the girl whose large eyes were blinking, a middle-aged woman who seemed to be the leader of the dancing girls came rushing and apologised to him. After which, she looked towards the dancing girl with an expression like that of an ogre.

“Yāni! When am I going to actually be able to rely you?

“I-I’m sorry, Elder Sister. I got distracted.”

“You got distracted? A dancing girl in the middle of a dance? Well that’s a great excuse, isn’t it?”

The woman wasn’t making excuses in any real meaning of the sense. Orba had seen the whole thing from start to finish and, actually, the girl called Yāni was not at fault. It was the dancer behind her who had been paying too much attention to him and who had had collided with her. That dancer seemed to be younger, looking like she was still in her late teens. Her face was pale under her makeup, probably because she was afraid that the brunt of the anger would be turned against her.

Orbas’ chest squeezed tight.

In the distant future, Yāni’s fellow dancers would all agree that “Yāni did really well.”

“Honoured Guest, you’re pretty strange.”

In the room they had taken on the second floor, Orba and Yāni were drinking, sitting face-to-face. The sweat that clung to their skin was what remained of their shared warmth.

“That right?”

“Why did you choose me? There are plenty of girls who are more beautiful and better dancers than me.”

“Heh.”

Valued and unexpected guest though he was, Yāni was starting to find him a little hard-going. Sipping his drink like he was licking it, he did not join in on any of the topics of conversation that she brought up and he tended to keep his eyes lowered.

What dancing girls hated most were men who openly turned cold after having finished making love. If his partner had not been Yāni, some pretty awful rumours might have started circulating about Orba. She was twenty-five, however, and had experience. And because of that, as she spotted that the nape of his neck was red, she realised that – He’s embarrassed. He probably didn’t have much experience in playing around.

He’s like Dad.

She could hardly remember ever seeing her stalwart and taciturn father laughing cheerfully. Although that didn’t mean that he had always been in a bad mood. When Yāni’s sister, who was five years older than her, had gotten married, her father had acted very unusually: drinking wine, singing in public, laughing, and then crying in secret.

Six years ago, when a skirmish had broken out with a neighbouring city-state, her father had been drafted as a soldier, and had never returned. Yāni had applied to become a dancing girl the following year. To fill the silence that had sprung up between her and Orba, Yāni started singing. Afterwards, she performed on a fife. For a while, a lithe and emotion-filled melody sounded. It was the flute that Orba showed the greatest interest in.

“Can all dancing girls play the flute?”

“All Zerdian women are good at it. It’s one of the must-have accomplishments. Although, they are not usually as good at it as I am.”

“Oh.”

The fifes of western Tauran were one of the more popular items of trade with the north. Since it looked like Orba was interested in it, after playing a few more tunes, she said –

“If you want, I could have one made for you. There are craftsmen who specialise in making flutes for us dancing girls.”

“Then, could you have one, no, two made?”

Yāni smiled and looked into Orba’s eyes behind the mask.

“That might cause unnecessary trouble. If they’re souvenirs from Tauran for women, I think it would be best to give something different to both of them.”

When she said that, Orba blushed again.

And that was the reason why Orba went there the second day. In order to give specifications on the design of the flute, he asked Talcott, who was good at drawing, to sketch it. Orba had been prepared for over-the-top teasing, but Talcott had a certain stoicism when it came to his own areas of expertise. A few hours after he had received the request, he had already completed several designs.

“Is there anything that you want included?” Talcott had asked, looking a little anxious, and Orba had found that side to him somewhat surprising.

Having chosen two of the designs, Orba had brought them to Yāni, intending to excuse himself afterwards, but, in the end, he had slept with her for a second day.

He had almost begun to forget the warmth of physical contact.

Orba had changed from when he had lived only for revenge. Now that the fight against Garda was over, his time was unexpectedly hard to fill. Yet it was not out of listlessness. It was just that Orba, who had had his eyes firmly fixed on the next step, then on the step after that of the staircase he was climbing, was taking a few moments to look at something other than where to place his feet before taking that next stair.

For a short while, he was embraced by a woman’s skin. He was, after all, a teenage boy.

When, five days later, he went to visit for the third time, rumours were going around.

“It looks like the hero fancies Yāni.”

“He’s a little weird, I mean, he could have had a better woman.”

While he did feel embarrassed, this had after all been one of his aims. Say whatever you want – he thought, blushing to the tip of his ears at the various rumours, as he entered the building to receive the flutes from Yāni.

The night had grown late.

“When I took your hand...”

“Yes?” Yāni turned around while she was tying up her hair. Her naked shoulder was smooth and round.

