I guess I couldn’t get over it after all, and ended up founding an association of baseball lovers.
Our goal: to be the number one grass-lot baseball team in Japan; our rallying cry: “maltz and handshakes at the Tokyo Dome!”
“So this cable TV reporter points his mike at me and asks: ‘Why did you start playing baseball again after having already given it up?’”
I slap the Kerorin bucket: kapoon! and raise my voice to make sure I can be heard beyond the door. “Aaah, this is heaven! And you know what he said at the end?—‘Thank you very much. This was the captain of the Dandelions, Shibuya Yuuri Harajuku Furi-san!’ Can you believe it? Okay, so it was cable, but he was still a TV reporter! I was so nervous, I had no idea if I could say any of that stuff on national television! Hey Murata Ken, are you listening?”
Kapoon.
“I’ve never watched cable TV except at the neighbor’s.”
“Yeah, but—!”
Murata yells back over the sound of the water, “That’s pretty nice though—Shibuya Yuuri Harajuku Furi! Sounds like the name of a comedy duo, doesn’t it?”
“Like Ucchan Nanchan?”
“Yeah, or the All-Hanshin Giant.”
“Uwagh, stop that, geez! You think putting me with the Giants and Hanshin would make me happy?! I’m Pa League through and through—I’ve been in the Pacific since I was born.”
“Yeah, and you’re the one who said you wanted to show me the joy of the burning Pa. So why’re you still taking your sweet time pickling yourself in the bath? Are we really going to make it for the 13:00 start? Nevermind whether you’re Miyagawa Daisuke Hanako or Seto Tenya Wanya or Shibuya Yuuri Harajuku Furi already.”
“...Murata, how old are you again?”
Yup, my name’s Shibuya Yuuri. Not the ‘Yuuri’ for ‘fertile country’ or ‘gentle pear tree’ or ‘enduring lapis lazuli’—no, it had to be ‘profitable’. I can’t tell you how many problems I’ve had in my fifteen years of existence just because of this name.
I resented my parents for it for a long time, wondering if my dad, who’s a banker, was so obsessed with interest rates that he even named his son after them. Then I finally found out that the one who gave me my name was actually a young man who shared a taxi with my mom just before she gave birth to me...though it was still my dad who chose those particular characters.
These past few Sundays I’ve been playing grass-lot baseball in the morning, then zooming over to help out at the Seibu Dome after enjoying the lunchtime special fare at the public bathhouse near the town sports grounds. It’s like I’m living the life of an old-timer baseball fan. And today, to give the Pa League one more fan, I’m dragging Murata along with me.
I shared a class with Glasses-kun Murata Ken in my second and third years of junior high, and met him again, rather oddly, just about a month ago behind the park restrooms. Then right after that it was through a Western-style toilet to another world: GO! I got caught up in all these things that you’d totally think couldn’t happen outside of a dream, and learned the shocking truth about my birth.
Say you’re at one of those mixers where everybody gets excited and chants: “Who’s the king?” with chopsticks in one hand.
I am!
I’m a feudal lord at the proud age of fifteen.
A king, even. And not just any common king. I mean, I probably lose out a bit to world record holder Manager Ou of the Daiei Hawks, but my title is pretty amazing too. I might be just a senior high school student with average physique and average looks, and even average brains, but...
I’m the Demon King.
I was suddenly summoned to another world, mobbed by transcendently gorgeous beauties, told ‘starting from today you’re the Demon King’—anyone would think it was a dream. I thought so too. But when I opened my eyes, a charm that I’d been given in that world was still hanging around my neck.
I grip the stone that I’ve worn constantly around my neck since then. It’s the size of a 500-yen coin, a magic stone of a hue deeper than the blue of the sky: Lions-blue in a silver setting pleading for the case that it hadn’t all been a dream.
I was born with the soul of the Maou, and I made a promise to protect that world.
I promised.
“Shibuya! Shi-bu-ya, we should be making the transfer at Tokorozawa
right now.”
“I told you, we’ll be fine! If we don’t stop at the convenience store, we’ll have plenty of time to get to a day game this early in the summer. Didn’t I say I’m going to give you a step-by-step explanation starting from the pre-game warm-ups?”
“I’m going to wait outside, so hurry up a bit.”
“All right, all right already.”
