The menu offered at the eatery was remarkably well-stocked for a city where every corner was consumed by restoration and recovery efforts.
The meals at the healing clinic had been the same way—far from spartan, enough to make his stomach growl involuntarily. For a growing boy like Garfiel, this was a welcome development, but was such luxury really permissible?
"Even though the majority of the city's functions are paralyzed, the actual damage is rather contained—excluding the human casualties and the collapse of certain facilities. If we allow the poor conditions to lower the quality of life, the citizens' spirits will break before reconstruction is even complete… or so Mr. Kirithaka seems to think."
With the delivered meal sitting before him, Wilhelm addressed Garfiel, who had been furrowing his brow.
They had ended up sharing a table at the eatery by chance, eating their lunch quietly across from one another. Garfiel's eyes went wide at the old swordsman's answer, and he recalled the image of a slender young man from his memory.
Honestly, in Garfiel's recollection, Kirithaka was not someone who seemed particularly reliable. But according to what he'd heard, the man had also thrown himself into the effort for the city's sake, caught up in the
He couldn't see the man, but presumably he had done his part.
That gap between ordinary demeanor and behavior in a crisis—maybe Kirithaka shared that trait with Subaru. The thought left a bitter taste.
"Mmm! Delicious, delicious! If the food tastes good, that means things are going well, so Mimi thinks that's super-duper wonderful. Even the Young Lady said free food tastes the best, she did!"
"Haha. Having such energy is a fine thing. And your manners… forgive me, they're quite proper as well. Whoever taught you must have done a thorough job."
Seated next to Garfiel, Mimi chatted away with a bright smile as she tucked into her meal. And at her hands—this was actually surprising—Mimi had been remarkably well-trained in dining etiquette, using her knife and fork correctly.
Garfiel already knew this, but it seemed to surprise Wilhelm, whose eyes widened slightly in admiration.
"Lord Garfiel…"
"Don't get your hopes up too much, alright? I've been trying to fix things bit by bit over this past year, with my sis nipping at my heels about it."
"The attitude of striving to improve is the right one. So long as you continue until the fruit bears out."
He nodded, then added that qualifying statement—perhaps because he had witnessed Garfiel's progress firsthand.
In his own hands, the knife and fork were not being used with any particular finesse. Back when he was in the
It wasn't limited to meals, either—there were plenty of other things being corrected. Though it was hard to say any of them had produced results yet.
"I can't say I'm above a little kid, which is what really stings."
"Mimi's been doing this since she was teeny-tiny, so it can't be helped! The Young Lady and the Big Sis both eat like pros when it's mealtime! And thanks to that, Mimi got good at it too!"
"The lot back at the mansion, every last one of them, they're all proper about it. The ones who'd already been studying real manners from the start, sure, but even the Chief and big brother Otto."
It made sense that everyone originally connected to the Roswaal mansion—including Roswaal himself—would be refined in these matters.
The ones who didn't quite make sense were Subaru and Otto. Otto actually came from a reasonably respectable merchant family, but Subaru was a complete enigma. He'd mastered countless bizarre skills, so in a way, it was understandable—but only in a way.
"That guy, the Chief—he eats with those two incomprehensible sticks, no problem. What's it called again… Hashi, or something?"
"Hashi! Those are kinda tricky! There were lots in
"Hashi, you say? What a nostalgic term. They truly are difficult to handle."
Even Wilhelm acknowledged their difficulty—those mysterious implements called chopsticks.
From Garfiel's perspective, there was nothing to call them but incomprehensible. And yet Subaru could manipulate them freely and ferry food to his mouth with no trouble.
Well, in her case, she was just abnormally good at picking things up, probably.
"So even you, old man Wilhelm, find hashi tough, huh?"
"I've made a few trips to Kararagi over the years, so I have tried using them on those occasions. Still, I think they're rather impractical for everyday use."
"To Kararagi…"
"Yes, on several occasions before. —When we were hunting the
"———"
Wilhelm's eyes narrowed with nostalgia, and Garfiel fell silent.
He knew the broad outlines of Wilhelm's grudge against the White Whale, one of the Three Great Demon Beasts—that this old man had dashed from country to country searching for leads, all to avenge the previous Sword Saint. Even if it was only a surface-level understanding.
Having overcome such ordeals, Wilhelm had eventually slain the White Whale.
And yet the old swordsman who had ostensibly achieved his revenge ended up encountering the wife he believed to be rescued in this very city, crossed swords with her once more—and then…
"Surely what Lord Garfiel wishes to ask me is not, of all things, how to use chopsticks?"
