Chapter 11 - Morning Star (1)

Whenever Ivan thought of the hero Maximilien, one memory came to mind first: the “sky-splitting contest.”

It began like this. Maximilien sprang cheerfully to his feet, wearing his usual idiotic expression, and swung his sword.

WHOOSH.

WHOOOOSH...

SWISH—

SHRIIIIK—!!

Whatever sudden revelation had struck him, the moron abruptly split the sky. Literally, the sky.

A single swing cut the clouds apart and drove them away. A gale rushed in, and an enormous roar shook the earth.

As Ivan had reflected before, the Hero's Party was, fundamentally, an assassination squad. The sort that slipped deep behind enemy lines and waited for a chance to kill the leader of the Demon King’s army, buying time with the lives of soldiers who were falling on the front lines even now.

Which meant they were not supposed to do anything that conspicuous.

["Are you actually insane?"]

Appalled, Enrique threw a dagger at the hero. (He smiled brightly and took it on his body. Naturally, the blade bounced off his bare skin.)

["Why not just shout it out? Tell everyone the hope of the United Kingdoms is right here. Nice and heroic, isn't it? Hmm?"]

Veolgrin spoke icily as he swiftly completed a spell. He immediately sat cross-legged and began sensing for approaching demons.

Meanwhile, Gilles Vert, that aristocratic knight, swung his sword with a distinctly challenging look.

SHRAAAK—!!

["Now there are two of you!!"]

The clouds the hero had cut broke into fragments and scattered. Gilles Vert swept back his hair with a refreshing laugh.

["Looks like I cut more than you did. A decent way to loosen up my wrists."]

["Um... your wrist is a little too loose now. It's broken."]

["Sorry, Patricia. Slap a heal on it for me."]

["I find that phrasing a little insulting..."]

After watching this spectacle for a while, Einar chuckled, stood, and raised his axe.

["Don't."]

["Do not."]

["I'd really rather you didn't..."]

["The men of Droan live to leave their mark upon the world."]

["Where's this bullshit coming from? Put the axe down before you talk."]

Ignoring Enrique's wary warning entirely, Einar stepped forward.

["However much you cut the sky, you leave no trace. But what if I could leave an eternal testament that the great Einar, son of Ulrik, was here!"]

["No, no, wait a minute. Will you lis—"]

KABOOOOOM!!

Having proclaimed his grand ambition and raised his axe, Einar proceeded to split an entire mountain before them.

They wasted a week afterward fleeing the Seven Dragon Generals and the Demon King’s army, who swarmed out like a disturbed hornet's nest.

But the hero—the man named Maximilien—smiled and said this:

["I split the sky."]

["I split more of it."]

["Ahem! I split a mountain! Surely cleaving that which has form is a loftier achievement than cleaving that which has none?"]

["Babbling words that sound difficult doesn't make you smart, child."]

["Hag."]

["You really do want to fucking die."]

Ivan did not know why Maximilien had been so obsessed with the sky. But he remembered that absurd escape vividly.

Perhaps what Maximilien had wanted to see that day, as he cut through the night sky, was this: proof that the Morning Star still shone in its place, merely hidden by the oppressive dark clouds surrounding the Demon King's territory.

As this demonstrated, the Hero's Party was a den of lunatics and madmen, psychotics and paranoiacs.

The hero was the maddest of them all—and the one who shone the brightest.

Gilles Vert, who had wanted to surpass everyone else, was appointed Lord Protector of the royal house of Thilles. Einar, who had wanted to leave behind great achievements, conquered his homeland and founded the first unified kingdom of Droan.

And the hero, Maximilien, had probably only wanted to confirm that hope still remained.

That was why Ivan did not like the hero.

He simply admired him.

Even now, after Maximilien had turned his back on the world and gone into seclusion.

“Did you retire because your hopes came true, or...”

Had he let go because he could no longer see the Morning Star, even after cutting through the dark clouds?

More than four years had passed since that cheerful man disappeared. The world still remembered the hero, but it was forgetting the person named Maximilien.

* * *

Two weeks passed in a flash. Ivan watched the scenery glide past the window, thinking it was just like his final leave before discharge: gone before he knew it, without feeling as though he'd done anything to relax.

He was on his way to Thilles. And this time, he was not alone.

Five men accompanied him, watching his every reaction.

["Wow, there really was an attack! How did you know? The exact time, date, and place—you nailed all three!"]

They were agents of Krasilof's Counterintelligence Command, a hand that irritating junior of his, Dmitry, had forced upon him.

When Ivan returned after stopping the attack on Esidisi, Dmitry had made a tremendous fuss, seizing his hand and pumping it up and down as though apologizing for having doubted him.

But there had been no smile in his eyes. Naturally.

The problem, of course, was that a man who had spent four years quietly retired, practically vegetating, had suddenly predicted a terrorist attack on a national dignitary.

Anyone else might have let it pass with a “Wow, that's amazing!” But this fellow belonged to Krasilof's Counterintelligence Command. He was even a senior officer, a lieutenant colonel in the Investigations Bureau.

His eyes had clearly been saying:

'You've planted people, haven't you? Be honest. I'm genuinely curious. How did you build an intelligence network without us knowing? Care to share your secrets?'

