Once again an odor of hitherto-unknown offensiveness fills the kitchen, and the soldiers have come crying to Lord von Voltaire.
Spitting a curse on the name of the man who is the root of all evil, he stomps down corridors of stone floors to the kitchen.
“Günt...guh...hack...oog...!”
Scarlet smoke billows endlessly towards the ceiling. Gwendal hunches over with a hand against his face, tears streaming unstoppably from his eyes.
“Curse you, wh-what are you doing?!”
Pain prickles his nose and throat with every breath. His words are interjected with coughs.
“Günter! What, hack, are you doing hack cough?!”
“Gwendal, is that yoooou?”
Who else would it be?! The brazen perpetrator of the poison gas himself is standing right in the middle of the gushing smoke wearing a mask and glasses.
“Wh, what is this horrible gas?”
“Since you have forbidden me from throwing small animals into boiling oil, I have substituted plants. Look here, does this gigantic red pepper not remind you of a baby mouse when you examine it up close?”
“You’re dropping red peppers in oil?”
“Yes.”
“A whole lot of red peppers?”
“Exactly!”
And thus the invention of Shinma Kingdom’s red chile oil.
Seizing Günter’s arm, Gwendal manages to drag him out of the kitchen. He can’t seem to stop crying yet.
“Stop this fortune-telling.”
“Why? Do you not wish to pray for His Majesty’s safe return?!”
“I’m not saying that. I certainly would like him to return safely—it would be quite a bother if he were to die in a foreign land.”
“Die?!...how can you say such dreadful things! You demon, ogre, cold-hearted beast!”
“Call me a demon all you want.”
They are both part of the Demon Tribe, after all.
Günter’s beauty is so extreme that women keep their distance from him, and thus actually robs him of the title of most lusted-after man. Still, he has at least retained the crown of Shinma Kingdom’s first beauty for almost fifty years running. It must be stated, therefore, that the new king’s powers are not to be underestimated if they are capable of putting such a ghastly expression on his face. Though Yuuri’s arrival has probably prompted a shift in the kingdom rankings.
“Or could it be that...” Fear flashes across the face worn beyond all recognition. “...you feign apathy in order to conceal your wicked thoughts towards His Majesty’s person?!”
“You’re the one with wicked thoughts towards his person.”
“Aaargh, how completely vexing! Just as I thought!”
What is just as he thought?!
Gwendal’s eyes swim with bemusement on the level of being caught between Osugi and P-ko. Fashion check, please.
“I had my suspicions, vague as they were. After all, His Majesty is endowed with such wisdom, such beauty—even the noble black in his own person! He is possessed of a strong sense of justice, compassion for his people, and both timidity and fierceness; he touches everything with fresh wonder—in ages past the Shinou’s favor would surely have...Gwendal!”
Günter grabs Lord von Voltaire’s collar before he is able to sneak away.
“Ah, but of course! If one should peruse the histories of your past love affairs, one would know that you brothers have ever only fallen in love with the strong-willed.”
“Stop perusing a thing like that!”
That’s no ordinary gleam in Günter’s eyes. One can almost hear background music behind him.
“...First Wolfram...now you...”
“What an absurd and odious misunderstanding.”
“How could it be a misunderstanding? Aaaah! Everyone has fallen madly in love with His Majesty—he’ll be emasculated!”
“Someone! Someone, I need a hand here! He’s gone mad, Lord von Kleist has gone mad!”
He has no choice but to call for help.
‘Help!’ comes the cry from the western ward, and we dash over to check a patient’s pulse; a scream of ‘No, don’t die!’ draws us at a panting gallop to the eastern medical building to make sure the patient there is still breathing.
We’re running madly around Van der Veer’s General Hospital with the lackluster Morgif in hand in the sacrilegious anticipation of one of the seriously-ill patients dying and providing the demon sword with a human life.
“Wh-why does this hospital have such a high survival rate? It’s bizarre! I mean, it’s great for the patients’ families! It’s wonderful, but...”
I can’t bring myself to actually hasten their deaths, and not a single person has died since we arrived this morning. This is a three-star hospital. A little earlier, as Wolfram was checking the pulse of an unconscious patient, the old man abruptly grabbed Wolfram’s hand, opened his eyes and called a woman’s name. His daughter and grandchild were overjoyed, and cried and babbled four years’ worth of tears and chatter with grandpa.
The damage was all Wolfram’s. He clutched his wrists and muttered something with cold sweat on his brows. It sounded like a charm against evil. Though a Mazoku saying a charm against evil feels kinda weird.
We’re stuck on the hospital race course because Morgif needs to replenish his energy. Shortly after I plucked him out of the hot spring, he lost both his glow and his firmness, sighed a weak ‘Hao...’ and hasn’t said a single thing since.
Not that swords are ordinarily supposed to say anything anyway, but for him it’s peculiar. Even his surface seems to have dried out somehow, and he’s as wilted as a woman in the middle of a diet.
