Chapter 20 - The End of the Midnight Sun - 3

The Draconian, Peshe, felt his heart plunge at the sight unfolding before him.

His comrade, his brother, was dying, his head severed from his neck.

It was an unreal sight.

The scales that were his people's pride, and the hide beneath them, were splitting apart, unable to withstand that utterly ordinary iron sword.

Surely the blade should have chipped instead. He could not begin to understand why his brother's scales were the ones breaking.

THUD.

His brother's head falls to the ground. It rolls toward him, revealing a face still twisted with anger, not yet aware of its own death.

Peshe raises his head stiffly, jerk by jerk.

At the end of his gaze stands the assailant who did this to his brother.

A human. One of the short-lived races.

His robe's hood was pulled low. Beneath it, Peshe could see pale skin and gloomy, downcast eyes.

At first glance, those eyes seemed listless. Yet a closer look revealed a chillingly savage force churning within them.

Peshe realized at once what this short-lived being was.

It would have been strange not to know. Ash-gray divine energy covered the entire space, with inexplicable rules engraved over it in gold.

And there was the compulsion emanating from those rules.

It was unlike magic. Unlike sorcery. Unlike mystic arts.

How could he fail to recognize it when the blessing inscribed in his dragon blood told him at once?

'... Divine powers.'

And he knew what that meant.

'An apostle.'

The gods' closest servants.

The most glorious seekers of truth.

The demigods who had sustained the Holy Empire, a nation of barely ten thousand people, for more than a millennium.

One of those apostles had come here.

That single fact told Peshe a great deal.

The Saintess was here. This apostle must have come to receive her. Their chief had been right.

Then another thought hammered itself into his mind as an unquestionable fact.

'We're going to die.'

He and his brothers, who had encountered an apostle here, would all die. Without exception.

It was not a conclusion reached through thought. It was one his instincts supplied.

His body begins to tremble. His breath grows rapid. His vision wavers.

He falters.

... His feet, too, retreat of their own accord.

Peshe clenched his teeth and tried to control his body, but even that was no easy task.

Avenging his brother, fulfilling his people's long-cherished wish—all such secondary concerns were slipping from his mind.

His thoughts converged on a single point, devoting all their strength to one emotion alone.

Fear.

The moment he encountered the apostle, the moment he saw those savage eyes, fear bore down on his entire body.

Even when he managed to summon his reason and assess their strength, the conclusion did not change.

His body was stronger than ever. It brimmed with such vitality that he wondered whether it was truly his own.

It must have been the effect of the rules inscribed overhead.

Yet that could not promise victory.

However much stronger his body had become, he had no magic. No spell to stop those sword strokes and pierce the apostle's heart.

Peshe knew. The Draconians were called a superior race only because the blessing of their dragon parents flowed through their veins.

Without it, a Draconian was no more than a beast, however powerful they might be.

Another course of action occurred to him.

Escape.

But that, too, was impossible.

Surely they were faster. Their bodies overflowed with vitality, and there was still distance between them and the apostle. Yet he was certain that even if he chose to flee, a sword would come flying at his back.

The apostle's composure proved it.

In the end, the conclusion his reason produced served only to make the fear weighing on Peshe's heart blossom into despair.

Again, his teeth clench tight. Every muscle in his body tenses.

Peshe looked toward the brothers who were still alive.

Their gazes wavered uneasily.

From that, he could tell that every brother standing here had reached the same conclusion.

The atmosphere grew taut with tension.

Amid it, the apostle opened his mouth.

"Aren't you coming?"

It sounds like a beast's growl.

That was Peshe's first thought upon hearing the apostle's voice.

He flinched at the sound and looked at the apostle. Seeing the crooked grin on his face, Peshe felt anger rise from deep within.

Their long-cherished wish lay before them. Behind that apostle waited the salvation that would bring glory to their people.

And yet, what had they been reduced to?

After anger came shame, then self-loathing.

"... Brothers."

His voice trembled more than ever before. More even than when he had first seen the shadow of his dragon parent.

His brothers turned their eyes toward Peshe. Meeting their gazes, he forced his voice into a shout.

"For our long-cherished wish!!!"

Peshe kicked off the ground. His brothers followed suit.

The apostle's smile deepened. Despair rose in Peshe again at the sight, but he struggled to cast the feeling aside and reached for the apostle's throat.

It was a desperate, futile struggle.

A movement pitiful beyond measure.

And one that would never reach its target.

The apostle raises his sword. Only when Peshe's hand is nearly at his throat does he lift it.

That tardy blade severs Peshe's hand at the wrist.

SHICK.

It was a sound better described as ringing inside his head than reaching his ears.

His vision stretches out endlessly. The sounds reaching him stretch out as well.

Watching his own wrist being sliced through before his eyes, Peshe opened his eyes so wide they seemed about to split, then worked his mouth soundlessly.

A fleeting instant that felt like eternity. Only at its end did Peshe return to reality and feel pain as though his whole body were burning away.