“When I came here... the first time I took your hand, it was because the smell of perfume wasn’t so strong.”

Yāni was a perceptive woman. She realised that, several days after she had asked it, Orba was answering her question of “why did you chose me?”

She laughed, her eyes creased half-closed.

Part 2

When he received the report, Ax’s first thought was – is he trying to run away?

It concerned Orba, the hero who had slayed Garda, and Ax did not know what to make of the timing. He had spent entire days and nights in meetings. He had been so busy, it made his eyes spin, but, just when he had finally reached a point where he could take a break and had been thinking of sending for the hero so they could have a drink together –

“A messenger came from Sir Orba saying that he would like to return to Taúlia. However, since you were so busy, Lord Ax, he said to let you know once things had calmed down. He probably left Eimen yesterday.”

“Why Taúlia?”

“He said that since he stood out too much here, he could not do anything. The west is still in turmoil, and there is no knowing who might aim for it, thus he wished to immediately go and take part in defending Taúlia.”

Humph – snorted the lord of Taúlia with a noncommittal expression.

Ax had naturally received news of the attempted uprising in Taúlia. During the time when he had been approaching Eimen with the allied western forces that he had gathered together, Ax’s nephew, Raswan Bazgan, had seized control of Taúlia Castle through armed force. Apparently, many of the soldiers employed by Ax’s younger brother, Toún, had joined Raswan’s side. During the crisis, Archduke Hirgo Tedos, who had counselled the Bazgan House since the time of Ax’s father, had been put to the sword.

Ax had heard that the ones who had put down the rebellion were, firstly, Hirgo’s adopted son, Bouwen Tedos, the only man currently in Taúlia other than Toún who carried the title of “general”, and secondly, none other than Ax’s own daughter, Esmena Bazgan.

What’s with this unbelievable story all of a sudden...

It was exactly like something out of an old tale, and Ax still couldn’t quite feel that it was real.

Raswan had based the justice of his rebellion on the claim that Ax had lost the sovereign’s seal of the Ancient Dynasty to Mephius. Which was a perfectly true, so for Ax, the fact that Esmena herself had brandished the sovereign’s seal and rallied the troops’ morale was possibly even more of a bolt out of the blue than it had been for his nephew.

Esmena had then been carried away, undercover of the mayhem from the rebellion, by one of Garda’s subordinates, and had been brought here, to Eimen. Thus, the father and daughter had been reunited immediately after Garda had been subjugated. However, as she had still been under the influence of sorcery, her body and mind had both been utterly exhausted.

At one point, Ax had visited the pavilion in which she had been settled to rest.

“Father... this... The proof of friendship between Crown Prince Gil of Mephius and you, Father.”

He had received the war fan from his daughter’s hands, with the sovereign’s seal of the Ancient Dynasty definitely stored inside it. It had, for a while, been taken by Mephius.

The father, worried about his daughter’s health, had made use of an air carrier to send her back to Taúlia before him, and before getting the full details of the situation. The commander of the Third Army Corps, Nidhal, in whom he placed full confidence, had travelled with her, and had been given orders concerning getting Taúlia back on its feet after the rebellion.

“Have a two-day celebration in honour of our having subjugated Garda. It’s fine if you hand out the wine and provisions at the castle. But that’s it. Afterwards, the populace’s rationing has to be the same as during wartime. After all, Taúlia’s the land where trade with the north will be the slowest to get back on track.”

Judging by the information, Orba’s intention of returning to Taúlia to take up duty in its defence seemed absolutely admirable. The way Ax saw it, however, was that he’s avoiding me questioning him.

As long as he was just one mercenary, it didn’t matter if he wore a mask or even if he had two faces, but of course, now that he was the hero with the greatest achievements, Ax’s retainers – or rather, the entire west – had their eyes inquisitively fixed on what on earth might be under the mask, and speculation about his origins was rife.

Even for Ax, there were a lot of points worth thinking about.

I don’t believe he’s a mere gladiator. He seems to be used to ordering soldiers.

But for having met him in person, it was clear that he was very young. There were naturally not many social positions in which youths gave orders to soldiers.

Royalty or nobility.

Ax had been allocated a spacious room within Eimen’s royal palace. There, he spent day after day in discussion with the kings and nobles of the surrounding countries. The flags of almost all of the city-states of Tauran were currently fluttering in the wind above the gates of Eimen. They had come to conclude a treaty of non-aggression, and also, for when trade resumed with the north, to explore a more efficient way of doing things, rather than everyone doing whatever they pleased as had been the case up until then. In its current state, if Tauran did not hurry to revive its economy and rebuild itself, it ran the risk of becoming bait for wolves hungering for blood.

