Chapter 82 - Meeting the Family (3)

“With this, you could fight back even if someone ambushed you while you were combing your beard.”

“Exactly.”

Ivan trembled involuntarily with the joy of finally meeting someone sensible.

It was common knowledge that a man was most vulnerable to ambush while combing his beard, so that needed no further explanation.

This was a meeting of sensible minds that transcended age and era—the twenty-first century and premodern times. Common sense that held true regardless of era or country was what people called truth. Yes. At this moment, they had all but attained enlightenment.

Einar marveled at the comb, balancing it on a finger, clicking the dagger out, and changing its configuration.

Ah, a transforming comb. And without any help from magic, either. All metal, with that reassuring heft.

This was the same sort of wonder men experienced when handling a firearm for the first time. The functional beauty unique to metal, its precisely assembled parts meshing and snapping neatly into place. What man could fail to admire it?

“Mind if I try...”

“Absolutely not.”

“What? Why?”

“You fundamentally lack any concept of hygiene.”

“...?”

Ivan gave Einar a scornful look as the man tilted his head.

What was this fellow talking about when he still had crumbs from breakfast lodged in the crevices of his braided beard?

To Ivan, his beard was the result of attempting to imitate at least a little of the former King's style.

In other words, it was an “image of style.” For only the former King could possess the Platonic ideal of style itself.

Thus, Ivan spent a long time grooming his beard every morning and night. It was the finest courtesy he could offer. Something akin to paying his respects.

The men of Droan, however, were different. Those bastards simply thought, “It grows, so I let it,” grew their beards, braided them, and if they got soaked in beer or the like, just gave them a quick wring and shake and called it done. (They did not.)

He could hardly allow the leader of such men to touch his treasure.

Having heard this entire explanation, Einar was left confused, unsure whether to be furious or feel wronged.

Just then, he heard a faint sniffle.

“Uh, hold on.”

He strode to the director's office window, grasped it, and threw it open.

“...”

Beneath the window sat two or three small children who appeared to live at the orphanage, along with Isabelle, who looked on the verge of tears.

“Well, this is unexpected.”

At the sight of Einar's face, the children fled as one, but Isabelle stayed where she was and looked up at him.

That face, those eyes—even Einar knew them well. The resemblance was astonishing. He gave a faint smile.

“Maximilien's daughter.”

“... Yes, Great King.”

“None of this Great King business. Call me Uncle.”

Einar shrugged, then briefly rubbed between his brows. He had naturally assumed his boys had secured the perimeter. What the hell was this?

“How much did you hear?”

“...”

“All of it, then. Right.”

Einar heaved a sigh.

“We'll talk again later.”

He shut the window and stepped back. Ivan did not look the least bit surprised.

The bastard had known.

Einar gave a wry smile and returned to his seat.

“Is there a soundproofing spell on this room?”

“No. Then I wouldn't be able to hear anything outside.”

“Right. You're not the sort to do that... Tch. You knew?”

“She needs to know, too.”

“Like hell. You let a little girl like that hear that her father might have gone mad? And what is this place, an assassin training camp disguised as an orphanage? How did those kids get right under my nose without me noticing?”

“You misunderstand. They're all war orphans.”

War orphans were unfortunate children who had to spend their lives constantly watching other people, society, and the world for signs of displeasure.

It was only natural for such children to tread carefully. Ivan tacitly encouraged that behavior himself.

They would have to venture out into society someday. Mastering even one skill would improve their chances of survival.

Einar apparently could not accept this obvious common sense. However enlightened he might seem, the man was still a product of premodern times.

“What kind of damned orphans can slip past my boys and sneak right under my nose? Even among demons, hardly any could manage that.”

With a hollow laugh, Einar walked toward the office door.

“Well, what I came to see you about hardly matters now. Still, I'd better check. Are you seeing Eshi these days?”

“Mm.”

“Right? I knew you wouldn't... What?!! You are?! You're seeing her?!”

“Mm.”

He even made sure she ate, and had recently been supervising her training.

Einar looked over Ivan's matter-of-fact expression, rubbed his forehead once more, and finally drew his axe as naturally as could be.

“Get outside right now, you bastard!!”

Droan's legal code contained no provisions for talking things out with a son of a bitch who had snatched up a close older friend's daughter abroad and toyed with her.

* * *

A curse?

A soul defiled?

The Seven Dragon Generals and the Demon King...?

What Isabelle had heard was so staggering, so utterly unreal, that confusion came before grief.

Before she could even understand it, she struggled to accept it. God was something like an object in a still life, his existence suggested through priests.

That was how people of this era saw him. God existed, the afterlife was absolute, and the Bible rightly took precedence over any other law. But they did not go through life with a tangible sense that “God” was truly “there.”

Naturally, then, tales of killing gods or suffering their curses seemed like vague passages from mythology.

Lost in confusion, Isabelle staggered aimlessly onward.

'Father.'

She tried to picture the hero, whose features had grown so faint that she could barely recognize him except in exaggerated statues.

His voice, his manner of speaking—not a single characteristic came clearly to mind.

Perhaps it was because they had parted when she was so young, or because their time together after the war had been so brief, or because he had seemed so much larger than life to her...

'No.'

She knew now that those were not the reasons. A sudden chill raised gooseflesh on her skin.

Her impression of Maximilien the hero consisted of colorless, transparent memories. She had certainly seen her father briefly at the victory banquet.