He’s a disgrace to the Japanese race if he doesn’t understand the wonders of the public bath. I’ll get out after counting to a hundred. I sink into the tub to my nose. The water flows gently in front of me: left to right, slowly, slowly.
Hmm?
Why is the public bathhouse bathwater flowing in a fixed direction?
I fearfully turn to my right against the alarms going off in my head. The wall’s on that side: light blue square tiles with white joints, laid out in an orderly pattern, Kyoto-style. In the middle of it is a fist-sized black disc.
“...Black disc...black hole?!”
That’s where the water’s going.
The hot bathwater, now clearly moving much faster than a few seconds ago, is being steadily sucked inside.
I hurriedly stand up to tell someone, forgetting even to cover my front. Since it’s the middle of the day, the men’s bath is empty of children, adults, and elderly—it’s like the place was reserved just for me.
“Hey, heeey, Murata! Can you call—can you call somebody from the bathhouse?!”
I stand up and crouch down again in senseless repetition, thinking: no, wait, I can’t ask someone for something like this.
“Murata-kun, where’d you go?! Murata-saaan! Call the lifeguard—I mean, just call someone! There’s a hole in the bathtub, and all the hot water’s running out!”
Nobody’s coming.
Not that it’s actually any of my fault, so I should just pretend I haven’t seen anything, get back to the dressing room and get dressed, then tell them ‘it looks like the hot water’s run out’ on my way out. I mean, otherwise they’ll make a big fuss and force me to tell them what happened, right? I’ll probably get the blame for breaking it, to say nothing of not making the game on time. In the worst case, I might even be put in jail and end up having to eat stinky food.
My gaze abruptly falls on the hole again. It’s now bigger than a heart. Oh God, what should I do? Please show me the right path. Or maybe it’s bad form for the Maou to ask God for advice? Okay then, this is from the bottom of my Japanese heart: please let your power be manifest from the sacred mountain of Fuji—I turn to look at the huge mural at my back.
A smiling Hakone Hachiri no Hanjirou in his travelling outfit: doesn’t look like he’ll grant any request of mine.
“Dammit, the things they put on bathhouse murals nowadays...! I’m soooo sorry, the hot water ran out and soaked into the building foundations or building substructure and rotted through and that’s why the entire place crumbled, and it’s so terrible—! Somebody, somebodyyyyy—!”
Okay, I’m scaring myself. For now I’ve gotta stop the water from flowing out.
I look for something to stuff into the hole, but there’s nothing but buckets and chairs lying about. I hit on soap, but I only have a bottle of body shampoo.
That’s when the story of the boy who blocks up the hole in the bank with his arm to protect his village from the flood pops into my mind. He sacrificed his life to save others—that episode’s one you can’t talk about without tearing up.
What should I do? Should I thrust myself into it?
“Argh, geez, I’m not gonna die or anything...huh?!”
When I boldly stick my right hand inside, the impact breaks the tiles, and the hole grows almost twice as big. Does this mean I’m now the ‘culprit’?! I hurriedly push my left hand in too. Rather than sealing the leakage, the flow of water gains strength so rapidly that now my body’s almost starting to move too. The vacuum-ish hole is so powerful that I feel like it’s about to suck me in. There’s no way my average high school male student’s body is going to be washed down the...
But haven’t I been sucked down the drain once before?
This again?!
I’m pulled into the hole in the tiles by the arms. No, that’s just impossible, physically impossible, biologically impossible, and impossible on a global scale too. No matter how much I contort myself Cirque du Soleil Saltimbanco-style, it’s totally impossible!
As I expected, it’s the same Star Tours as last time.
Hey, Nii-chan.
What is it, little brother?
What happens to a person’s body when they “warp”?
Huh?!
I mean, we’ll eventually build amazing spaceships and go to other planets, right?
Like the models you see in Star Wars or Star Trek or Red Dwarf. So we have to train our bodies, because it’d be really embarrassing if we threw up in the middle of a warp, right?
Are you stupid?! Stop obsessing over these fantasies. If you‘ve got the free time to think about stuff like that, why don’t you use it to memorize a few English words? This is why your grades are so bad! Just last week at the station Mototan Okamura saw us, and he was joking, ’I couldn’t believe that was really your little brother!’ Space travel isn’t going to become a reality in our lifetime, so there’s no use worrying about it! And no need to train for warping either!