That hot spring must have had an anti-rusting effect.
“So it’s really like Günter wrote in his diary—it can’t be used as a demon sword unless it absorbs a human life?!”
“A life...that’s easy for you to say, but...how? It’s not like you can go and buy something like that at the convenience store!”
“If you’re looking for quantity, the quickest way is probably putting a village to the torch. Or slaughtering a family, but that’s a bit less effective.”
“Josak, His Majesty would never do something so terrible. Though I suppose in the old days Japanese samurai would attack people under cover of darkness to test their new swords, so...”
“Augh! Geez, you guys! Do you have any morals left?! I could never take the life of an innocent person! Nobody should.”
So the whole party proceeded to the hospital in the morning and ended up dashing frantically about until noon.
But even though we’ve run ourselves to the ground, nobody has set off on their last journey yet—in fact, no less than three people revived. We’ve had gratitude heaped on us, and people have even started calling Wolfram the Angel of Love. But for us it’s something of a mixed blessing.
“...Looks like this strategy is pretty hopeless.”
Drooping with exhaustion, I lay my cheek on the table as we’re having lunch at the hospital dining room.
There are few people around—which is no surprise, since this is the last day of the Fire Festival and everyone is preparing for the grand finale this evening. The locals are busy with commerce, the tourists are busy sight-seeing. So pretty much only the patients and their family and friends and the hospital staff are stuck fretting in the hospital.
Since Morgif didn’t come with a scabbard, he’s been tightly wrapped in cloth and looks like the pitiful Mummy edition of himself. Which of course means I can’t see his face, but I’m not going to worry about that now.
Oddly enough, despite all the ruckus he caused, Morgif’s face doesn’t frighten me at all. It’s like when I watched all three volumes of the Splatter Movie in one night—around dawn, everything was just really funny. This is commonly known as the Scream 1-2-3 phenomenon.
“We‘ve been asking around disguised as well-wishers, but there aren’t any other patients in serious condition at this hospital. So I guess we’ll have to try the sanatorium to the east or the old folks’ home to the west?”
“Ugh. I know this is for Morgif, but I hate this life of going around waiting for somebody to die.”
“This life? It’s only been half a day, Your...oops, I mean, Young Master.”
Conrad looks at my plate and pushes his own dessert over.
“This is nothing like your usual appetite. What’s wrong? You didn’t eat much at breakfast, either. Is hospital food not to your liking?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s not that, just...”
“If there’s anything else you want, let me know and I’ll go look for you. Tourism is the main industry of this island, so they can pretty much prepare anything you want.”
“I want negroshinomayakishy.”
They’re edible? Wolfram’s request is ignored.
“I want...let’s see, boat-wrap sushi?”
“Boat-wrap sushi? What is that?”
“You put fresh sashimi and shellfish and stuff on a boat. Foreigners hate raw fish, but Japanese people can’t live without sashimi. Like buri or hamachi or inada...oh, sorry, those are all the same fish. Mmm, Japanese amberjack.”
Actually, that’s not quite true.
It’s probably stress from the unpleasantness of waiting for somebody to die. Since all four of my grandparents are in good health, death is still just a distant awareness for me.
Conrad peers at me, feels my brow, then touches his forehead to mine like a mother checking her child for a fever.
“Stop that, I’m not a kid!”
“You don’t have a fever, but your color isn’t good. You’re probably still tired from last night. All right then, Josa will go west, I’ll head east. You and Wolfram stay in the city. We’ve rented the second floor of a private house, so you’ll be able to keep out of sight better than staying at an inn.”
“Wait, aren’t I the only one who can carry Melgib? You can’t do anything if I’m not along, right?”
“There’s a high possibility of it being a fool’s errand. Still, if I borrow a horse I can get there in two hours. With you along it’d take twice that. I’ll take a look around, and if things look promising, I’ll come back and get you.”
I nod reluctantly and hoist the uncomfortably heavy Morgif.
He’s really light for a sword and fits into my hand like he was molded for it, but he’s heavier than he looks when I’m carrying him around like a piece of luggage. And no matter how much cloth he’s wrapped in, I’m the only one who can touch him without getting zapped by a bolt of lightning.
“Ooph, up we go.”
“What’s wrong, Yuuri? You sound like an old man.”
I don’t want to hear that from somebody who’s eighty-two years old.
The city is overflowing with crowds of happy people having a good time. They’ve set their cares aside just for today and are all enjoying the festival to the fullest. The women are dressed in long one-piece dresses. Their flower patterns flutter in the breeze, beautiful as real blossoms.
The island is brimming with color; everything is so bright it hurts the eyes.
I gaze out at the scene from our rented private second floor. Morgif lies next to me, neither howling nor moaning.
“Hey Wolf.”
“What?”
