Chapter 7 - The Holy Empire of Elia - 2

As Trebo continued to wail and Bera's expression grew ever more hostile, another voice joined them.

"This fool is having another fit."

Bera and Trebo turned toward the voice at the same time. An old man with a stooped back was walking out from within, leaning on a cane.

He was a man who could rightly be described as having entered the twilight of his life. His faded white hair was tied tightly back, and his skin was covered in age spots and deep wrinkles. Dressed in plain white vestments without a single ornament, he might have looked shabby at first glance, but the moment Bera saw him, tension spread through his entire body.

Even stooped, the old man's massive frame seemed far taller than his own. That, and the divine energy bursting forth with every step, put Bera on edge.

Trebo, who had been sobbing away, startled at the old man's arrival and sprang to his feet. He left Bera a few words before disappearing.

"Then I shall take my leave, in the hope that we may have a deeper conversation next time! May peace be with you!"

Bera frowned at the way Trebo rattled off his farewell and vanished, then turned back to the old man.

'Who is he?'

Judging by the aura he gave off—and the way that lunatic had fled in alarm—he was no ordinary man.

The old man clicked his tongue as he watched Trebo retreat. Then, noticing Bera staring blankly at him, he narrowed his eyes.

"You ill-mannered brat. Isn't it polite to greet your elders first?"

Bera flinched at the rebuke.

"... My name is Bera."

"Too late, brat."

The old man's shoulders shook with a dry chuckle. After laughing for a moment, he approached at a very slow pace, leaning on his cane, and stopped only when there were about three steps between them.

"Let's have a look..."

It was a distance from which either could attack the other at any moment.

As Bera tensed at the old man's entry into his reach, the man grinned broadly enough to expose all his yellowed teeth.

"You smell of blood, you dark little brat."

Bera flinched at those words. Naturally, he had something on his conscience: the scavengers he had killed before leaving the gutter a week ago. That was what made him tremble.

'... He saw through the killings.'

More than a week had already passed. There could be no smell of blood left, yet the old man had seen through it.

With that, Bera thought he knew who the old man was and bowed his head.

"... Greetings, Your Holiness."

There was no doubt.

'Bargo Saintroar.'

The apostle of judgment, the Supreme God's mace, the father of all holy knights.

This old man was the Holy Emperor of Elia.

Everything fell into place when he considered it that way.

'Divine Eye.'

The divine power possessed by the apostle of judgment: an eye that saw through the karma etched into a soul. The insight that had exposed his killings must have come from that ability.

Bargo confirmed Bera's deduction with nothing more than a smile.

"So, you're this generation's Oath?"

"I have been granted that grace, undeserving though I am."

"Undeserving, my foot. You were given it because you deserved it. Follow me. This old body finds even standing here a strain."

Watching Bargo turn away after saying that, Bera felt a small stirring of tension within him.

He had never met this man in his previous life, having spent all his days avoiding the Holy Empire. The Holy Emperor he had finally met after living through an entire lifetime was...

'... A monster.'

A monster stronger than anyone Bera had encountered in his previous life.

* * *

Bargo Saintroar.

The Holy Empire was so insular that few people had actually met him, yet his name always came up whenever the strongest person on the continent was discussed. The deeds he had accomplished while roaming the continent on The Apostle's Trial more than fifty years ago were still recounted as legends.

The dragon slayer who had smashed his mace down on the skull of Skaja, the demonic dragon.

The vampires' nightmare, who had slaughtered every vampire secretly building their forces at the far reaches of the north.

The mace of the weak, who had cracked the skull of Haman, the Tiger King, for exploiting weaker races in the lands of the beastfolk.

He had accomplished countless other deeds—more than could be told in a single night. He was this age's living legend.

When the Demon King rose in the history of Bera's previous life, everyone on the continent had said the same thing: if Bargo Saintroar had not died of old age, the Demon King's skull would have been smashed before he ever had a chance to build his forces.

Only after meeting him today could Bera judge the truth of those words.

'... Certainly.'

He was strong. That was the first thought this old man inspired.

Bera could not tell whether the divine force spilling from him was escaping unconsciously or being released on purpose, but every sense in his body was sounding a warning. They were screaming that he must never fight this man.

He had never actually seen the Demon King, so a comparison was difficult. Still, judging solely by the aura the Holy Emperor gave off, those claims from his previous life had not been made for nothing.

"So. What brought you all the way here?"

At Bargo's question, Bera bowed his head again and answered quietly.

"To fulfill the duty befitting the miracle bestowed upon me."

His tone was unfailingly respectful.

... Naturally. Whatever he did with anyone else, he had to make a good impression on this old man.

With a sacred mark, he would not be turned away. Even so, the Holy Emperor approved every mission dispatched by the Holy Empire, including the Saintess's escort procession. To win his favor, Bera had to appear as devout as possible in word and deed.

That was the thinking behind his answer.

"Do you know something?"

Bargo's voice was full of amusement.

"There are exactly three kinds of people who say they'll grind their lives away for their faith. First, idiots. Second, lunatics. Third, frauds."

He leaned toward Bera and continued with a chuckle.