That’s what he told me, but I should’ve trained after all.
Because though I’ve space-traveled several times now, I haven’t even had the time to bring a barf bag—what would happen if I threw up?
I open my eyes to somewhere obviously different than where I was, but all the panic’s gone out of me.
’Cause I’ve just been summoned again, haven’t I.
This isn’t the first time that I‘ve been washed away to another world, and I’m rather happier for it not being from the public lavatory again. There are oodles of stories about the main character of a story getting lost in a sword-and-magic world and becoming a hero. Mine is a bit different, since my character profile happens to have ’Maou’ for a job description.
I landed face-up, and I wriggle around like a jellyfish. My vision is still foggy and completely gray. My back is slightly warm, but my chest and stomach are somewhat chilled. Though I know I thrust my arms into the hole in the bathtub earlier, I can touch my hands together just by poking out my index fingers. What is this, ninja arts? That childish prank where you poke people in the behind?
What kind of hole was I trying to plug up again...?
The gray is a high ceiling, and when I slowly look around at my surroundings, I can see palm trees in an artificial jungle. It looks like the Summerland from the kindergarten in my neighborhood I went to when I was a kid. I’ve apparently been floating unconscious in a heated swimming pool.
When I cautiously try to stand up, I can feel my feet solidly touching bottom. The water comes up a little above my bellybutton, like in a pool made for children. There are several people in a huddle some distance away. Maybe they’re afraid of my hair color? Only the Mazoku have black eyes and hair in this world, and even then very rarely, so most Humans fear it as a bad omen.
Or rather, something more sinister than a bad omen.
Or rather, something more evil than sinister.
Sadly, racial discrimination is pretty bad here, and Mazoku and Humans are violently hostile towards each other. Humans fear Mazoku and attack them, while Mazoku hate Humans and scorn them. Though I swore to become the king so I can improve this situation, even if by just a little bit.
“Um, it’s all right. See, I’m not going to burn anything. I’m the guy the girls put a ‘harmless to man or beast’ sticker on.”
No matter how fired up I am with my ideals as a king, I’m a bit lacking in persuasive power naked in a pool.
“And I’m not an exhibitionist or anything either.”
I can’t really tell because they’re submerged up to their shoulders, but I’m guessing from their shyness and bearing that they’re female. The orange-haired lady at the front of the five, six-person group asks in a jazzy, husky voice, “...Your Majesty?”
“Huh?”
I unthinkingly do a little dance for joy.
Only the Mazoku would call me “Your Majesty” at first sight of my Japanese-born black hair. Which means they’re Mazoku, and this is somewhere in Shinma Kingdom. Last time I fell outside the border, and a group of Human villagers threw rocks and pointed spades and hoes at me—it was a really disastrous welcome event.
“All right! I landed in an ordinary place this time! The manner is just a bit too sexy for me, but...um, if somebody can lend me a towel, I promise to wash it and return it. And if you can all close your eyes, I’ll take my leave...huh?!”
“Your Majestyyyyy!” a blonde with unusually wide shoulders yells in a throaty voice, standing.
It’s not just me—they’re all naked, too.
“Huh?!”
“Your Majestyyyy! He’s the real thing! He’s soooo cuuuute!”
They come rushing over, accompanied by loud splashes.
“Huh? Uh, why are your chests all...gyaah...”
I’m shoved back into the water. I’ve never been this popular in my life. The blonde beauty is holding my hands in hers dreamily. But there’s one big problem.
None of them have chests. Well, yes, they have firm bulges where breasts should be. Except those are more like pectoral muscles than breasts. The assertive ladies hug me tight and even rub their cheeks against mine.
“It’s all rough...was that facial hair?! Stubble?! Wait, don’t tell me you’re all guys instead of la...gurgle...”
“Your Majesty, welcome ba...aaaah!!”
The door opens.
A familiar voice reaches me in this other world I’ve been brought back to, a world that’s just wrong in pretty much every way. The two-person faction trying with all its might to make Shibuya Yuuri a fully qualified Maou comes running over in a real hurry. They look like idols passing through the audience on their way to the stage.
Except the Earth-manufactured hunks can’t hold a candle to them when it comes to looks. They’re so good-looking that you can almost see flower petals floating in their wake.