If he were Zerdian, I could believe that he was a young prince or noble who had lost his country and who was hiding his status by working as a mercenary on foreign soil, but that guy says himself that he’s Mephian, and even if that isn’t true, at the very least, he isn’t Zerdian.

“Huum.”

Ax had an attendant help him change his clothes, then sat down with a thump onto a couch by the window.

Whatever the case, leaving him to his own devices is dangerous.

For a while, he was absorbed in thought, but, by nature, he was not one to ponder too deeply over things by himself. Speed of action was Ax’s strong point, and he promptly summoned Natokk, the commander of the Sixth Army Corps, to his room.

He ordered Natokk to take fifty soldiers and return to Taúlia. The reason was not only for the defence of their home country, as he gave him one other order:

“Have your men keep watch on Orba. If it looks as though Master Ravan has recovered, consult with him. In other words, do not reveal this order except to the old master and to your most trusted subordinates.”

“Aye,” Natokk did not have a moment’s hesitation, and nodded at once.

Ax had chosen Natokk because of his steady personality, with no other intention in mind. At the time, he did not know about the rumours whispered among some of the soldiers concerning Orba’s real identity. Such detailed information-gathering was the strategist Ravan Dol’s job, but even if Ravan himself had been there, and even if he had that information at hand, he too would probably still have given the same order to the same person.

In other words, although it was purely coincidental, Ax’s decision in choosing Natokk was the correct one. But it would need quite some more time before anyone could tell whether that decision was lucky or unlucky for Tauran’s future.

A column of horses was advancing along the highways which had been maintained since the era of Zer Tauran.

Although many things were now different from before, as long as they stuck to it, the mercenaries did not need to worry about attacks from bandits taking advantage of the chaos. After going south from Eimen for a few days, they arrived in sight of Lake Soma and also spotted soldiers from Helio and Cherik who were guarding the highway.

Throughout the journey, Gilliam had constantly felt eyes drilling into his back.

In a sense, Shique’s insistent gaze was far more terrifying than any bandit. The rumour that Orba was crazy for a dancing girl called Yāni had, of course, reached Shique’s ears. And he had immediately guessed that Gilliam and Talcott were behind it.

Naturally, Gilliam had desperately explained the reasoning that he had given to Orba himself. Shique had not given any indication that he agreed with it, and, since then, he had barely said a word.

He might just really be aiming for my back.

Even Gilliam, a long-serving gladiator, could not help breaking out into a cold sweat. However –

“It looks like you also understand pretty well.”

Shique spoke to him at a rest area for travellers on the shore of Lake Soma.

“W-What do I understand?”

“How to handle that kid.” Sending a sidelong glance towards the timid-acting Gilliam, Shique gazed disinterestedly at the horses that were gobbling down their fodder. “He gets belligerent if you try to appeal to his emotions. But if you reason with him with logic, he’ll listen surprisingly well. It’s probably because he’s aware of his own lack of experience.”

“Isn’t it a bit much, though? Needing reasons laid out one-by-one just to sleep with a woman... you know?”

Gilliam turned away under Shique’s fixed stare.

“Well, leave it. In this case, it’s definitely helped the Zerdians sort out some of the complicated feelings they have towards Orba. Still, when it comes to that kid, don’t go doing things behind my back.”

This guy really is like a nanny.

Reading the expression on his long-time acquaintance’s face, Shique gave a small laugh.

“You know, I’m not going to get angry at Orba having slept with a woman. Well, maybe a little bit, but compared to how angry I am at you acting in secret like that, it’s nothing.”

“O-Oh...”

“Hmm, how can I put this? I’m actually rather glad.”

“Glad?”

“That kid is finally releasing himself from the shackles of revenge. It feels like, little by little, we’ll be seeing Orba’s real face. That’ll be a rare pleasure indeed.”

Gilliam didn’t understand where the pleasure in that was at all, but he was not foolish enough to contradict him.

Incidentally, Orba, who was leading the fifty-odd mercenaries, had removed his mask in favour of bandages wrapped around his face, just as when he had first arrived in Tauran. Everyone throughout the west now knew of the masked swordsman Orba, and his group received a warm welcome wherever they went. Since his men enjoyed it, Orba had, at first, reluctantly borne with it but, in the end, he had not been able to put up with it and had decided to go back to bandages.

“We’ll be leaving soon,” Orba announced to the soldiers, Gilliam and Shique among them.

“What, again?” Talcott, who had been chatting with a young woman who worked at the rest area, dragged himself to his feet, looking thoroughly fed up. “What’s with the lightning trip? Can’t we just take it a bit easier?”