“What’s a Lion of Ruttenberg?”
Wolfram thinks for a moment, staring into space, before his gaze finally returns to the diary, and he says, “Come to think of it, I’ve heard that’s what people used to call Conrart. ’Cause his hair was a bit longer then. Ruttenberg is where he was born.”
“Then who is Julia?”
“You should ask Mother that one. Because she was really close to Julia.”
“Close?”
“Well...in Shinma Kingdom, there were three women with incredible magical powers. One was Golden Cäli, my mother. Another was Crimson Anissina—she and my brother...and Gwendal, have this thing—she’s a short lady with red hair that looks like it’s on fire.”
“A thing with Gwendal?...a thing? What kind of a dangerous thing would that be...?”
“Don’t ask me! The last was White Julia. Julia died—almost twenty years ago, now. Though she was one of the three great witches of Shinma Kingdom, she was born blind...”
The magic stone at my chest heats. Its original owner must have been...
“It’s a pity that...Conrad...lost his lover...”
Wolfram suddenly starts shouting wildly. Talking about Conrad usually makes him mad, but I’ve said something so stupid this time that it’s thrown off his denotation timing.
“Julia?! Julia, Conrart’s lover?! I never heard about that!”
“What, you mean she wasn’t Conrad’s ex-girlfriend?! Huh? Must be my mistake. Okay then, just one more question, Wolf. What about the young general Grantz?”
His expression hardens, and his white hands clench into fists on the rough table. The open pages of the diary move slightly in the wind.
“Grantz is located on the northern tip of Shinma Kingdom. It’s Adalbert’s hometown.”
Adalbert von Grantz.
Cold sweat slides down my spine.
He’s the first Mazoku I encountered in this world, the man who tampered with my brain. The man who tried to kill me.
“When his fiancée died he immediately abandoned his country. Because he wanted revenge on the Mazoku. He was engaged to...”
What’s going on here, Conrad?
“White Julia...Lady Susannah Julia von Wincott.”
What the heck is going on?!
After the conversation I eavesdropped on last night, I can’t believe Julia was merely a friend. Which means that he was on the verge of an adulterous love triangle with a woman engaged to be married?! Dear me, Conrad, what a scandal! Now I sound like somebody’s mother.
“Yuuri,” Wolfram says coldly.
“Ah, yes?”
“Why are you making that face?”
“What face am I making?”
Probably the face of somebody’s mother watching a daytime soap opera.
“Why are you asking about Adalbert and Julia with that expectant look on your face? It’s making me angry. Aaaaall right then, let’s keep reading this diary!”
“Wah, please just stop reading that thing out loud!”
“Though His Majesty carried himself with steadfast regality before the coronation, yet there was an air of anxiety about him.”
“Stooooop!”
Isn’t this starting to sound more like a novel?! I reach for the diary, but he side-steps and escapes to the bed.
“...This ephemeral quality, so fragile that it might crumble away at a touch, can be found only in boys who have not yet crossed the boundary into young men.”
“Just hurry up and burn that thing already!”
I pounce, trying to grab it from Wolfram, and land on top of him. This is the exact moment when—
“Listen to this, Young Master...oops.”
“...”
“Am I interrupting your fun, by any chance?”
Josak closes the door again.
“No, no, wait! We weren’t having fun, we were not having any fun of any kind, you’re taking it the wrong way! This is a massive, majorly massive misunder—ow!”
I’ve bitten my tongue.
“My my, Young Masters, it’s the middle of the day, so if you’re going to have a dalliance, you should at least lock the door. You really shouldn’t tempt your elders like this,” Josak teases in the voice he uses when disguised as a woman, and enters the room. He waves the yellow piece of paper in his right hand before slapping it down on the table.
“Weren’t you going to the old folks’ home?”
“I was about to head over when I remembered to use my head. So I went over to the government office to take a look at the list of people registered at the institution. I mean, ’cause if I went and there was nobody there, then it’d be a total waste of time, wouldn’t it? And I was right—all the old folks have gone home for the festival. I’m so glad I found that out before riding over...anyway, I got handed this flyer.”
On the yellow paper is a line in large red letters, followed by three small lines, followed by two, three more lines in fine print. At the center is a rough drawing of a couple of young men standing shoulder to shoulder, pointing at the sun.
“I told you, I can’t read this.”
“‘Urgent job recruitment! Be witness to the last moments of a life. Come cheer on a young man your own age facing his death! Seeking attractive young men in their teens. Owned swords welcome, extraordinary wages, interview at any time’...I can’t read the fine print either.”
Annoyed, Wolfram snatches away the paper.
“Human cursive is so strange. It has absolutely no beauty or elegance. It’s too different from the artistry of our writing.”
“But what kind of a job is that, ‘be witness to the last moments of a life?’ Shouldn’t that be a doctor or a nurse?...or an undertaker, maybe?”