Without a suitable explanation, Ivan would face endless scrutiny and suspicion. The way he worked through the academy formulas could be explained only by exclusive access to intelligence.

But...

'Petty nonsense.'

There was no need to explain. Authority, after all, came from mystery. Ivan made no particular effort to dispel the suspicion that a secretive, supranational intelligence organization stood behind him.

Hence his current predicament. He had received five inept agents as “support.”

Ivan sighed. Did he have to play orphanage teacher even out here?

All five agents flinched at his sigh.

“Sir Petrovich, is something bothering you...?”

“All of you.”

Ivan decided to use the opportunity to whip them into shape.

Training recruits was not his responsibility. Still, how could he retire in peace when his country's agents were this incompetent? (His country was South Korea.)

Why on earth were intelligence agents wearing matching outfits in the first place? What were they trying to advertise?

And with all these empty seats, they were huddling together conspicuously enough to make anyone suspicious?

This was intolerable. Yes, their real objective was to gather information on Ivan. But wasn't that intelligence work too?

He could not let this slide.

“Listen carefully.”

And so began a lecture from an orphanage director bored with his train journey! (Former Extermination Unit member; eighteen years of military service; operational experience with the Hero's Party; documented kills of Seven Dragon Generals.)

Eighteen hours remained until their arrival in Saint Matilene, the capital of Thilles.

Time froze for the agents.

* * *

“So he's not coming after all...”

Isabelle kept scanning the platform right up until she boarded the train for Krasilof.

The higher one's hopes rose, the farther disappointment made them fall.

Yet even though she was always disappointed, she still searched the crowd hopefully, examining each person carefully, anxious that he might be hidden among them.

HISSSSS—!

Even as the train released a long jet of steam, the person she was waiting for did not appear.

“My lady, please don't worry. He is always...”

“Thinking of me? Yes, perhaps.”

Isabelle answered coldly and turned away, slapping aside the hand patting her shoulder.

The immaculate knight the royal house of Thilles had assigned as her supposed bodyguard withdrew with an awkward smile.

Moron. Fuckwit. Useless bastard.

A revolting animal who could not even get angry when insulted, who pretended everything was fine and smoothed over his hurt feelings with a smile.

To her, most people were animals. Not in the biological sense: they were nothing more than beasts.

'Father.'

Her memories of the hero Maximilien were faint. He had spent most of his time on the battlefield, while she stayed at court with her mother.

As the hero's fame grew, the expressions of those who approached her became simpler. Nothing but genial smiles, all hoping to win the favor of someone destined for future prominence.

It was only natural, if they imagined the hero might actually defeat the Demon King.

After the Demon King's death, the entire political landscape would revolve around the hero. They said an individual's strength could not defeat a collective, but with power and achievements that surpassed the collective, even nations would fall under an individual's sway.

Thus the royal house of Thilles strove to win her favor. Unable to approach the hero himself, they had no other way to get into his good graces.

No matter how viciously she spoke or what insults she hurled, they only smiled.

Having everyone in sight wear the same expression, as though attending a masquerade...

Well, it hardly had a positive effect on a child's emotional development.

“Get the hell out. I can't stand the sight of you.”

“But my lady, I...”

“Shut your mouth.”

The knight faltered and backed away at Isabelle's words. With a gentle smile and a bow, he left the compartment.

Finally alone in the compartment, Isabelle gave a bitter sneer and muttered,

“Moron.”

She vividly remembered the knight's expression twisting like a demon's just before he closed the door, when he turned his head and his back to her.

As the hero's flesh and blood, Isabelle possessed senses far beyond anyone else's. A mere glimpse was enough for her to catch a change in someone's expression.

That was how she had ended up like this. She had learned far too early that everyone around her was always uncomfortable with her.

And so...

“Fuckwit...”

Mocking herself, she sank into her seat.

A girl who knew no way to express herself except through anger and ridicule.

A self-destructive psychopath who could feel at ease only after finally provoking others to anger.

A severe case of emotional deprivation, believing only other people's hatred to be sincere.

A sufferer of separation anxiety, endlessly waiting for—and resenting—a father she could barely even remember now.

That was her self-diagnosis.

* * *

“We'll be taking our leave now, Sir Petrovich.”

“Still saying ‘we,’ are you? Trying to advertise that you all came together?”

“Weeell... uh... hmm...”

“Didn't I tell you to speak clearly, act decisively, and always keep your intentions buried as deeply as possible?”

“Uhhh... well... the thing is...”

Every last agent was screaming inside.

'Lieutenant Colonel Dmitry!! You said this man barely talks!!'

'You're a monster, Petrovich!!'

'I hate you, Ivan. Forever...'

Faced with the threat of special refresher training on top of their eighteen-hour lecture, the agents went pale, mumbled hasty farewells, and fled.

Their assignment was to protect Oscar, son of the knight Gilles Vert.

Ivan had devoted himself to their instruction half in earnest, half to shake off the shackles Dmitry had attached to him. Watching Isabelle board the train from the station platform, he thought:

'Lucky me.'

He had killed two birds with one stone: shaken off the Counterintelligence Command agents and arranged protection for Oscar.

Feeling as though he had thrown off two burdens, Ivan boarded the train with a light step.