“There’s no reason not to hurry. Come on, on your horses,” Orba said curtly. It was only after saying so though that he noticed something.

Hurry? ... Right, I’m in a hurry.

He had to admit that his mind was filled with something like impatience. There was no concrete or imminent threat, but he had the feeling that ever since he had defeated Garda, he had been thinking that – I need to get moving soon.

Orba had achieved success and gained fame. He had even reached the position of “hero” that he had yearned for since childhood. And yet, his mood was no brighter. There were plenty of reasons for that: he could no longer triumphantly return to his home village, he could not escape the hassle of having to hide his face, and he had the feeling that he was always running away from something.

Is he trying to run away? – Ax’s intuition was not entirely wrong. Orba had been afraid that he might press him to reveal his face.

And, what part of that is being a hero?

The guards on either side of the highway waved at them, while Talcott and Shique waved back. Even though they didn’t recognise him as the masked hero, Orba was wearing Taúlian armour, so they probably viewed the riders as comrades.

So, what will I do next?

Orba had questioned himself thus just before leaving Eimen. Should he nonchalantly return to Taúlia, or visit the northern coastal countries, or go further west and cross the desert? The possibilities were endless.

No...

Every time he thought about such things, however, something seemed to press heavily against his chest. Those obstructive, unnameable feelings spread to his heart and blocked those future possibilities. Thoughts of his fights in the west flitted through his mind. The moment when he confronted Garda in the temple at Eimen. And also –

Are you running away?

Are you leaving us behind?

Are you planning on abandoning us and running away?

– All the screams of the dead within the overflowing darkness created by Garda’s sorcery. At one point, it had almost brought him to his knees. Surrounded – or perhaps captured – by faces from the past, he had almost abandoned himself to them, even as his mind and body dissolved.

When he shook that off, Orba had personally removed his mask. Only in that one moment had he felt that he could see a bright path to the future. Not the future that Tauran could hope for once Garda was destroyed, but a future for himself, and for Mephius, where he had once overcome so many bitter hardships as the crown prince.

But the reality was that his face was still hidden, and that he was spurring his horse further and further along the highway, where the wind-tossed sand whirled and where what lay ahead could not be seen. It was simply that he also had the idea that, if I return to Taúlia, he might hear about how things were in Mephius.

In Mephius, revenge had been everything to Orba. He had lived only for revenge and revenge had kept him alive, revenge had shaped his personality, and revenge had guided him. There could be no fond memories for him to want to look back on. Nevertheless, now that he was freed from the shackles of revenge, it was true that he felt like he was looking at Mephius differently from how he had until then.

Naturally, for Orba, the word “Mephius” did not exist all by itself: any number of names and faces were attached to it. There was Guhl, its policymaker, and men of influence such as Simon or Rogue. There were also his one-time companions, such as Gowen, Hou Ran, or Pashir.

And also, among the many faces that went with “Mephius” was that of Vileena Owell. The girl who was not of “Mephius”, but who had tried so hard to become a part of it. As her smile floated into his mind, a dull pain ran through Orba’s chest.

When he had left Mephius, Orba had had no choice but to fake Prince Gil’s death. The price to pay had been a great many separations. In that situation, he had been able to neither explain the circumstances to Vileena, nor, of course, to make his farewells to her.

After coming to the western lands, he had unexpectedly met again with a different princess. Esmena Bazgan of Taúlia. A girl that he had only met twice as Gil Mephius. Esmena’s haggard face was still seared into Orba’s mind.

Vileena Owell...

Even if he tried not to think about it, her name resurfaced. Now that her fiancé was dead, what kind of life was she living in Mephius? The question filled his mind. More than that, what expression was she making, what tone of voice was she speaking in, what where her steps when she walked?

Stupid. Gil’s dead, so she has no more reason to stay in Mephius. She must have gone back to Garbera.

As though ashamed of them, Orba had repeatedly reconsidered his plans, but, as Talcott had pointed out, he had to recognise that he was feeling a certain impatience.

The skies were clear.

Over the reddish-brown earth was superimposed the landscape of another country, one that he had not seen. Flowers swayed in the wind and the sky stretched out blue. A single airship was soaring through it. Her platinum-blond hair fluttering, a girl was dancing lightly in the skies of her native land.

Has she gotten her wings back?

Orba looked up and the illusion disappeared, taken by the wind that had been blowing since earlier.

Part 3

Nedain was roughly halfway between Birac and Solon. It had a fortress defended by a ravine and, like other forts in Mephius, a small town was attached to it.