Actually, that’s after death. But I guess I should add religious folk too. Since they listen to confessions and say prayers. So why would swords be welcome? Monks with swords are priest soldiers, and they were all subjugated by Nobunaga.
“I don’t get this island’s writing.”
“What’s important is that you and that sword can be at somebody’s last moments, right?” Josak claps his hands briskly. “So let’s give it a try. Off to the interview!”
“What? But I don’t think I meet the appearance requirement.”
The two Mazoku reply in concert: “You’ll be totally fine!”
I’m sorry to say this, but your aesthetic sense is approaching a mania.
“That’s a rather seedy-looking sword you have there,” the interviewer, who looks exactly like Colonel Sanders, mutters, scowling at Morgif. “But the thing is, we suddenly got this teenage kid sent to us yesterday, and it’s really put us in a bind. Because if you don’t match a young fellow with a young fellow, it won’t satisfy the spectators.”
Spectators? Oh, he must mean the clients.
Six people including me came to the interview, and the rest of them are all attractive, good-looking guys. None of them quite have the particular beauty of the Mazoku, but on Earth they’d be comparable to a young Brad Pitt or Jude Law or Ewan McGregor or Ethan Hawke. And I didn’t mean Pa League baseball mascot characters for those last two.
Then you have a baseball kid from the third district tossed into their midst. I might be able to offer some competition in the hundred-meter dash or the long throw or side-to-side jump, but when it comes to looks, I’m totally out of the running. Well, I should be totally out of the running. But—
“But when it comes to looks, you are certainly the cutest.”
“Wha...huh?! Oh, sorry...um...yeah, I’ve got low self-esteem.”
Hey wait, Van der Veer Island Festival Executive Committee Chair Representative! You mean it’s not just the Mazoku’s sense of aesthetics that’s off, but this entire world’s aesthetics?!
“What did you say your occupation was?”
“I’m self-employed.”
“What kind of self-employment?”
Uh-oh, I haven’t thought that far.
“A-adventurer!” is what I blurt out.
“Your name?”
“...MacGuver...”
Adventurer equals MacGuver, special forces equals the A-Team. That’s all my brain can come up with.
“Mm, then you’ll take it?”
“Me?!”
“Mm, yes, it’s an honorary position, so put your back into it!”
So the line of attractive young men is kicked out, and the baseball kid is in.
Which means Morgif will get to absorb a human life. Though for that I have to be witness to a young man my own age breathing his last. The guilt is totally depressing. The young man must be terminally ill—I’ve got to sincerely do everything I can to be a good companion so that he can go without regrets.
I silently harden my resolve and head towards the waiting room to report the news to Wolfram and Josak.
“Where are you going? Your escort is already here for you, so you should hurry and change in the carriage.”
“What’s the big hurry?”
“It would be impolite to keep our spectators waiting.”
My surprise allows the Chairman Representative to shove me into the carriage. He hands me a white shirt, then calmly, cheerfully squeezes himself into the remaining space.
“We suddenly got ten additional people, so this year’s festival is guaranteed to be a huge success. We have five more than average this year, and with twelve participants the spectators are sure to go home totally satisfied.”
“Right...”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. Stop stroking my thigh like that, it’s disgusting. I think I’m being sexually harassed. I pretend not to notice and wrap my hand around Morgif’s hilt.
The old man lets out a scream and leaps out.
“Sorry, I generate a lot of static electricity.”
I’m delivered to a place near the harbor enclosed by an ivy-covered brick wall. It looks like a stadium at first glance, like the holy land of high school students’ dreams.
What am I doing at a place like this when I’ve got no chance of getting to Koushien? Compete in a talk battle?
With a young man on the verge of death?
An official accompanies me down a long corridor. Along the way there are a few places where the noise from outside is audible. It sounds like a subway platform.
The room he shows me to is already occupied.
The wide room is a dirty yellow, lined with benches. Ten or so men are seated away from each other. There’s also one leaning against a wall gazing up at the ceiling and another staring into midair muttering an incantation. The one with a cruel smile looks like he’s looking forward to something. They’re all wearing the same white shirt as me, their weapons at their side.
A lone woman is standing quietly in the corner against the wall.
Oppressed by the men’s bloodthirsty aura, my feet automatically take me in that direction. The slim woman, who looks to be in her late twenties, has dark blonde, shoulder-length hair. Her lips are set in a slight grimace, and she’s hugging herself with both arms.
There aren’t many people chosen for the privilege of honorary positions with attitudes like these.
Suddenly conscious of my throat going dry, I look around the room. I’m guessing they won’t be serving tea in here. I dig around in my pants pockets for change, but all I have are a couple of notes.
“Miss...um, ma’am? Would you happen to have any change...?”
Her head jerks up as if she’d been shot, and she looks from my face to the money. Her narrowed gold-hazel eyes are bloodshot with exhaustion and worry.