The long gray hair of my tutor, Lord Günter von Kleist, is disheveled, and his lilac eyes look like they’re about to overflow, spoiling his transcendent beauty. On the other hand, Lord Weller looks like he’s trying to resist an indiscreet grin and gamely has his actor’s face on. Stop that, Conrad—weren’t we midnight catch buddies just a little while ago?
The ladies—strike that, gentlemen—are clinging to my lower body.
“Hurry up and save me...gurgle...aaah...cough...you’re not supposed to run next to the pool...!”
“Your Majesty, are you all right? Release him, all of you! Do you have any idea who this is?!”
This isn’t Mito Koumon. Not caring that his clothes (pearl white in cell phone terms) are getting wet, Günter forces his way through the group. I should’ve left my seal of state with him or something.
“...Is that Lord Günter?”
Their expressions change.
“Wh-why are you looking at me like that?”
My tutor is suddenly nailed by their stares.
“Kyaah! His Majesty is adorable, but Lord Günter is so dreamy! That’s the first beauty of Shinma Kingdom for you—he’s even more beautiful when he’s wet!”
“Gyaaaaaaah!”
The beasts attack the beauty with cries that are more bellows than melodic invitations.
Geez, beauty is a sin.
“Here we go, rescue complete.”
Conrad puts his arms around me and plucked me out of the water like an exposed ball from a Rugby scrum. He wraps what looks like a hotel bathrobe around me.
“Welcome back, Your Majesty,” my precious baseball buddy says in that refreshing way I remember.
"...Thanks, Conrad. And since you are the guy who named me, stop being so formal. I don’t want to be called ‘Your Majesty’ by you.
“Ah, right.”
He’s also the first-rate chap who took my soul to Earth and offered my mom a ride as she was standing on a Boston street corner in her last month of pregnancy. That’s why Lord Conrart Weller was the one who gave me my name in America before he returned here. The girls in my class would go green with envy if they knew my name came from such a cool young man. But though he may look like he’s around twenty, he’s actually older than my granddad. In this world, those who possess Mazoku blood are really long-lived—and even worse, are certified beauties to boot. Conrad’s on the plainer side since he’s half Human, but all the other aristocrats are so beautiful it’s scary. Even if they’re not all on Günter’s level, there are still droves and droves of people who’re superhumanly beautiful.
Well, okay, so they’re not Human.
It really irks my inferiority complex because I’m always, thumb-gnawingly worried about whether I can really be the Maou when I’m so average in looks and physique and brains.
“How is your world? Is your mother doing well? Oh, and—” Conrad adds, his silver-flecked hazel eyes narrowed impishly, “How’re the Red Sox doing right now?”
“I haven’t looked at the rankings this season.”
I grin back at him. This is our common passion. Conrad, who caught the baseball bug in Boston, even has a ball signed by a Major Leaguer. The population of baseball players in Shinma Kingdom right now is a grand total of two—in other words, me and him.
“But you know, this year Nomo...achoo!”
“Gesundheit. Are you all right, Yuuri? Please bear with my jacket for the time being. Günter will put me through the wringer if you catch a cold.”
“I’m fine, just got some water up my nose. Speaking of which, what happened to Günter?”
He’s being crushed by the ladies in the heated pool.
“Con-Conrart, stop laughing, help me...!”
“Nooo, please don’t run away, Lord Günter!”
Actually, that sounded more like a ‘you’re not getting away!’ This is the first time ever that I’ve been grateful for his beauty.
“Thank you, Günter, for sacrificing yourself for my sake. I’ll never forget you.”
“Your Majesty?! Please wait, Your Majesty! I’m not dead yet, I’m not—!”
Around a month ago Japan time, I came to stay at the Blood Pledge Castle in this country’s capital.
“This place feels kinda different.”
“That’s quite true, Your Majesty. We are in the eastern region of the kingdom founded by the mighty Shinou and the powerful, wise, and courageous Mazoku who—ah, it must not be forgotten are the origin of everything in the world—defeated the Creator and his army to their eternal glory...” Günter sings with his eyes closed, enraptured, exactly like a tenor in an opera. He’s even got the upward-pointing fingers.
Though that might have sounded like the national anthem, it’s actually the country’s name. I daringly abbreviate it Shinma Kingdom.
“...and this is Voltaire Castle.”
“Voltaire! Which means this is Gwendal’s castle?!”
