Chapter 8 - The Holy Empire of Elia - 3

The holy knights’ barracks stood by the eastern exit of the Grand Temple, at the very center of Elia. Like the other buildings, it was pure white, with a large training ground in front.

Standing in the middle of that training ground under twelve pairs of eyes, Bera asked Bargo, “What would you have me do?”

“Hmm...”

Bargo stroked his chin at Bera’s question, and silence settled over the entire space.

The twelve holy knights bowed their heads. They held themselves rigidly, as though they would not make a single move until Bargo answered. Their disciplined posture exuded reverence.

Respect for Bargo’s accomplishments and his standing as Holy Emperor surely played a part, but Bera could sense that the reverence behind their deference sprang from a different, more fundamental emotion.

‘Reverence from the heart.’

That kind of reverence could never be produced by crushing people beneath violence and authority. Having ruled through fear his entire life, Bera felt the distinction all the more keenly.

He could roughly guess why they treated Bargo with such deference. The world called him the father of all holy knights—a name earned by redefining the sacred combat arts they now learned and practiced. That name must have been what inspired such reverence.

As Bera pursued that thought, Bargo looked between him and the holy knights, then spoke with a rather mischievous expression.

“Yes, this will do.”

Bargo’s gaze met Bera’s. A broad smile spread across his mouth, exposing the yellowed teeth beneath.

“You said yourself that you’re fairly good with a sword, didn’t you? Take on all twelve of those fellows at once and win.”

“... What is it you wish to see?”

“Your swordsmanship. What else?”

A breath escaped Bera at the nonchalant reply. His intent was obvious.

‘Swordsmanship, my ass...’

He wanted to see Bera use his divine powers. Bargo was making that intent far too blatant.

Bargo knew, the holy knights knew, and Bera knew that under ordinary circumstances, this was not something anyone could call possible, even in jest. Saying it with a smile nevertheless meant he intended to test Bera’s divine powers—to gauge just how much they allowed him to do.

Bera drew a deep breath, then nodded.

‘... If that’s what you want.’

There was no reason to conceal them. No, revealing them would be better. He wanted the position overseeing the Saintess’s procession. To achieve that, he needed to show Bargo as much as he could.

Steadying himself, Bera looked at Bargo and spoke again.

“May I use my sacred mark?”

“Why shouldn’t you? That, too, is your own ability.”

“Understood.”

“You lot, get ready.”

The twelve holy knights moved in perfect unison.

As Bargo slowly walked toward a corner of the training ground, the holy knights began surrounding Bera. Watching them, he rolled up his sleeve and tightened his grip on the wooden sword he held.

Surrounded on every side. It had been a very long time since he had found himself in this position.

... A position he had encountered so many times in his previous life.

Bera knew how to fight his way out of it. He had endured it so often he was sick of it, and knew how to use his divine powers in such a situation.

The divine powers of the oath granted him strength equal to the value of what he pledged in return. In other words, by reducing one particular attribute, he could amplify another by the same amount.

Bera began calculating.

‘What to surrender, and what to gain.’

He weighed those things—what he needed to fight many opponents alone.

First.

‘They’ll slip into my blind spots.’

A human body relied on sight, inevitably leaving blind spots. They would target those. With that thought, Bera closed his left eye and spoke.

“... I will not open my left eye during this sparring match. In return, my senses will sharpen in proportion to my restricted vision. If I open this left eye, I will lose the sight in it.”

His sacred mark blazed gold, and divine energy surged throughout his body. Feeling his senses hone to a keen edge, Bera spoke again, mindful of the stamina he would lose through movement.

“I will not move four or more steps from where I now stand. In return, I will gain a stronger body. Of course, if I fail to keep this pledge, I will lose the ability to walk.”

Divine energy seeped into his flesh. Blazing gold, it settled into his muscles, filling his whole body with exhilaration. Feeling his body strengthened by that energy, Bera opened his mouth again. Finally, he needed a finishing touch to amplify the strength he had gained.

The divine powers of the oath had a clear weakness. Because they manifested through words, they made his vulnerabilities plainly known to his opponent. To overcome that, he had to widen the gap in strength until his opponents could not catch him off guard even knowing those weaknesses.

Of all the prices he could pledge in an oath, one was second in value only to his soul. Bera staked it, amplifying the divine energy dwelling within his body.

“I will not speak, either. By remaining silent until the moment this match ends, I will lend greater weight to my vows. If I speak while the match is still underway, I will lose the ability to use language.”

Once more, his sacred mark flared. Divine energy spread in ripples around him. Feeling it fill his entire body, Bera tensed and surveyed his surroundings. A fleeting stillness, ready to break at any moment.

The holy knights raised their wooden swords. Bera gripped his own in both hands. At the end of a brief battle of nerves, he sensed a wooden sword flying toward his back.

He turned his body. It was not a large movement. With the smallest possible motion, and just enough force to nudge the thrusting sword off course, he deflected it.