"Ah, no…"
"Of course, there are things I cannot speak of. But you granted me the favor of yielding the encounter with my wife. If it is something this old bag of bones can answer, I shall do so."
"———"
He said it plainly—an encounter with his wife.
It was a well-known fact: the two dead who had served the Witch Cult were indeed the previous Sword Saint and Eight-Arms
If there was something he needed to ask, it was this— "The one I fought… was that really Eight-Arms Kurgan?"
"…Hmm? And what do you mean by that?"
"Could it have been someone else who just looked a whole lot like him? A case of mistaken identity? Otherwise, no matter how you slice it…"
"So you have something that doesn't sit right with you. —I see. Understood."
Wilhelm nodded at Garfiel's halting, roundabout way of speaking.
Setting down his meal, the old swordsman pinned him with those quiet blue eyes.
"Is it that the fact you won… feels off to you somehow?"
"…I'm supposed to be the strongest. I've been working toward being the strongest, and I'm going to keep doing it. That's the duty I owe the Chief, and it's what I need. But this ain't right. You can see it too—this doesn't add up."
A hero. A Combat God. Eight-Arms Kurgan.
The unrivaled legend of the Divine Volakian Empire, passed down through the ages.
In the midst of battle, it might be called faint-hearted, but Garfiel had thought, again and again, that he couldn't win. He'd felt death and defeat pressing close.
And yet he had overcome every last one of those moments, cut his way through, and survived.
In the end, he'd challenged Kurgan to a head-on duel and taken his head.
Garfiel himself recognized that this was a feat worth boasting about.
The evaluation of him by those around him was, for the most part, similarly favorable. Even if he wasn't an Archbishop of Sin, he was an overwhelming fighting force that couldn't be ignored.
Defeating one alone had undeniably contributed to the city's defense.
But the facts and Garfiel's own satisfaction with them were two different things.
"Old man Wilhelm—you, the Sword Demon Wilhelm, must have known Eight-Arms firsthand. From your perspective, what was he like? Was he the real deal?"
"———"
Garfiel's expression was pleading as he relied on Wilhelm's memories.
He himself couldn't say what answer from Wilhelm would satisfy him. If the old man denied it—said no, that wasn't the real Kurgan—would that put him at ease?
But even if Wilhelm denied it, could he simply take that denial at face value?
"It has been nearly thirty years, but I did have personal acquaintance with Kurgan. We clashed four times. I cut off his arm; in return, he impaled me through the stomach… You could say we shared a bond forged in mortal combat."
There had been a time when relations between the Lugnican Kingdom and the Volakian Empire reached their worst point in centuries, and a fierce clash erupted in a border city.
To avoid the intervention of the Divine Dragon, the Empire invaded with a minimal force—against which Wilhelm, then Captain of the Knights, had fought.
It ultimately became an honorable duel, a dead-even battle that ended in mutual destruction.
The resolution was postponed, and after a total of four decisive battles, the Volakian side withdrew, and that was said to be the end of it.
"He was a skilled wielder. Eight arms, four demon cleavers—parrying a volley of eight simultaneous strikes in a single blow was a matter of life and death…"
"Ah, yeah, it was. I nearly died, for real."
"Against eight hands, I had one. So I had to choose: reduce his hands first, or thread my single strike through the gap and deliver a killing blow. That was the decision forced upon me."
"Look, I didn't come here for a tactics lecture."
He would have been interested in a tactical discussion, given how rare this testimony was. But right now, his personal doubt weighed more heavily than historical curiosity.
At Garfiel's words, Wilhelm drew his chin back with an apologetic expression.
"As one gets older, one inevitably finds more occasions to reminisce about the past. Especially these past few days—I've been doing nothing but."
"I ain't a fan of looking backward. Can't really talk, though."
"Rather than looking backward, I suppose it's more like retracing my footsteps. Either way, it may be no less sentimental. —But let us return to the matter of Kurgan."
Wilhelm's expression turned serious in response to Garfiel's inquiry.
The old swordsman could guess at the worry gnawing at the still-young warrior.
Of course he could. That doubt, that uncertainty—anyone who had ever placed themselves in battle would run up against that wall at least once.
And the answer to that doubt was— "———"
"Unfortunately, during the battle the other day, I did not exchange words with Kurgan. I did suspect it was him, but I had no luxury of attention to spare. Therefore, I have no grounds to categorically state that the multi-armed one you faced was Eight-Arms Kurgan."