At first, it had been no more than an air carrier relay base between the commercial city of Birac and the imperial capital, Solon. It was a vestige from when there had still been trade with the west but, as this had died out about two hundred years earlier, there had been plans, at one time, to demolish the base and instead construct a port north of Birac, in a location on the other side of the river that would be more convenient for trade with the north.

Just when that plan was first being put into effect, however, far to the north, across the mountains and near the Houlin Rifts, from the city-state of Io, where it was said that they worshipped a beast-headed god, a group of fanatics crossed over the river and started marching south. In Mephius, there was urgent need to expand bases into fortresses, and that's when the foundations of the current Nedain were laid.

Three generations prior to Guhl, the area of the Vlad Plateau had been seized by a powerful local clan, so, along with Solon and Idolo, Nedain had served to warn off enemies in three directions and halt their advance. Additionally, the elders of the Dragon Gods’ faith, who had been in charge of rites since back in those days, had declared that there were “evil portents” immediately to the east of Birac. In the end, and partly because forest resources were, after all, precious in that part of Mephius, the plans to construct the port were abandoned.

Which was how Nedain remained as a city connecting Birac and Solon. Although it had to be said that nowadays, since the Vlad Plateau had returned to Mephius, compared to the border-town of Apta or the flourishing trade-city of Birac, Nedain had a definite air of decline. Even in Mephius, which was widely derided by other countries for being unrefined and lacking in culture, ‘being from Nedain’ was synonymous to ‘country bumpkin’.

Moreover, it had only been about half a month ago that an entire village had been annihilated by the military troops for having sheltered a single slave. The fear that held the other villages in its grip had infected the town, and it felt as though a chillingly cold wind was blowing within the area that should have been sheltered by its high ramparts.

It was amidst that atmosphere that a certain piece of news arrived.

“Garbera’s Princess Vileena is apparently going to be coming here.”

Apart from the small gladiatorial arena at its outskirts, Nedain was not a place that had much in the way of entertainment, so the populace was rejoicing at the rumour.

“They say that her skin is incomparably fairer than any Mephian woman.”

“But still, why’s she coming to Nedain at a time like this?”

“It’s gotta be because she wants to thank General Lord Saian for helping Garbera.”

“There’s that, sure, but I bet it’s also a journey to help heal her grief.”

The Garberan princess. Gil Mephius’ fiancé?

Walking inside Nedain Fortress, the gladiator Pashir tried to recall what the princess looked like but, although he had seen her from a distance in Solon and Apta, he could not conjure up a complete image. All he could remember was the strength of her gaze.

Pashir had been a long-serving gladiator known as “Strong-Armed” and “Iron Arm”. He had born a bitter grudge for having been made into a sword slave and separated from his younger sister, and had, at one time, devoted himself to trying to cast Mephius to the flames. But that attempted uprising had just been part of a plan by a man named Zaat Quark who had been plotting to seize power, and both had been foiled by Prince Gil Mephius.

Pashir should originally have been sentenced to execution, but Gil took him up and appointed him as commander of the infantry unit within the Crown Prince’s Imperial Guards. In Apta, he had taken part in the battles which had broken out with Taúlia, and after that, he had accumulated more feats of arms when he had travelled to Zaim Fortress as part of the Crown Prince’s reinforcements to Garbera.

That prince – what kind of man is he?

Gil had used his subordinate, Orba, to trick Pashir, and had thwarted his revenge against Mephius. Pashir hated him enough to kill him, but, at the same time, he felt a powerful interest in the man who sometimes so completely betrayed the impression he had of nobles.

Might he be the kind who’ll leave his name in history as a great man?

He had even gone so far as to believe that might be the case, but Gil had been shot right after returning to Apta, and had disappeared into the shadows that shrouded the River Yunos.

Pashir had of course been part of the search parties which had scoured the river’s surroundings. He had been working with a hundred or so sword slaves who had decided to stay on as soldiers after achieving success in the battle at Apta, but, in the forest north of the Yunos, they had suddenly been called to halt by Gowen.

Gowen too had originally been thrust into the world of gladiators, and he had been leading a unit of about fifty Imperial Guards who shared the same history.

“It looks like the ones who shot the prince were Oubary’s men from the Black Armour Division,” he had said. It appeared that some of his own subordinates had spotted soldiers who wore the equipment of the Black Armour Division. “They probably plan to escape west. We’re going to chase after them.”

“Then we’ll go t...” Pashir had started to stay, but Gowen lifted up a hand to interrupt him. Hanging from that hand was a heavy-looking leather bag.

“You’ll find your pay inside. The Prince gave it to me for safekeeping in case of an emergency. Distribute it among your men.”

“What’s this about?”