"Gaaaaaagh!!!"

* * *

His heart pounds violently. Every sensation in his body sharpens. Sparks of electricity leap ceaselessly through his mind.

At sensations he had not felt in so very long, Bera's lips stretched into a grin so wide it seemed his mouth might split.

A hand aimed at the left side of his chest.

Teeth seeking to tear into his ankle.

Bera evaded them with the barest movements, then swept his sword in a long arc, severing the neck of the Draconian crawling along the ground.

The sensation of slicing flesh and cleaving bone traveled up his arm to his spine. Then it climbed his spine and spread through his mind, stirring his exhilaration once more.

SHICK.

A chilling sound rang out, and a fountain of blood erupted from the cleanly severed neck.

"Aaaaaagh!!!"

A scream followed. It came from the Draconian who had been aiming for his heart a moment earlier.

Bera turned toward its source and found a Draconian whose face was indeed marked by anger and despair.

For some reason, the sight lifted his spirits. He spoke in a voice brimming with amusement.

"Don't be too upset. I'll send you after him soon."

Sickly yellow eyes fixed on Bera. The light rising in them took the form of rage.

The Draconian launched himself forward again. This time, Bera did not dodge.

He tenses his muscles. Leans his upper body back. Grips the sword with both hands.

The instant the Draconian reached him, Bera swung with all his strength.

CRACK.

It was the sound of the swinging blade grinding against bone.

The sword passed through the outstretched fingertips, the arm, shoulder, chest, and waist. By the time it sailed through the air again, the Draconian had split in two and was falling to the ground.

SPLAT.

The sound of chunks of meat striking the dirt was pierced by a footfall.

An ambush from behind.

Sensing it, Bera spun in another broad sweep of his sword. The blade passed precisely through the attacking Draconian's neck.

SHICK.

The sound rang out, and Bera saw the Draconian fall, its severed head spinning.

Watching the head drop to the ground, he continued his thought.

'... Now.'

One remained.

A long breath escaped Bera's mouth. His gaze turned toward the Draconian still alive.

In one corner of the clearing, the Draconian with the severed wrist was crawling along the ground.

The creature kept crawling, gulping down ragged breaths. Clearly, it was trying to escape.

Bera let out a short, incredulous laugh at the sight and slowly approached.

"Is that any way to behave? All your brothers are dying in battle, and you run off alone? Not very loyal of you."

His tone dripped with mockery.

At Bera's words, the Draconian gave a violent jerk, then slowly turned its head toward him.

"Ghk, huuugh..."

Moisture shimmered in its sickly yellow eyes. Tears streamed down its dirt-streaked face, leaving crooked trails.

A face steeped in terror.

The moment he saw it, Bera stopped short.

It was the sense of déjà vu that struck him.

Bera felt his mind, burning hot until that moment, cool in an instant.

Those eyes, that face awash with terror as it looked at him, were all too familiar.

They were the eyes of those who had looked at him in his previous life.

The man he had been then was reflected in them.

His reason returned too late, stealing away his exhilaration.

A question rose in his mind.

'... What am I doing?'

It was a question he asked himself.

Himself, who had grown excited at the sight of blood and once again wielded his sword like a beast, just as before.

His free left hand swept over his face, and he felt thick blood coat it.

A sticky, unpleasant sensation.

"P-please, spare me...!"

The plea reached him. Bera swung his sword again and severed the Draconian's neck.

SHICK.

The sensation of the blade slicing flesh was the same as before, but this time there was no pleasure.

Bera surveyed his surroundings.

Chunks of flesh lay scattered in grotesque shapes. Pools of blood gathered here and there. And he stood amid them.

At that moment, Bera felt as though he had returned to his previous life.

'Not at all...'

He had not changed at all.

He had recognized his own shortcomings. Now he was preparing to change.

He had comforted himself with such thoughts, but once he entered battle, he became intoxicated with simply swinging his sword, just as in his previous life.

His gaze turns toward his left hand. The blood clotted on his red-stained palm held an unbearably fierce heat.

Feeling that heat, Bera continued his thought.

'The sword I wielded...'

Had it truly been a sword meant to protect?

His hand clenched into a tight fist.

'... No.'

The sword he had just wielded was meant to kill. Meant only to tear his opponents apart. Meant to fuel the exhilaration that swelled within him as he tore them apart.

Suddenly, Renée's face rose in Bera's mind.

He remembered how pleased he had been to close those few steps between them.

'... I'm not good enough.'

He was woefully inadequate.

Far too inadequate a man to stand beside her, to protect Renée.

He had been deluding himself.

He stood beside her now. He had come this far, so he must have grown.

That was the delusion he had fallen into.

Suddenly, he felt as though a stone had sunk into his stomach.

As that sensation crushed his insides, Bera grimaced and expelled a breath as though vomiting it up.

'... Still.'

He was still wielding a beast's sword.

Only with a sword in his hand, only with an enemy before him, did Bera realize it.