"No grounds, huh…"
"What you felt in your own bout, Garfiel, should be its own answer. However, I understand why you remain unsatisfied. So, if you'll allow me to speak purely from my own perspective—the wife and Kurgan we faced were the same two people, and yet not the same two people."
Wilhelm said it with such conviction that Garfiel drew a sharp breath, then furrowed his brow.
The content was too abstract. He couldn't quite grasp it.
Noticing Garfiel's confusion, Wilhelm prefaced with, "Allow me to explain?"
"There is no doubt that their remains were desecrated and the two were reduced to puppets of the Witch Cult. I believe that in their final moments, they reclaimed themselves, and that words were exchanged—but—"
"———"
Their final moments—that was the moment the one-on-one duel had been decided.
Garfiel's fangs had found their mark, delivering a fatal wound to Kurgan. As Kurgan was fading away, the words he directed at Garfiel still echoed in his ears, refusing to fade.
—Impressive.
Just that single word. The Combat God's body turned to ash and scattered to the wind.
In that instant, that moment of victory alone, there had been nothing but elation at what a legend had acknowledged.
But as time passed, negative thoughts began bubbling up.
He who had not yet reached the pinnacle of strength, who could not even face his own inner tiger—was it really so easy for someone like him to have defeated a being once called a legend?
In extreme circumstances, fighting for his life, with siblings he hadn't finished talking to behind him…
Was that really the reason he'd been able to win?
"Kurgan was a taciturn man. Even standing at the threshold of death, he would never have left behind many words."
"Yeah. Just one word. Just one, for me…"
"Then let those words remain unspoken. —That was a tribute the Eight-Arms Kurgan bestowed upon the warrior who defeated him. It is not something for an outsider's ears."
"———"
Wilhelm's words stopped Garfiel cold.
A tribute—from the Combat God to a warrior. But what was its worth, really?
"I still don't get what you meant earlier."
"Mm?"
"They were the same two people, and not the same two people. I'm not in the mood for riddles. Tell me—what do you actually think?"
"———"
His tone roughening, aware of his own poor attitude, Garfiel pressed on.
He leaned forward, trying to read the flicker of emotion deep in Wilhelm's eyes, seeking to use this moment as a way to lay bare his own struggle.
But— "Garf, I don't think you should push right now."
"…Huh?"
"The old man looked a little sad just now, didn't he? So I think this is one of those times where pushing isn't okay? Also, Garf, your eyes look super scary. Not okay!"
Mimi, seated beside him, spoke up and poked Garfiel's side with her finger, sharp little jabs.
Prodded by the sensation of those fingers, Garfiel knitted his brow in thought—then understood.
"———"
The tenderness in Wilhelm's eyes as he looked at Mimi—that same tenderness had been directed at him just moments ago.
And one more thing.
That he had been unconsciously, crudely digging into Wilhelm's wounds.
"…Sorry. I wasn't seeing anything past my own nose."
He apologized and lowered his head.
The Sword Demon had reunited with the wife he believed lost, against his wishes, and ended it with a sword, exchanging words of farewell—and Garfiel had piled thoughtless, selfish violence upon that heart without an ounce of consideration.
Ashamed, Garfiel bowed his head. Wilhelm shook his head.
"No. I was the one being coy. At your age, it's natural to rush toward answers. I was the same way myself—but one forgets that as one gets older."
"…I can't believe even you were like that, old man Wilhelm."
"Nothing could be further from the truth. If anything, I was far more rash and foolish than most young people."
The composed elder offered comfort, and Garfiel felt nothing but guilt.
The epithet "Sword Demon" may have been famous, but there had never been a whisper of the man being cruel in temperament. The indulgence of his elders—and the way Garfiel kept getting spoiled by it—was a major reason for his own self-reproach.
In any case— "They were the same two people, and yet not the same two people. I know it sounds roundabout, but I'm not trying to present you with a riddle. These words are exactly what they mean, literally."
"Taken literally… I still don't get it."
"In their final moments, standing on the threshold of death, their wills did indeed return. But before that, they were nothing more than puppets of those wicked servants, and their swordsmanship was not wielded to its full potential."
"———"
"In other words, neither the previous Sword Saint nor Eight-Arms was operating at their true strength."
Wilhelm delivered this verdict to Garfiel, who was at a loss for words.
Being told that the opponent with whom he'd waged such an incredible battle had not been fighting at full capacity—that wasn't something you could just nod along to.
It had literally been a life-or-death struggle. Though, to be fair, his current doubt had begun from the question of whether it had truly been a life-or-death situation, so this was, in a sense, the answer he'd been looking for.