“Since he hasn’t been found even with these searches, it’s best to think that the Prince is dead. We’re the Imperial Guards who were supposed to protect him. Even if the ones behind this can be caught, we might get charged for failing our duty and be executed. Just like you lot, we used to be slaves that Mephius treated like animals. We served the Prince, but we’ve no intention to let Mephius or whoever chain us up again. So let’s dissolve your unit, here and now.”

At Gowen’s words, the soldiers behind Pashir had started to make a stir. The tanned veteran continued,

“We have a debt towards the Prince. The least we can do is kill Oubary ourselves. Afterwards, we’ll break up our unit too.”

“Wait. In that case, until Oubary is killed, we’ll...”

“They’ll be sure to notice something if this many people close in on them. You lot leave. It’s the only way to repay the favour to the Prince for looking out for us.”

Pashir had stared intently at Gowen’s stern expression. After that, once he had watched Gowen take his Imperial Guards through the forest on a path that would allow them to circumvent the Yunos by heading north, Pashir had left the coin-filled bag to his men.

“Pashir, what are you going to do?” asked Miguel Tes, one of the soldiers, on seeing that Pashir had not taken any of the money. He too was a former gladiator; in the gladiatorial tournament held during the country’s Founding Festival, he had fought against the masked swordsman, Orba.

“I...” Pashir had not known how to answer.

There’s something going on here. Gowen’s behaviour was suspicious. They did not know each other particularly well, but he did not get the impression that Gowen was particularly good at lying. When their eyes had met, Gowen had looked away.

Prince Gil was a man who excelled at using tricks. During the battles at Apta, he had deceived even the soldiers who were supposed to be on his side. So perhaps... thought Pashir. Perhaps this might be another one of his schemes?

It was based on nothing except his intuition, but Pashir was unable to discard that thought of his. He could not accept Prince Gil’s death.

I won’t believe it until I’ve seen the bastard’s corpse. If this is another one of his tricks, it’d mean being tricked by him again. The bastard will be laughing at me again. No thanks, once was enough.

Looking back, he wasn’t sure that, at the time, he had thought things out that specifically. Maybe he had just been latching onto any old reason and had just been convincing himself to Apta Fortress like a fool.

For some reason, Miguel went with him. He was a young man who had a carefree side to him and he seemed to find this development amusing.

The next morning, the Imperial Guards had also returned to Apta. But there was no more than a handful of them, including Gowen. While the soldiers who had come from the various towns to assist broke out into a commotion, they had gone up to them. Gowen’s armour was splattered with what was clearly fresh blood; his breathing rough, and he told them about what had happened the previous evening.

Just as Gowen had predicted, they had discovered about a hundred soldiers from the Black Armour Division who were about to cross over the border into Tauran. Realising that they had been found out, instead of answering the questions that Gowen had fired at them, the soldiers had drawn their swords. Although words were no longer necessary: there was no longer any doubt that Oubary and his men had assassinated Prince Gil.

Swords and strength did the talking as they slaughtered each other. Most of those from the Black Armour Division, unwilling to foolishly lose their lives there, had attempted to flee, which allowed the Imperial Guards to put up a fight despite being outnumbered.

“We didn’t quite make it,” said Gowen, looking as though the thought made him want to cough up blood. At the end of a desperate fight in which most of the Imperial Guards had laid down their lives, they had succeeded in routing the Black Armour Division, but they had not been able to kill their leader, Oubary.

“He was badly wounded and, as far as I could see, he wasn’t able to escape to Tauran. Please, blockade the borders at once and search inside the country. I won’t be able to die easy until I’ve seen that bastard dead.”

Pashir was standing some distance away when Gowen made that appeal, and he became more convinced than ever that something was up. Looking carefully, and for a swordsman of Pashir’s calibre, it was clear that Gowen and the surviving Imperial Guards only had superficial injuries. They were pretending to have been doused in their opponents’ blood, probably so that it would look like they had been in a gruesome fight.

Above all, there was the issue of the masked swordsman, Orba. He could not see him here, and neither had he seen him when they met in the forest. He was a man who was loyal to the Prince’s orders. He had infiltrated the ranks of Pashir and his fellow conspirators, and had revealed their plans to rebel. If his identity had been discovered, he would have been killed on the spot. Yet the man who had taken on such a dangerous mission was now missing.

That guy’s nothing short of a fiend. What’s he plotting this time?

Thus, Pashir remained in Apta. Gowen seemed astounded that he had stayed, but he deliberately avoided saying anything about it. Pashir followed suit, and did not ask him anything. He reasoned that if there was some kind of plan, he wasn’t going to be let in on it this late in the game.