“Oh, you have guessed it already! Your Majesty’s sagacity astounds me constantly.”
The room to which I’m taken is as spacious as the event hall of a first-class hotel. Swords and shields hang on the walls, and medieval-style suits of armor stand in the four corners.
The master of this castle, Lord Gwendal von Voltaire, is nowhere to be seen. Only the three of us are standing at the fireplace: me in my fresh change of clothes made in the style of a Japanese school uniform, Conrad leaning against the wall with his long legs crossed, and Günter smiling so hugely his eyes are narrow slits. It’s the third month of spring in the Shinma Kingdom calendar, but after sundown the fire still feels wonderful.
“Aah, Your Majesty, you seem in good health, and that is more important than anything else. When you suddenly disappeared from before our very eyes, my sorrow was such that I wept for ten days.”
Behind him, Conrad mouths ‘It’s true.’
“Sorry ’bout that. But I want to be a member of my family before being a Maou.”
“What fine words!”
There’s still a huge kiss mark on Günter’s cheek. Regardless of who left it there, there’s such a thing as being a little too popular.
“Then you must think of your kingdom all the more. Now that you have ascended the throne, all the people of this country are your children.”
“That’s a lot of kids for somebody who’s only fifteen!”
“Yes. Now, Your Majesty, please sign these documents. This is a report of the spring tax from the lands under your direct control, and this gives approval to those districts which have requested fortification of their riverbanks for the rainy season. If I may be so bold, I believe from the reports of the officials in charge that these figures are indeed correct.”
You understand this a lot better than I do, don’t you. Huh, I guess this is what statecraft is all about. The staff is smarter than the guy at the top.
“So I sign here, right?...sign...agh, that makes me kinda nervous. When I was a kid I thought only baseball players were asked to sign stuff.”
Up until the summer I was twelve, when I learned that anybody who uses a credit card to buy something will be asked to sign for it.
My signature sends Günter into eulogy mode again.
“Magnificent! Look at these elegant lines, their soul-stirring combination! I have never before seen such a tour de force of calligraphy. And of such complexity as to foil all imitation, no matter how dexterous the imitator!”
Well, yeah, even the famous Jean Reno has trouble writing kanji. A counterfeiter would definitely have trouble with Shibuya Yuuri Harajuku Furi.
Er? Shibuya Yuuri Harajuku Furi...? I couldn’t have added Harajuku to the end of my own name, could I?!
“Now then,” Günter says, suddenly serious. I’m getting a bad feeling here. When a teacher looks that, it usually means T-R-O-U-B-L-E. Like ‘I’ve taken you off the bench list’ or ‘Did you steal Fukuda-kun’s lunch money?’ Although lunch is paid through a bank transfer.
“These is something of great import which requires a decision from Your Majesty.”
“Wha-what?”
He glides close. I may not be particularly susceptible to men, but my heartbeat still picks up a notch.
“There is unrest among the Humans, such that we may cross swords before long. In any case, they appear to be preparing for battle.”
“Battle...as in, war?! Didn’t I say that I will absolutely not go to war?! I don’t care what they’re preparing, no war means no war. Did I not decide when I became the king of this country that we would not go to war?!”
That’s right, I became the Maou so that the Mazoku could coexist peacefully with Humans. It’s wrong for people to fight each other just because they’re from different races. War is absolutely not the right choice: if this world has no one to chant that axiom, then I am determined to become the first. I may have the soul of the Maou, but I was still born and raised Japanese, and that was what I was taught in the other world.
“But Your Majesty, if we do not take the offensive, what happens when they bring war to us? To simply roll over and surrender is not something this kingdom will ever...”
“Still! At least for now war is out of the question! And I’m not signing any documents declaring war! Ack, you didn’t have me sign anything like that earlier, did you?! And what does ”unrest“ mean, anyway? How am I supposed to know anything if you don’t give me any concrete information?”
“The gathering of magicians, no expenses spared. When Humans quarrel with us, magic-users are essential,” an absolutely unrivalled deep bass voice answers from behind me.
An angel and a demon are standing in the open doorway: the master of this castle, Lord Gwendal von Voltaire, making his entrance to the Love Theme from The Godfather, and a Vienna Boy Choir OB-style pretty boy, Lord Wolfram von Bielefelt.
The Yuuri’s-inferiority-complex-triggering group of beauties is now completely assembled.