A barrage of sword strikes followed, pouring in simultaneously from every side. Evading them once again with minimal movements, Bera suddenly felt an urge welling up inside him. It was the feral instinct that had awakened with the start of combat.

That wildness, which could be called thirst or exhilaration—that raw violence crouched in a corner of his heart—began to stir. At the sensation returning after so long, a smile rose to Bera’s lips before he knew it.

* * *

“You’re like a fucking dog in heat.”

Those were Bargo’s words after the match ended.

Bera looked around him. Twelve figures lay on the ground, gasping for breath—the holy knights he had just fought. He had won the match, by an overwhelming margin.

It was only natural. However wretched his body might be, Bera bore a sacred mark. He was a formidable man who had already ruled over others for an entire lifetime. In both experience and ability, an unbridgeable gulf lay between him and them. Thus, Bera could not agree with Bargo’s words.

“... I won.”

“Yes, you won by tearing into them like a fucking dog.”

A dry chuckle escaped Bargo.

“No form. No intent. You merely surrender yourself to instinct and swing at whatever you see. How is that any different from a fucking dog in heat?”

Bera narrowed his eyes in a deep scowl and retorted angrily.

“That dog-like swordsmanship was better than these holy knights’.”

“Get your facts straight. It wasn’t your swordsmanship that defeated them. It was your sacred mark.”

“Did you not say that my sacred mark was also my ability?”

“Yes, I did. Then let me ask you this. Was that the sword of a protector?”

Bera’s mouth abruptly snapped shut. It felt as though a blunt weapon had struck the back of his head.

He tried to offer an excuse, but his thoughts could not assemble an answer, frustrating him to the point of suffocation. No matter how his lips moved, no answer emerged, and the bewilderment on his face only deepened.

Seeing him like that, Bargo let out another dry chuckle.

“Holy knights are protectors. A holy knight’s sword is a sword that protects. It protects the most glorious faith, and those who have sought refuge beneath that faith’s shelter. Thus, it must stand unwavering even in the darkest night.”

Bargo approached slowly, the smile covering his face taking on an exceedingly mischievous cast.

“For that, you need form. To protect what must rightfully be protected, you need principles to guide you.”

Bargo bent his back a little farther. Even so, Bera had to look up at him.

“And thus you need intent. To inscribe upon your sword a single aspiration that will stand unwavering, you need conviction.”

Laughter pierced his ears. Bera heard mockery in it.

“Let me ask you. Is your sword one that protects what lies beneath its shelter? Or is it the sword of a beast, tearing into whatever it sees before it?”

Bera could give no answer to that sudden question. The words mocked him mercilessly, but he could find nothing to say in reply and merely pressed his lips shut. They pierced to the heart of the matter. They pierced to the heart of the life he had lived.

Bera had never received instruction. His swordsmanship was woven from the experiences of his previous life. Thus, his sword had no form. Only the most intuitive, practical movements—the patterns of combat his experience had ingrained in him—were loosely stitched together. No guiding principles ran through them.

His sword had no intent. Rather than embodying something, it poured out what lay within him. It poured out rage that would burn his mind to ashes, hatred that turned his insides to mire, and resentment toward a world that sought to crush him. There was no conviction in it.

Silence stretched on for a long while. Then Bargo asked again.

“I will ask you once more. What do you seek to become a holy knight for?”

What had he come here for? That was the question. Suddenly, a hazy figure rose in Bera’s mind. An infinitely faint yet steadfast ember, one that seemed as though it would never die.

An ember that made him reach out before he knew it. An ember that made him unbearably weak.

Bera looked at Bargo. Over the features of the ill-natured old man, who could fittingly be called a monster, the image of a sage appeared.

Bera clenched his fists. His teeth ground together audibly.

An emotion rose within him. A muddy, clinging anger that fastened stubbornly to his mind. Anger at the old man who mocked him so. Anger at himself for having nothing to say in response. Anger at his own shallow thinking—that, blinded by obsession, he had believed he needed only to remain at her side.

What did he seek to become a holy knight for? What had he come here for? As his thoughts continued, his eyes lowered. The oath etched in gold upon his ink-black soul came to mind.

Bera considered the question again.

‘What was that oath for?’

Only then did something barely worthy of being called speech emerge. With his face twisted in a deep scowl, Bera pushed through the rising anger, overturned the mire beneath it, and dragged up something that could just barely be called words.

“... To learn how to protect.”

Because he regretted a life spent only taking.

“To learn how to live without regret.”

To follow that ember, which had shone even upon a wretch as vile as him.

“... That is why I wish to become a holy knight.”

He wanted to live that kind of life. That was why he had followed her.

“Heh heh...”

Bargo’s chuckle pierced his ears. Bera raised his head to look at him. His face remained mischievous, yet there was a hint of good cheer in it.

With a radiant smile, Bargo said,

“Now you finally look a little more human, you dark little brat.”