He had smiled brightly, a dazzling figure. That was how she remembered him.

But had he really? Isabelle could not say for certain.

The hero—her father—had been “fading.” Even beneath the brilliant chandeliers of the victory banquet, like paint slowly bleeding outward. Little by little...

Her father had not withdrawn from the world. He had not simply gone into seclusion.

He had been unable to bear himself. Yes, to put it more precisely... to interpret it in mythological terms, he had sealed himself away.

What would happen if a man who could single-handedly cleave the heavens, behead the Demon King, and break through armies of thousands upon thousands became consumed by madness?

The fear sweeping down Isabelle's spine now would be only an echo of what Maximilien had already felt.

The hero would have known more clearly than anyone what he was capable of.

If an individual capable of laying waste to nations and societies wielded his full power solely in the service of madness and desire, what should we call him?

The Demon King.

Worse, he would be a Demon King in a world without a hero. A catastrophe no one could resist. Humanity could not endure another war.

And so Maximilien had sealed himself away. No one in the world could calculate more precisely what he could do, or what would happen as a result.

The people, unaware of this, were forgetting the hero's final sacrifice.

The nobles who had swallowed up the wealth and territory left by the dead Demon King and the defeated demons mocked the vanished hero.

And Isabelle, left behind, had resented her father.

A man who had devoted his entire life, his entire self, to the world.

“Bella? Are you crying? Good heavens, what's wrong?! You look so...”

“Eshi...?”

“Yes, yes, I'm here. What happened?! Come here, drink some of this... Let's wipe those tears...!”

“Eshi... Eshi... What do I do...?”

Somehow she had reached the vicinity of the university. Perhaps her feet had naturally followed the familiar route.

Sniffling, Isabelle sank into Esidisi's arms.

“What's wrong? What happened? Hmm?”

“Mister... What are we going to do about mister...?”

Only after she forced the words out did Isabelle finally realize why she had been crying.

It was pity for Ivan. Grief for him.

Her father, Maximilien, had sacrificed everything to cut down the Seven Dragon Generals and slay the Demon King.

And the same was true of Ivan. He, too, had killed one of the Seven Dragon Generals and, according to what she had heard, suffered the same curse, losing a part of his soul.

The conclusion followed naturally: he would meet the same end as the hero.

He would either imprison himself before madness consumed him, or succumb to it and die on the execution ground.

That future, so clear before her, was too sad, too heartbreaking.

Realizing why her tears were falling, Isabelle crumpled and sobbed.

“That shouldn't happen. Right? Eshi... It shouldn't be like that.”

Great heroes who had devoted their lives, set themselves aside, and accomplished feats no other human could dare achieve.

If all that awaited such great people was to imprison themselves and wait for a lonely end, wasn't that far too unfair?

People who lived on in ignorance and kings who siphoned away the heroes' achievements behind their backs were all so happily amassing wealth and fame.

Wasn't there something wrong with a world where the heroes who had laid society's foundations rotted alone underground?

If God existed, it should not be so. If the Lord truly loved humanity, it could not be so.

Isabelle sobbed, thinking of her father, Ivan, and the heroes of the last war whose names she might never know.

Esidisi held her by the shoulders and gently patted her.

* * *

Upon arriving at St. Vasilisa Orphanage, Elizaveta covered her face, unable to hide her dismay.

Nearly half the orphanage had become a place where an orphanage used to be.

“King Einar.”

“Oh, Elizaveta. It's been a while.”

“Is this... a declaration of war?”

At a flick of Elizaveta's hand, a royal guardsman hurried over to retrieve Ivan from the ground. Nothing else could be salvaged. The orphanage's playground had become a crater.

“You enter my country without an official letter, disregarding every procedure, and dare attack my close aide. Einar. Do you hold me and this nation in such contempt?”

Elizaveta examined the unconscious Ivan's injuries.

Her long experience commanding in the field allowed her to tell that his injuries were not particularly serious.

She sighed with relief and slowly stroked his cheek.

“Pavel.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Do what you must. Krasilof will never retreat before a foreign enemy who has insulted the foundation of this nation's sovereignty.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

As Pavel took a step forward, the troops surrounding the orphanage walls raised their weapons in unison.

Almost simultaneously, the Huscarls standing beside Einar drew their own weapons.

Killing intent stretched taut between them, precariously close to snapping.

Standing in their midst, Einar shrugged.

“Does that temper run in the family? Calm down. If you must know, that fellow was all I came here for. And if I have to offer an excuse, this was simply a family matter.”

“A family matter. And why does my aide figure in your family matters?”

“Well, it looks as though he might soon. Boys, lower your weapons.”

Einar waved a hand and took another step forward.

Pavel raised his spear threateningly. Einar gave a faint smile and gestured.

“Put that toothpick away, boy. No one needs to shed blood today. Elizaveta Kirillovna Krasilof, as King of Droan, I offer my apologies. I will be sure to make amends for today's discourtesy.”

“I would prefer to hear the reason first.”

“Ask him when he wakes. It was a mutually agreed sparring match, so any further interrogation would be an insult to me as well. And when the bastard wakes up, do be sure to give him this message.”

He would give his permission, but at least wait until after graduation to have children.

With that, Einar walked away.

Blood dripped from the arms he held clasped behind his back.

Einar clenched his hand and gave a faint smile.

The bastard had grown.

He walked on, satisfied. The Huscarls followed him, leaving unhurriedly through the Krasilof Royal Guard surrounding them.