Brothers who are nothing like each other really do exist.
Lord Gwendal von Voltaire, oldest son of the previous Maou, with his ash-gray hair so dark that it might almost be called black and sullen blue eyes that not even the most beautiful woman can coax into good humor, totally looks like the best choice for the position of Maou. His voice is so low it sounds like it comes from his hips. Lord Wolfram von Bielefelt, on the other hand, is my twin in stature and physique, but angelically handsome. If you didn’t know he was Mazoku, you’d think he was God’s greatest masterpiece. Glittering gold hair, white skin, long eyelashes, and emerald-green eyes. But that damn arrogance of his makes him sound like a yapping Pomeranian.
Well, heredity runs deep for these brothers. Rather more surprising is the fact that Conrad is between them.
The previous Maou, now Her Majesty the Prior Maou, Lady Cäcilie von Spietzweg, aka Pheromone Queen Cäli, once fell in love with a Human of unknown lineage who owned nothing of value except for his sword. Their son is Lord Conrart Weller. Beside the beauty of the other Mazoku, he looks very close to Human. I can’t explain it very well, but...there must be a lot of average-looking actors who go to Hollywood movie auditions; if the scriptwriter picks one person from the lot to play a supporting role, that person would be Conrad. The judges would give the following comment:
“He hit on the delivery perfectly—I can see ‘truth’ in his performance.”
That’s how I’d respond if someone asked me, “What kind of a person is he?” Lord Weller is the only one I’d only be able to answer that question for. I don’t think anyone but a language teacher would be able to sufficiently sketch out the other Mazoku, but it’d be impossible to completely describe them, no matter how flowery the words.
In any case, even though Gwendal, Conrart, and Wolfram are half-brothers born from the same mother, they have not one characteristic in common, in outward appearance, personality or worldview.
“I don’t remember giving him permission to enter my castle,” Gwendal tosses at me, looking down on me with dislike—
“Yuuri! How could you disappear in the middle of the coronation? I can’t believe you...” Wolfram, who’s made a hobby of biting my head off, begins.
They start off together for the table at the center of the room. Gwendal with his longer legs arrives at my chair first.
Those eyes looking down at me from their lofty height are full of authoritative dignity and self-confidence.
No matter what you say, I’ve already been crowned the Maou, so don’t try to explain it away or trivialize it—I don’t even have the time to put myself on guard before he walks past me and spreads a map open in front of Günter and Conrad.
“It’s Cavalcade.”
“Cavalcade? It can’t be.”
“No, they’re using Sondergaard as a front, but Cavalcade is providing the funds. If you do not believe the intelligence provided by my spies, then you will have to do an independent investigation.”
What’s going on with kava in what zone?
I peer at the map. He’s pointing at a large continent separated by an ocean from the area that looks like Shinma Kingdom. Two of those color-differentiated countries are probably Cavalcade and Sondergaard. Judging by the first thing Gwendal said, I guess the people of Cavalcade are planning to attack the Mazoku.
Günter adopts a stereotypical smart-person tone.
“But how can Cavalcade have the leisure when they’re so preoccupied with their pirate problem? Ships from Taurog are coming under attack, so the report of aid from Sondergaard and Hildyard is...”
“On the surface. But reports say that a percentage of the resulting damage has been returned to their country.”
A ruse?! Make-believe piracy?
I prick up my ears at these dirty goings-on of the adult world, but Wolfram roughly jerks my head back. His lake’s bottom green eyes meet mine.
Target: lock on.
“How dare you vanish from right in front of us after saying that you would become this country’s king?! I was going settle things with you properly after you were safely done with the coronation ceremony!”
“Se-settle? I told you, I’m fine with a tie!...or no, if you still find it that hard to swallow, then let’s just say I lost, okay? ’Cause ultimately that duel was like one of those things where an exchange of blows forged a friendship, you know?”
That’s how it was. Since I didn’t know anything about Shinma Kingdom’s etiquette the last time I came here, I managed to inadvertently insult this angelically beautiful young man (who’s actually eighty-two). In present-day Japan, you’d never imagine that slapping somebody across the face is a marriage proposal and picking up a knife dropped during a meal is acceptance of a duel. I mean, this bloody custom of dueling is completely alien to a pacifist space-casey high school student. And as for the other thing—I mean, we’re both guys.