“If you’re carrying around that much money, why are you in a place like this? A kid like you...”
She quickly presses a hand against her mouth, but none of the others have heard.
“You look about my youngest brother’s age—he’s fourteen this year. Look, if you don’t need the money, you shouldn’t accept a job like this. If they told you that it’s a prestigious position, don’t believe them—they’re lying to you. It may look heroic and dashing when you’re a spectator, but it’s another story altogether when you’re the one standing out there. You’re not the hand of justice or a messenger of God—you’re just a filthy killer!”
Killer?!
She seizes my shoulder and shakes me, continuing the one-sided conversation.
“Here’s some friendly advice: just get out of here and go straight home. If you don’t have a home, then go back to your parents! If my son wasn’t sick, I would never stain my hands with something so awful. If you’re not desperately in need of money, don’t even think about doing something like this so young.”
“Wait, hold on, wait a minute! ‘Something like this?’ What does that mean? I mean, someone read the flyer for me, and it said that they’re looking for somebody to be ‘a witness to the last moments of a life, to cheer on a young man facing his death!’ ...Wait, killer? What does that mean? And spectators think it’s dashing?”
“You didn’t read it yourself? There are so many kids like you, and they’re all misled! This is not a job where you cheer someone on, this is an execution. This is the last spectacle of the festival, a horrible and cruel exhibition, a place where people kill each other for show!”
There’s a grand finale on the last day of the festival at the arena near the harbor—you’ll definitely regret it if you miss it, the proprietress at the inn insisted.
She meant here? This is what I signed up for?!
“What are you talking about?! Execution? Kill each other? What does that mean?!”
“Somebody always freaks out, every single year,” one of the others, a middle-aged man with a cruel smile on his unshaven face, mocks upon hearing my agitated questions. He approaches with a huge axe at his side. My hand on Morgif tightens. His faint smile widens.
“You don’t have to be jumpy. Nobody’s gonna cause a scene here. After all, we’re all comrades in here, eh? I know all about bashing somebody’s face in, but it don’t look like you’ve got any idea. There’s always a kid like you every year—this is my fourth time, so it ain’t nothing new to me.”
“Nothing new...okay, then why don’t you tell me about what you did the other three times?” I bluff, partly out of despair. The man straightens, throwing out his chest. My only ally here is my partner Morgif, and I’m very much conscious of his presence at my right. I can rely on him.
His low moan travels down my arm.
“Okay, I’ll tell you. Once you walk out of this room, you’ll enter the arena. They’re gonna drag a criminal out from the opposite side, and you’re gonna fight him. You’ll take your sword or spear or knife or whatever weapon you like and chop ’em to pieces. No quarter given. ’Cause you’ll be facing a criminal who’s already been sentenced to death. Play with ’em as much as you can, ’cause the audience likes that. And if you please the audience, they’ll take you back next year. I got this job last year too. Nobody sympathizes with criminals. You can kill ’em, and nobody’ll blame you. This is an honorary position, anyhow.”
The woman whispers to me, “You have to get out of here before you become like him. He’s developed a taste for killing people. He’s like a drunk who’s always thirsty until he’s killed.”
You’ve gotta be kidding me, a taste for killing? Taste or special skill or most attractive feature, it’s all bad. I dash up to the door I came through, grab the knob and pull.
“Dammit, it’s locked.”
“That’s a pretty seedy-looking weapon you’ve got there, you sure you sharpened it?”
The man reaches out for Morgif at my side.
“Don...!”
He falls on his behind with a shrill scream and frantically rubs his left hand against the floor, searching for a cool spot.
“What the hell?! What the hell is that thing?! It’s not just an ordinary sword! Hey kid, where the hell did you get that thing...”
The sound of creaking iron echoes from the entrance and opposite wall, followed by cheers and light flowing in from the corridor.
“Make your preparations, the two of you.”
Three perfectly armed soldiers beckon to me and the woman.
I’m the top batter and the lady is second.
I consider shaking free from the soldiers and dashing away at top speed, but there’s nowhere to run to but the middle of the arena. It won’t change anything.
As we’re driven down the dim passage, the woman tells me, “Listen, there’s no chance for escape now, but you mustn’t fall into despair. A kid like you mustn’t become a killer. Just bide your time for now. I’ve heard that they’ll be pardoned from their death sentences if they win against us, so they’ll attack you with everything they have, but just run and dodge and take as much time as you can.”
“If they win against us they’ll be pardoned from their death sentences—does that mean that some of us have lost, then?!”
“Very rarely. I’ve seen this festival lots of times since I was a child, but very rarely does a criminal survive.”
So very rarely, the honorary position holder loses.
“Take your time, that’s the important thing. They’ll have to do something if the audience gets impatient. You’ll probably be able to finish it without having to kill your opponent yourself.”
“But...”