"Let's see. From the way you speak, you don't seem to be an idiot. There's no madness in your eyes, so you can't be a lunatic... Then you must be a fraud, eh?"

"... Not at all."

"Are you trying to say I'm lying?"

"... No, Your Holiness."

"This is wrong. That is wrong. Then what, exactly, is right?"

He kept seizing on Bera's words and twisting them. Bera ground his teeth.

For some reason, this way of speaking was familiar. He had encountered this infuriating manner somewhere quite recently. After a moment's thought, he easily recalled someone else who spoke that way.

'... The Saintess.'

He immediately saw where the Saintess's maddening manner of speaking had come from. She had probably learned it from this old geezer.

'... Just as I thought.'

Every last bastard in the Holy Empire was a harmful influence.

* * *

Bargo asked several more questions after that. They were routine questions, ranging from Bera's background to how well he could use divine energy and what position he wanted.

Bera tried to answer as sincerely as he could, but the responses he received were far from favorable.

["You certainly have a way with words, don't you?"]

["And what am I supposed to do about that?"]

["I didn't ask that, you little brat."]

Every remark was sarcastic, as though Bargo had developed a taste for teasing him. His combative tone seemed designed to test the limits of Bera's patience.

Over the course of their lengthy exchange, Bera began to grasp Bargo's intent.

'... That snake of an old man.'

He was trying to make Bera angry. He wanted an emotional answer, not a stock response. Bera recognized the tactic because he had spent his life intimidating others.

Words charged with emotion spilled out raw and unorganized, with even the most basic safeguards of conversation undone. More often than not, such words put a person at a disadvantage in negotiations or exposed their weaknesses to the other party.

Of course, if the weakness exposed was an ordinary one, Bera could reveal it readily enough. But to lay bare his true feelings—to explain the real reason he had come to the Holy Empire—he would have to speak of the Saintess, who had not even received her sacred mark yet.

He would have to explain his situation: that he had sworn an oath to live for her. Naturally, that would also require him to explain his regression, and he did not want that.

Bera had no intention of telling anyone about his regression. Not even the Saintess herself.

In the years ahead, the continent would be struck by so many upheavals that a raging storm was the only fitting description. These were not events whose chain of causation would change merely because he acted differently. They were calamities that could truly be called natural disasters.

To introduce as few variables as possible amid them, and to produce outcomes that benefited him, he had to leave every variable other than himself in its original place as far as he could.

That was for the Saintess's safety, and for his own sake as well.

The image of the Saintess lying dead in the gutter's muddy water in his previous life rose in Bera's mind. He never wanted to see her die that way again.

Even if entering the gutter had been her own decision, even if she had been content with such a death, Bera could not accept it.

It was a profoundly selfish feeling, but he had no intention of yielding. She had been so noble, had redeemed even a villain like him. Her ending deserved to be more radiant.

However deeply he had bowed beneath her light, he was still a selfish man. A man capable of any ruthlessness to fulfill the wish that had taken root within him.

Bera clenched his teeth slightly at the feelings that had once again surfaced unbidden, then calmed himself and faced Bargo.

"I came simply because I was granted a sacred mark, and believed there must be a role assigned to me."

"Heh. So you're a puppet without a mind of your own?"

"How could a mere creature defy the will of a god?"

"If one act of defiance were enough to kill you, every intelligent being on the continent would have gone extinct long ago."

"... Your jokes are cruel, Your Holiness."

"And your way of speaking is rotten. I tell you to talk, and you recite a script."

Bera and Bargo's gazes met.

Bera said nothing more. Continuing the conversation would only send them around in circles, repeating the same words.

Besides, there was no need to say more. He could sense it clearly now. Even if Bera refused to speak to the end, this old man would not probe further. Nor would he turn him away.

'Confidence.'

That was what radiated from him. The confidence of a superhuman who had already forged countless legends. The confidence that, whatever Bera was scheming, he could crush it himself.

That confidence would ultimately lead Holy Emperor Bargo to let the matter pass without learning the truth, even if Bera clamped his mouth shut here.

They held each other's gaze for a moment as Bera considered this. Then Bargo, who had been chuckling all along, answered.

"Well, fine."

It had worked. A small sense of relief stirred within Bera.

"Then get up and follow me."

"Where are we going?"

"Didn't you say you wanted to become a holy knight? Then I ought to see your swordsmanship first."

His way of doing things could be called refreshingly direct—or haphazard.

As Bera gave a small nod with that thought in mind, Bargo put on his characteristic mischievous smile and asked another question.

"So, are you any good with a sword?"

Bera looked at Bargo again.

'Good with a sword...?'

A small laugh escaped his lips. It was a ridiculous question.

He had been born a beggar in the gutter with absolutely nothing, and had swallowed up half the continent. Naturally, there had been countless armed clashes along the way.

Until his life came to an end, Bera had never once lost a sword fight in all those conflicts. Why else would those illustrious heroes have resorted to ensnaring him with a curse?

There was nothing Bera trusted himself to do more than wield a sword.

Meeting Bargo's gaze head-on, Bera answered with the smile still on his lips.

"I'm fairly good."