Several days passed and, despite a large-scale search organised throughout the country, neither the Prince not Oubary were found. In the end, they were temporarily called back to Solon to report on the results of their search and on what the situation had been just before the Prince was shot.

After a few more days, letters that the Prince had written beforehand were discovered. It seemed as though he had been intending to disband his Imperial Guards after the battle at Apta. He had written that, as heir to the throne, he intended to follow a “proper” line of conduct hereafter, and so was aware that he needed to rectify his decision to have former slaves as his Imperial Guards. This was accompanied by a request that when the time came, the former slaves be incorporated into General Rogue Saian’s division.

It really is as though he’d planned everything out from the start – thought Pashir, and yet, at around the same time, the Emperor publicly announced that the position of crown prince had fallen empty. In other words, Prince Gil Mephius was officially proclaimed dead. As far as Pashir was concerned, if this was also part of the plan, then the Prince’s intentions were becoming more and more incomprehensible.

I don’t get it. Or did he did decide to throw everything away and escape from Mephius? Was he afraid of the Emperor’s anger?

When his thoughts reached that point, the memory of how Gil had looked just before they went in reinforcement to Garbera floated to his mind. He seemed somehow lacking in spirit, as though he might disappear at any moment. And in actual fact, he had almost lost his life on the battlefield. And at that time...

“Master Pashir.”

Pashir was surprised at the voice coming from the side. A young girl walked up to him.

“Are you worried about something?”

“Yeah... No, it’s no big deal.”

It was Mira. She had originally been a slave-girl working at the Solon colosseum, where she had looked after the gladiators. When Pashir and the others had been incorporated into the Imperial Guards, she too had been brought in to continue to take care of them.

Mira’s expression clouded over. “You lost so many companions... It must be hard. I don’t know how to comfort you, Master Pashir.”

“No such thing. Just by being here, Mira, you’re a constant support.” Pashir spoke bitterly. Mira had not been informed of the circumstances of how the Imperial Guards had been disbanded.

Since the position of crown prince was now vacant, the Crown Prince’s Imperial Guards had, in the real meaning of the sense, been disbanded. Just as the Prince had requested, Gowen, his adopted daughter, Hou Ran, about twenty former gladiators who had once belonged to the Tarkas Gladiator Company, as well as Pashir, Miguel, and Mira, had been enlisted into General Rogue Saian’s division.

General Rogue had welcomed them. However, the General himself was under penitence. Moreover, the Dawnlight Wings Division that he led was an air carrier force consisting of dragonstone ships in which most of the commanders were qualified Winged Dragon Officers or airship pilots. While it did have some infantry troops, there were few cavalrymen. And as it did not recruit mercenaries, there was no precedent for this influx of soldiers, so Pashir and the others were somewhat adrift in the division.

“I’m not unhappy with the current situation. I got some pay, and if I wanted, I could’ve escaped from working as a Mephian soldier. But I don’t know anything other than the sword. And at this point, I don’t think I could go back to working in a mine.”

Pashir did not halt his steps as he spoke. He had never been good at talking with women. Naturally, the topic turned to himself.

“Even though there are no chains on your feet, they still treat you like a beast. Sure, it’s different from being a slave who goes where he’s told and fights when he’s told, but...

What am I’m going on about – Pashir grumbled inwardly. He felt like clicking his tongue.

Just then –

“Just what you’d expect from a guy who used to serve the prince.”

“Even when he’s patrolling the fortress, he’s taking a woman along.”

A group of burly men came into sight, mouthing sarcasms. They were Rogue Saian’s soldiers, and it was obvious at a glance that they were irritated.

Pashir sent them an acknowledging glance and tried to carry on with Mira. A particularly large man stood to block his way. His line of sight was even higher than Pashir’s. Pashir finally stopped walking.

“You got business with me?”

“You’re sure cocky for a newbie,” the giant barred his teeth. “Since you’re an ignorant slave, we’ll teaching you some manners.”

No surprises – Pashir watched the soldiers surround him front and back. There were five of them. The tension has been piling up.

Their general, Rogue Saian, was being kept away from Solon because he had aligned himself with the Prince’s actions. Not surprisingly, they felt something close to hatred towards Pashir and the others who had been the Prince’s own men.

“Do women and children need to follow those manners?”

“Whaa?” Pashir’s calm attitude seemed to get on the giant’s nerves and he narrowed his eyes, but, “the woman’s fine. Go wherever.”

“M-Master Pashir.”

When Mira looked up at him, Pashir gestured for her to go. She looked hesitant but, when he sent her another pressing glance, she left gingerly.

“Now then, what is it I’m going to be learning?”