The roof suddenly falls away, and I’m engulfed by cheers. So many torches light the round arena that it’s brighter than noon. It’s almost like the start of a nighter.
But this is not a stadium. There are no benches, no bases, no lawn, only rough stone paving and the ocean breeze. What’s going to take place here is not a game, but people killing people.
“In Japanese, there’s only a single character’s difference between ‘coliseum’ and ‘people killing each other.’”
The entire audience is on their feet and singing with their hands over their hearts to a sonorous melody played by wind instruments. There are two flags on a pole—one for Cimarron, the other for Van der Veer Island.
In the exaltation around me, I’m the only one frozen in place, dazed.
Faced with this utterly inconceivable situation, my body is completely paralyzed.
Even since being summoned to this world, I’ve experienced various dangers up close and personal that no ordinary modern Japanese high school student would probably ever face. I’ve been attacked, fought a duel, almost assassinated and then kidnapped. But I was never alone, and someone always came to save me.
That’s right—Conrad!
I look around, but he’s nowhere to be seen. He’s still on his trip, the one that takes two hours one way by horse.
But this is a pinch on a never-before-seen scale—a Leonardo da Pinch(i), even.
The soldiers shut the iron-latticed door and lock it to prevent us from going back in.
“You sure are in luck. The criminals we got yesterday are pirates, but the big shots were pretty much all extradited. The rest are all underlings and small fry. Practically no swordsmanship at all—you’ll see.”
“Pirates?! You mean the ones who attacked a luxury liner a few days ago?!”
“That’s right. What’s shocking is that there were Mazoku posing as passengers on that ship.”
What do you mean, posing? I was a full-fledged passenger with a paid ticket and everything.
“Anyhow, around the time the ship came into harbor, they transformed into balloon puppets. They must’ve wanted to come to the festival, but who knows if they’re alive or dead...”
If that battle takes place, it’d be a me versus me (the water rescue practice doll, Mr. Livesaver me, at least) dream team. Ending with a complete victory for me. Also instant death.
Some instrument that sounds like a trumpet plays a fanfare. Audience noise and anticipation has reached the G1 level.
The condemned criminal is dragged to the opposite gate, and both of us prepare for our entrance.
He’s too far away for me to see clearly, but he looks like a boy of twelve or thirteen.
“He’s still a kid!”
“He may be a kid, but he’s also complete scum. He drugged all the guards on the liner and the escort ship so the pirates could get on without any trouble.”
“I can’t kill a kid! I mean, I’m not going to kill an adult or elderly person either!”
Actually, I can’t even kill a sheep or pig. Or throw rocks at puppies.
“Don’t forget what I’ve told you. Take as much time as you can, make the audience impatient.”
“All-all right. Then he won’t have to be killed, right? Okay then, I’ll give it my best shot since I’m at the top of the lineup, so follow up with a bunt, okay?”
Total confusion.
A soldier grabs my arm and drags me out to the arena.
I’m alone. I have to get through this by myself, somehow. But how?!
What will do you, Shibuya Yuuri?
There’s a low vibration at the tips of my fingers. My partner is moaning, calling me.
“...Morgif.”
That’s right.
He’s Morgif, mightiest of demon swords.
Loyal servant of the Maou.
If I’m really the Maou, the genuine Maou, you won’t leave me all alone, right?
“So, Partner, you trembling with excitement there?”
Don’t call me partner (self-retort).
My opponent is holding a large two-handed sword. It glistens with good maintenance.
A sea breeze crosses the faraway waves into the coliseum. I untie the yellow cloth around Morgif and let it flutter away on the wind.
Revealing the demon sword.
“Everybody must be talking about what an awesome sword you are.”
“What is with that pathetic engraving of a face?”
“Can something that dull cut someone apart?”
“It’s disgusting!”
Disgusting? He’s not disgusting! Morgif is unexpectedly unpopular.
Before I can reach the center of the arena my opponent lets out a strange cry and charges forward. He swings his silver sword down at me.
“...Woah!”
“Woo.”
I barely catch it in time, and my arms endure the impact. Morgif lets out a low hungry-sounding moan as metal clashes against metal.
“The umpire hasn’t made the call yet! You’ll get ejected if you throw a duster!”
I can hear my opponent’s agitated breathing right next to me. Only when we jump apart and put some distance between us can we finally see each other’s face. It really is a kid—he must be about three years younger than me. His face has a quite a scattering of freckles, like one of those kids they use for peanut...
“Rick?!”
It can’t be.
The boy has recognized me too, and the point of his sword abruptly drops to the ground.
“Why are you doing something like this...hasn’t there been some mistake? You’re a proper sailor—apprentices shouldn’t be treated like criminals!”
“Why are you doing this...?”
“Never mind about me! Seriously, this must be one big misunderstanding, I’ll go see a government official for you! Heeeey, this boy isn’t a pirate! I’ll vouch for his identity...”