It was—but— "If the opponent had been my wife in her prime, then in my current state I would be defeated within a handful of exchanges. Back then, when I was in my prime, I cast aside everything and barely managed to approach her true strength. —Kurgan could not have been on that level."
"If the conditions were the same…"
"It stands to reason that Kurgan was also a diminished version—wearing the shell, but lacking the substance. Forgive me for saying so, but… if you had faced the real Eight-Arms, I cannot fathom you existing as anything other than minced flesh. That was the caliber of opponent he was."
"I… I would have…"
"Don't get cocky, boy."
In the next instant, Garfiel's hackles rose at the piercing sword pressure. On reflex, he kicked his chair back and launched himself all the way to the eatery's entrance.
Surrounded by startled onlookers, Garfiel alone cut a strange figure—on all fours, breathing hard. Wilhelm and Mimi, meanwhile, remained seated normally.
"Wh… what…?"
"Lord Garfiel, you may be a great vessel, but you have not yet been fired in the kiln. I, though I belong to a different generation entirely… I know the genuine article. If you sensed even a fraction of that just now, then the cold water was worth pouring."
With that, Wilhelm rose, dabbing at his mouth with a cloth.
He had finished his meal. And his attitude made clear that he had said what needed to be said.
If anything was lacking, it wasn't in Wilhelm's words.
What was missing was surely on Garfiel's side—the receiving end. Because there was a gap within him, the understanding poured in kept spilling out.
"That understanding is something you will need on your path to becoming stronger. Take care not to lose sight of it."
"I'll engrave it on my liver, but… you're a cruel one."
"I am not exactly a clear member of your camp, after all. A bit of intimidation like this is only proper. That said—"
Wilhelm, now ready to leave, glanced at Mimi mid-sentence. She was humming away at her meal and had just pilfered a choice morsel from Garfiel's plate.
Noticing Wilhelm's gaze, Mimi tilted her head.
"Hmm? Old man, you need something?"
"You detected the presence or absence of hostility in my sword pressure in that single instant. Impressive."
"Why would the old man want to do anything bad to us?"
"A keen eye. —With you by his side, I needn't worry about him straying from the path."
Wilhelm nodded at Mimi's nonchalant response, then turned to Garfiel. He gestured toward Mimi with his hand, and as the old swordsman walked toward the eatery's exit— "Treat her well. A girl like that is certain to become the treasure of your life."
"Wh—! Who's—! Me and her?! There's a girl I'm sweet on, for your information!"
"Whatever the case, do your utmost not to lose her. —So you don't end up like some rusted, hollowed-out demon."
With those parting words, Wilhelm strode out of the eatery.
Garfiel watched him go, unable to retort. Then, gnashing his teeth in frustration, he threw himself back into his seat and shoveling the rest of his food into his mouth in one go.
"Ah—Garf, bad table manners!"
"Don't lecture me about table manners, you— You were just stealing food off my plate! Ugh, dammit. Why do I feel even more irritated than before I asked?!"
Rather than clearing away his doubts, he felt like the seeds of his worry had multiplied.
Perhaps a path toward the light had been laid out, but the guidance was so abstruse that Garfiel couldn't even see the thread.
His understanding of strength, what he needed to do here—it was the maddening feeling of being one step short.
"What the hell am I supposed to do…"
"Garf, you're troubled? What are you troubled about?"
He muttered, touching the white scar on his forehead. Mimi, who had similarly finished shoveling her food, asked him. The girl, her mouth still dirty, wiped her face roughly with her sleeve and said— "If something's troubling you, just say so! Mimi will solve it right away!"
"…I don't even know what I'm supposed to be doing right now."
"Clear your plates! That's what!"
"I meant something beyond that, literally right in front of us…"
Even so, they took their finished dishes to the kitchen and left the eatery.
Their stomachs were full. Should he spend the afternoon on the city's reconstruction work? If he kept his body moving, maybe he wouldn't have to think— "Alright then, Garf, let's go!"
"You've got way too much energy. Where are we even going?"
"Obviously—to see Garf's little brother and sister and mama!"
"———"
He'd been about to follow after Mimi, who'd started walking with a carefree stride. But those words made him freeze mid-step.
Garfiel's eyes went wide. His teeth chattered. He cocked his head, struggling to keep his inner turmoil off his face.
"Say what now?"
"We're going to see Garf's family! That's what Garf needs right now!"
Without any basis whatsoever, Mimi puffed out her flat chest and held her tail straight up.
And pointing at the speechless Garfiel, she declared— "It's best to have a proper talk with your family! This is Rossi's teaching!"