“You’re were pretty strong, and I gave it my best too, so why don’t we just leave it at that? We don’t have to go into all of that stuff about duels and revenge again.”
“That’s not any kind of...hey, Yuuri! What is the meaning of this?! You’re not wearing the gold bird I gave you, but you have Conrart’s pendant...?!”
“Huh? But that was a brooch, right? I mean, you can’t really wear it except by sticking it into your clothes. And I wasn’t wearing anything this time—I was totally naked when I got summoned here, so...”
“You weren’t even wearing any clothes? So you were in the midst of a liaison with some mongrel Human from that world?!”
“Liai...huh?! Me?! As in me, the one sent here after being unpopular for the fifteen years of his existence?”
“You can’t deceive me, Yuuri! You’re too lacking in prudence. Well, yes, I guess...you’re somewhat good-looking...just a bit...so you can’t help but be a temptation...”
“Ah, pru-prudence, huh?”
Yeah, and stop making me out to be some kind of handsome samurai with that peculiar aesthetic you guys have.
Meanwhile, Conrad is asking Günter and Gwendal in his usual casual but subtly pointed manner, “Shouldn’t both of you start off by reporting this information to His Majesty?”
After a moment of silence, the flustered tutor recalls his position, and the eldest son gazes with displeasure at his youngest brother and the thorn in his side.
“The children seem to be talking amongst themselves.”
I put everything into rushing through the crack Conrad has opened for me with his foot in the door. I have no right to call myself a king if I don’t live up to his faith in me.
“Di-didn’t I just say that we are not going to war? While I’m alive I don’t want to see anyone dying in battle.”
As usual, trying to squeeze through a closing door is not the safest thing in the world. The counterattack is sudden and intensely cold.
“In that case, what is it you wish to do, Your Majesty?”
There is always a bite in the “Your Majesty” that drops from Lord von Voltaire’s lips. He looks down at me with arms crossed, his chill gaze impregnable. Two months ago I would have retreated immediately.
“Are you planning to simply hand the kingdom over to the Humans without even returning fire when they come attacking in the near future?”
“If we know that they’re going to attack, then shouldn’t we be able to come up with a counter-plan pretty easily? We can find an opportunity to talk to each other. Let’s ask what they want from our kingdom, and see which of their specialty products they’re willing to offer in exchange and make a pact or treaty or something.”
Gwendal waves his right hand in disgust and summons one of the reserve guards placed outside the room.
“His Majesty appears to be tired. Guide him to his room.”
I, the new Prior Maou, am about to unthinkingly allow myself to be guided.
“That’s very kind of...hey! Wait a minute, we’re not done here yet! That was the king’s command, so you gotta obey!”
His glare traumatizes me for life.
“P-please obey.”
“Don’t speak as if you know anything. If they were the type to agree to a discussion, I wouldn’t need an amateur to tell me to arrange for one.”
“Were you turned down? Well, yeah, I mean, if somebody as self-important as you looked down from your high horse and told someone that you wanted a meeting, I wouldn’t blame them for being scared.”
Gwendal, who thinks of me as nothing more than graffiti on the wall, is starting to become visibly irritated. Anyone would be pissed off if they were treated like graffiti. The more so if it were for good reason.
“They’d probably listen to me if I went. ’Cause it’s not like I’m strong like you guys; any way you look at me, I’m just an ordinary human being.”
An avalanche of criticism follows that statement.
“Ordinary Human?! You?!”
"Your Majesty is Mazoku! One in whom resides the black of Mazoku nobility, the true Maou, through and through!
“Conrart!” Gwendal barks the name of his younger brother, the acknowledged military man. Looks like his irritation has reached the boiling point—on the table, his long fingers twitch as if he were holding a game controller. He’s probably trembling with rage. Conrad shows not a hint of tension. What would it take to panic him?
“Yes?”
“This pet Maou of yours, is he planning to give the victory to us or the Humans?”
“...That is a difficult question. His Majesty is a personage of rarely-seen caliber. However.”
He pushes himself away from the wall in a vigorous motion, gives me a cheerful side glance, and says: “If we are looking for a way to avoid battle, I do have a suggestion.”
“What? What?!”
“Here now, calm down. Günter will explain.”