The audience yells. Morgif is struck soundly, and I lose my balance and pitch forward.
“...ah!”
There’s a thin, shallow burning sensation across my shoulder.
“Rick...you...”
The boy swung at me from behind. His freckles have all but disappeared next to his bloodshot eyes, twisted lips and the red splotches on his cheeks.
“You’re as soft-hearted as ever, mister.”
Now I know why they had me put on a white shirt: red looks good on it.
“Are you really going to kill me?”
“I’ll be a free man if I kill you.”
“They’re lying to you. Come on, Rick, they’re lying to you! They hit you and threatened you and did horrible things to you to get you to confess to being a pirate, didn’t they? Look, that kind of a confession is invalid. You can get a lawyer to help you! I’ll do whatever I can to help, too.”
Rick lifts his chin slightly and croaks a long laugh. It’s full of the sort of helpless scorn of someone just barely holding back madness.
“Who’s lying to me?! It was my job to pretend to be an apprentice and put the guards to sleep. It was also my duty to drop the ladder so my comrades could board more easily. Oh yeah, I was the one who reported that the deluxe suite passengers should still be in their rooms, too. You know, I was really quaking in my boots when you caught me right before I was going to put the plan in motion. But you’re such a dunce that you said I was doing a good job patrolling!”
Self-loathing fills me, along with a shock that feels like I’ve been struck on the back of the head. If there were a hole here I’d crawl into it. I trusted the one I shouldn’t have, and disdained the trustworthy sailor.
“But why...but you want to be a sailor, don’t you?! You want to be the captain of a big ship, right?!”
“That’s right, mister. I would’ve been the captain of a big ship. If you people hadn’t interfered.”
“Captain...of a pirate ship?”
“What other path is there? I’ve been with pirates as far back as I can remember. A kid like me, what other path is there for me?!”
He glares steadily at me, the pupils of his hazel eyes contracted to pinpoints as if they’ve been possessed by the devil.
I’m just a kid and an ordinary high school student, and I know nothing about swordsmanship. If we’re talking about which of us has survived more carnage, it’d have to be Rick, who was born a pirate. My experience with this world is too shallow. I’m not used to these serious fights to the death.
“Haooo!” Morgif groans thinly, the sound traveling from the guard to the tip.
“Okay, so you’re probably the veteran of a hundred battles, but I’ve never swung anything except a bat! And incidentally, just pinch-hitting at that, not even as one of the starters!”
“You certainly have composure to spare! Who are you talking to?”
“The sword!”
Huh, now I feel like a super master ventriloquist.
“Baboo.”
“You’re not baby Ikura from Sazae-san, geez!”
Since he hasn’t absorbed a human life, I know that he can’t demonstrate his abilities yet. But if I don’t do anything but defend, my opponent’s going to seize the initiative. I have to get Morgif to fight somehow, too.
Would anything happen if I started calling out the names of special moves?
“Melgib—I mean, Morgif—Puncho!”
“Wait, no, I mean, Morgif Punch!”
Punch is Satou. Okay, calm down. Punch and kick can’t be a sword’s special moves. It‘d have to be something like ’Diagonal Slash!’ or ‘Cleave!’ or ‘True White-Feather Blade Catch.’
Those are all Japanese katana specials...
I will do what I can.
“Huh?”
Words suddenly flash across my mind. Not a voice, but written words.
Steel clashes against steel like a high-pitched percussion instrument. The fingers of my right hand at the top of the hilt have gone numb. My index finger grazes the back of the guard.
I will do all that I can.
“I’ll be free if I kill you! I’ll do it, even if you’re a scary Mazoku! They’ll honor me if I get a Mazoku! Maybe it’ll even mean that someone like me can live as something other than scum!”
“I’ll do just what I can.”
Repel the falling silver arc from below, turn aside the tip and stagger away. Deflect the next swing slantwise. I pull Morgif back with all my might. Take back.
The tip of Rick’s blade strikes the ground, scattering blue sparks. With the grip end just skimming my navel, I aim for his forward-slouching waist and swing.
My weight shifts from the big toe of my pivot foot to my left arm. The excessive force trusts out my knees. It was supposed to be a Nakamura Nori-style full swing, but however I look at it, it wouldn’t have hit anything but a breaking ball, and only manage a foul tip at that.
“...Guh!”
Rick lurches and staggers, crouching and pressing a hand against his stomach. Bloody saliva foams from his mouth.
I lower Morgif’s tip and finally exhale.
“I’m sorry. I’m not a sword master or anything, so I don’t know how to go easy on someone.”
“...K...”
“You probably feel kinda sick right now, but it’s better than being in two halves, right? He’s as dull as he looks. He can’t cut anything if I don’t sharpen him.”
Rick grasps my ankle. He looks up at me with burning eyes, still crouched. Terrible burning eyes full of hatred. He must detest me for being so cruel to him.