“Something that goes without saying,” the giant swung his fist hard.

Pashir stooped low to avoid it and threw his own fist at the giant’s stomach. He crouched without saying a word. The men jumped at him from in front and behind. He just barely managed to dodge, but, just when he landed a blow on the second man’s cheek, a third one got him into a grapple hold.

This should do.

With his back to a pillar, he crumpled down. After which, he let the men hit and kick him. His thick arms protected only his face and his vital points. By Pashir’s estimate, they weren’t planning on killing him.

“This year’s ‘Lord’ Felipe is just a hulk of nothing.”

The soldiers scornfully spat out his title as runner-up in the Founding Festival’s gladiatorial tournament. Their hatred was laid bare, the pretext of “teaching him manners” long tossed aside. They taunted and knocked him about.

“Rebel bastard, how dare you pretend to be a Mephian soldier!”

“You’re dragging the General’s name into the mud!”

He let the heavy blows from fists and feet rain down onto him, and was planning to wait for the storm to pass when –

“Hold!”

Like a saviour in a stage-play, he came rushing in at the last minute, his voice ringing. Miguel Tes. At the sight of his eyes, which were gleaming like a young boy’s, Pashir sent him a sharp glare, as much as to say – Don’t go interfering – but...

“I’m here, you don’t need to worry anymore, Pashir.”

As bad luck would have it, Miguel could not have been more enthusiastic. It was not just the regular soldiers who had been bottling up their resentment. A popular swordsman in the gladiatorial arena, what Miguel hated above all else was to not be in the limelight.

He knocked down a soldier who had been about to kick Pashir.

“Asshole!”

“Get him too!”

The soldiers now swarmed towards Miguel. Pashir felt exasperated, but the one that Miguel had knocked down was grappling with him from behind, and with Miguel now in danger, Pashir had no choice but to get up and help him.

What followed next was a brawl and a free-for-all.

Pashir felt the impact of a stone that had been thrown against his cheek. He spat a mouthful of blood towards the arrogant soldier, and punched him in the jaw from below with enough strength to kill him. Miguel was moving through several soldiers as smoothly as though he were in water, his fists flying and his hips twisting as he sent out kicks.

“What? What’s going on?”

“Felipe’s on a rampage.”

More soldiers eventually happened to pass by, and between those who waded in to help, and those who were hooting and jeering, it almost felt like a kind of revelry.

While he fought, Pashir’s blood rushed hot. His fighting spirit was surging so that he no longer understood why he had initially allowed himself to be beaten up. With every move, and with an agility that seemed impossible for that burly frame, he struck the soldiers in the face, the abdomen, or the legs, while those who tried to wrestle him down found themselves flipped over and thrown to the ground without even knowing how he had been able to untangle himself from them.

“Pretty good, Pashir,” laughed Miguel, who was standing by his side. His face was covered in the blood that was gushing from his nose. “If it’s barehanded, even that Orba wouldn’t be your match.”

“No discipline!” The regular soldiers meanwhile were jeering vehemently. “Our Dawnlight Wings Division has plenty of bruisers! Newbies don’t get to go around doing whatever they want!”

Pashir and Miguel’s clothes were in tatters, and with their blood-stained muscles showing bare, they looked exactly like long-serving gladiators. Even the Mephian soldiers could not hide the awe they felt towards their opponents. At the same time, the better those two did, the more they themselves were losing their dignity. Their numbers increased more and more, until they seemed to be about to completely swallow up the two gladiators.

“What are you doing!” A thunderous roar tore through the air.

The soldiers suddenly stood to attention, as the one bearing down on them was none other than their general, Rogue Saian.

When Pashir turned to look, he saw Mira half cowering behind a distant pillar. She must have been the one who had alerted the general.

Even as Rogue rushed towards them, panting for breath, the soldiers stood still. Such was his leadership over them. Silently, Rogue looked at one soldier after another.

“Return to your posts!”

At this second bellowed command, the soldiers hurried away, grabbing their fallen comrades as they went.

“What, but we’d only just gotten started,” Miguel Tes grumbled in a low voice. In the gladiatorial arena, one of his selling points had been his soft-hearted appearance, but now his face was starting to swell up all over and was changing shape.

With the back of his fist, Pashir wiped the blood and sweat that clung to his beard.

“General.”

“I hadn’t realised,” Rogue shook his head, his shoulders heaving. “I know – that proves that as their commander, I’m lacking.”

“They love you, General.” Pashir stated shortly.

Rogue was silent for a moment, then, “I know that too,” he said.

That same evening, the ship carrying Princess Vileena arrived in Nedain.

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