My tutor breathes a long long long sigh, obviously reluctant. Is it my imagination, or does even his thick hair lose its gloss and a cloud pass over his radiant beauty?
“We the Mazoku possess a legendary weapon which cannot be wielded by any save His Majesty the Maou. It is said that once invoked, it has enough power to burn the world to nothing...though in reality maybe a small city... In any case, the fact remains that it is a legendary sword: the mightiest ultimate weapon in all of history. Even its name...”
“Ultimate weapon! Melgib, right?!”
“No, Your Majesty, Morgif.”
What the heck? A lethal weapon’s gotta have Mel Gibson. Gwendal tsks slightly upon hearing that misleading name. He doesn’t look pleased.
“The last to invoke it was His Majesty Basilio von Rochefort, the Maou eight generations ago. It was later lost, its whereabouts unknown until just recently when it was d...wh-when its location was...d-d-dis!”
“You found it, right?!”
Wolfram, who was so engrossed in his criticism of me just a few minutes ago, lets his true feelings slip.
“I see, if we let it be known that the ultimate weapon has returned to us under the auspices of the Maou, our neighbors will not dare attack us carelessly. No one has held it for close to a thousand years; they will fear the might of the king who does.”
“Is it really that amazing?”
“Records claim that when Morgif’s fullest power is unleashed by the absorption of a Human life, it can smash a boulder to pieces, reverse the flow of a river, burn a person to ashes, and make a cow dance in the air.”
“A cow?!”
I have the feeling I’m kinda missing the point here, but anyway, I do get that it’s a pretty awesome weapon.
“So that means if we can get our hands on this weapon, then our country will be the strongest, right? Then everybody’ll be afraid of us and not want to fight us. All right! Then everything will good, right?! Let’s dash over and fetch it right now! Where is it? Who’s going to go get Melgib?”
“It’s Morgif.”
“Oh, right.”
Günter’s eyes are still fixed on the floor. His long lashes tremble.
“It is a very long trip by ship from the Voltaire region here on the eastern edge of Shinma Kingdom. It was d...d-dis...covered on the savage and barbaric island of Van der Veer in Cimarron...”
“You shouldn’t call it savage and barbaric if you’ve never been there!”
“Th-that’s quite true, but, ooooh Your Majesty! I cannot bring myself to give my approval to this plan! Your closest subjects are brought to tears by your great kindness and your compassionate desire to protect your people from the ravages of war.”
Uwah, that’s mucus, not tears! No, please don’t cling to me like that! Ack, not the hand! Don’t rub your cheek against my hand! Don’t rub your nose against my hand—!
“None beside the Maou can take up Morgif. But to have your Majesty cross into the domain of the Humans is akin to throwing meat of the highest quality to a pack of slavering beasts!”
“Stop comparing me to meat, geez!”
“And besides, the beasts wouldn’t really care what kind of meat it was—right, Your Majesty?”
“But Your Majesty, Van der Veer is preparing for its annual festival! You will be a target for the islanders as well as enemies from every land!”
“Are you sure they’re not just ordinary tourists? Wait a moment, target? What target? Target what?”
Gwendal leaves the room in disgust.
Looking after his impressive figure, I have to admit it to myself: it’s quite true that I don’t have his dignity or his style. And he really is thinking of the future of this country. But we do things differently. I don’t know just now which of us is right or wrong, and I’ll probably never know.
Sorry Gwendal, but the Japanese DNA inside me is crying out with its petty bourgeois sense of justice.
“...which is why the effect of Majutsu is weakened in the domain of the Humans. Those skilled in Majutsu would therefore be unable to protect Your Majesty.”
I haven’t really been listening, but since I can’t use Majutsu anyway, it doesn’t really matter.
"That’s okay. So this Morgif is a sword, right? And since it’s the king’s ultimate weapon, I bet it’s one of those holy swords that you absolutely need to defeat the last boss, like Ragnorak or Excalibur or the Bizen Sword made out of Orichalcum, that you have to go to the heart of some super-complicated dungeon to get, right?
Günter, Conrad and Wolfram all ask in the same tone: “Holy sword—?”
“I-it’s not a holy sword?”
“Ah, Your Majesty is jesting again.”
“That’s right, Yuuri, what would you want a holy sword for?”
“Your Majesty, it is the sword that belongs to the Demon King, so...”
Of course it’d have to be a demon sword, wouldn’t it?