“...Kill...me...”
“I’m not going to kill you. Somebody told me earlier that I should take as much time as I can, and the audience will be satisfied without anybody being killed. Something’ll happen if the audience gets impatient.”
“Woo,” Morgif warns. Since you’re a demon sword, you must want to absorb his life as soon as possible, but the problem isn’t that simple.
“I’m not going to kill you—you should get a proper trial. You‘ve known nothing but the pirates’ life since you were a baby and haven’t received any kind of proper education, so of course you can’t distinguish between good and evil: those facts need to be taken into consideration. It’s not too late for you to correct yourself. You’ll definitely be a sailor one day.”
The audience begins to howl at our inactivity. They’re standing, shouting ‘guilty!’ Men and women both are spitting curses down on us in language that makes me want to cover my ears, demanding a decisive win or loss.
“What’s wrong with you people? You actually enjoy something like this...?!”
A hand smudged with sweat and sand crawls up my knee.
He clutches my shoulder, trying desperately to stand, and wipes the blood from the corners of his mouth.
“You got hit with a full swing, don’t try to overdo it.”
A flash of wind crosses the edges of my vision.
The boy convulses wildly and collapses. I can’t hold him up with one arm, and fall to the moist stone on my behind.
“Rick?”
He’s lying between my feet, and there’s a crimson stain welling up, spreading across his back. A heavy dark gray iron arrow is protruding from his white shirt.
“...Rick...why?”
The audience roars approvingly. There are even people embracing and dancing. Applause and cheers swell across the arena—even breathing is becoming painful.
“Why?! Why are you giving a standing ovation?! The fight was over! There was no need for this! Who did this? Who shot this arrow?! Get down here! Stand and face me!”
If you take enough time and make the audience impatient, an archer will kill your opponent for you. Is that the way it is? Criminals live very rarely.
So that’s how it is.
“Dammit, get down here! Show your face, you dirty bastard! This is the work of a coward! Who was it, who thought this up?! Get out here! I’ll, I’ll kill...him...I’ll kill...”
No!
In the pure blank whiteness of my head, my Japanese DNA holds back the Maou’s soul.
This is not why I’m here in this world.
This is not why I was chosen. Is it?
“Woooooo...wooo.....wooo....”
“Morgif?”
The demon sword moans intermittently. The obsidian stone in his forehead, set in the same spot as the Buddha’s, flashes brightly.
There’s some kind of uproar in the front row of the guest seats, out of which a faint, blurry blue lump about the size of a ping-pong ball rises and falls in a perfect parabola straight into Morgif’s mouth as if sucked in.
“Wait a minute, Morgif, what the heck was that?! You can’t just eat whatever people throw away. Spit it out—spit it out right now!”
The exact reaction of a pet owner upset at his dog for scavenging for food.
“Oh no, Grandfather’s heart has stopped!”
“I told you so, he’s already a hundred and twenty, and he’s viewing an execution from the front row.”
“He wanted to see the young woman who’s up second, it’s such a pity that he died at the first round.”
“But look at the satisfaction on his face.”
“Wow, it’s true. He spent his entire life living and dying for women, but maybe in his last moments he awakened to cute young men?”
What kind of grandkids say stuff like that about their grandfather...?
The demon sword starts quivering in my hand. I set Rick down gently and hurriedly shift to a two-handed grip. The light from the stone on his forehead is growing stronger—it’s shooting a beam of light up into the sky.
“Wait a minute. Was that...did you just inhale that old man’s life? I wasn’t trying to invoke you in a place like...”
Unfortunately I’m missing some vital information. What happens when I invoke the demon sword? The VTR neglected to provide an explanatory diagram. Um, let’s see, there was something about a cow flying into midair...and a cow flying into midair...it’s no use, the impact of that image was so strong that I can’t recall the other parts.
In the meantime Morgif is still quivering, and the audience has stopped its merry-making. They’re too busy now to even think about the second execution. What is happening with that sword? The babble of voices sweeps around the arena.
And Morgif barfs.
“Waugh, what the, what the heck is that coming out of your mouth?”
However you look at it, it’s a yellow vomit-like substance flowing out of the mouth that bit me. I can’t really call it liquid; even though it’s sort of amorphous, it doesn’t feel wet.
The yellow vomit finally thickens into a wide band and begins pulling me along with enormous power. If I let go Morgif will probably make like one of those buckets used in a centrifugal force experiment, and I don’t know where he’ll end up. I can’t lose the ultimate weapon after all the trouble I went through to find him.
“Owey owey.”
“Gah, is this because your stomach’s been empty for fifteen years—?”
And now he’s getting stomach cramps because he stuffed himself?!
The sword fits the owner. Birds of a feather flock together?
One of the spectators finally realizes and starts yelling.
It’s a demon sword.
“It’s a demon sword! It’ll burn this place to ashes, it’s going to kill us all!”