The retreat from the imperial capital,
Even accepting that it was the right call, this was an unprecedented crisis in the history of the Empire. The imperial capital itself — the Emperor's very doorstep — the Crystal Palace had been allowed to fall to the enemy's advance, and the Emperor had been forced to abandon both castle and city. The loss of prestige was unavoidable.
Still— "Given that the movements of those eerie creatures remain incomprehensible, Your Excellency's judgment is surely the wisest course."
"Kakakakka! An Emperor fleeing his own castle — now that's something I've never heard of in all my years! At least not at my age!"
"Don't laugh, General Orvalto! If you consider His Excellency's feelings… Consider them, and I—! Damn it all! I swear, under His Excellency's command, I will retake both castle and capital!!"
"Well, well — fleeing it is, how quick the decision! Though, personally, I'm not the 'die gloriously' type, so this direction works for me."
Not a single voice among them questioned Vincent's decision.
This was less a matter of loyalty and more a testament to the practical competence that had earned each of them their posts. Of course, differences in thinking had spawned a rebellion, and in the end it was their most trusted confidant who had betrayed them — so minor differences in loyalty amounted to mere rounding errors.
In any case, the retreat would begin now.
"Orvalto Dunkleken — buy us time. Left alone, Mogro Hagane will be cut down before long. We cannot allow the reservoir to fall just yet."
"My my, working the old man to the bone, are we? Wouldn't Goz do just as well?"
"Agility and swiftness are the hallmarks of a shinobi. Do not resist — fulfill your role."
"…Just so you know, if they focus on me while I'm airborne, even I can't evade everything."
Overhead, slicing through the skies of the imperial capital, the undead Baroi Temegriff soared. In life, he had been the finest wyvern rider the Volakia Empire had ever produced, and his skill was undiminished. As Orvalto's words implicitly conveyed how troublesome the opponent was, Vincent still entrusted the mission to the old shinobi.
As Orvalto said, aptitude aside, Goz could fill the same role.
But if they were going to talk about aptitude, there was a role only Goz could fill. This loud, overbearing "general" commanded an extraordinary degree of trust from soldiers and officers alike.
And so— "
"Right away, Your Excellency! Immediately!"
Without a moment's hesitation, the bare-chested Goz leaped atop a nearby mound of rubble. Drawing in a deep breath, he raised his voice to a world where the roar of the great Mogro battle shook the heavens.
An impossibly enormous voice rose in defiance of the capital's trembling air.
"Listen well, Sword Wolves of Volakia! These are the orders of His Excellency Vincent Volakia, supreme commander of our Sword Wolves! Obey my voice! Obey!!"
The volume rivaled the blast of a magic stone cannon. When Goz's command rang out, Vincent — ears pressed shut — glanced over at Orvalto for a measure. Orvalto, also covering his ears, simply shook his head.
"That's something I could never do. Right person for the right job, that's what they say."
With that, Orvalto's figure vanished, leaving only a shadow behind as he ascended into the sky.
The old shinobi scaled the cracking walls of the Crystal Palace — fractured by the battle's aftershocks — using them as footholds, then leaped onto the colossal body of a Mogro. From there, he plunged into the fray where "Cloud Dragon" and "Marksman of Magic Bullets" coordinated their assault, deploying the full force of his "Sinister Old Man" prowess to turn the tide against them.
Orvalto had claimed he was helpless against airborne opponents, but the shinobi's armaments held unknown secret arts, and he surely possessed countless countermeasures.
With the old shinobi joining the front lines, the Mogro's disadvantage would shift at least somewhat.
"Your Excellency, is there anything you'd like us to do?"
"How many of you 'Star Readers' are nearby?"
While Goz rounded up soldiers, Vincent turned to the idle
"Well, within shouting range, there are twenty-seven of us."
"More than expected. Then go door to door through the residences. The Emperor and the army are abandoning the capital. Anyone who remains in this city is throwing their life away."
"Understood! This is it — this is what I've been waiting for. A total war… the entire Volakia Empire standing against the Great Calamity. This is exactly the kind of thing I wanted to be part of!"
"Go. Now."
Chasing away the irrepressibly excited Ubilk with distaste, Vincent let out a heavy breath.
He then glanced toward Berstetz, who maintained a respectful silence, careful not to disturb his leader's thoughts.
This man had been the mastermind behind the coup — the one who had carried
"You've gotten awfully quiet."
"In the present circumstances, having two heads issuing orders would only sow confusion. Should the Sword Wolves have been born with two heads…"
"One of us would cut off the other's head. That was to be your role?"
"If so required, I would gladly offer this old head."
With his hands clasped behind his back, Berstetz spoke of his own readiness in a measured tone. He was a man far removed from any martial prowess, yet what burned within him was the pride of an Imperial citizen. Vincent did not believe Berstetz had staged the rebellion out of a lust for power, nor did he think the words just spoken were a convenient dodge.
A simple, unwavering devotion to the Empire — that was Berstetz's driving force.
And so, when the Empire faced mortal peril, he could immediately discard his previous plans and loyalties without hesitation, placing himself squarely on Vincent's side.
"Once Goz Ralfon and the Star Readers have finished their preparations, we begin the withdrawal immediately.
"…With all due respect, Your Excellency, if you are to retreat, I ask that you trace the path of your own thinking."
"……"
At Vincent's curt request for input, Berstetz offered that cryptic reply. It sounded like a riddle, but Berstetz had no intention of misleading him. After a moment's reflection, Vincent understood the true meaning behind those words.
To trace one's own thinking — that meant to follow the thinking of Vincent Volakia.
Which was, in turn, the very path of thought Chisha Gold had been treading until moments ago.
"General Chisha assumed Your Excellency's identity with a hidden agenda, and cooperated with me in seizing the throne… Then…"
"…She would have predicted the nature of the Great Calamity and prepared for it."
"Precisely. And it is something that only the Emperor — only His Excellency — would be able to perceive, and no one else."
Vincent closed one eye at Berstetz's words, deep in thought.
He understood the Prime Minister's reasoning. No — it was only logical. Even without Berstetz's counsel, given enough time, Vincent would have arrived at the same conclusion. Berstetz had simply shortened the path.
Chisha had wagered her own life, remaining on the throne in Vincent's place. And if she had left behind more than just the "thread" that was supposed to end with Vincent…
That meant— "Your Excellency! The soldiers are returning — every last one bearing the face of a soldier! What are your orders?!"
Just as Vincent's thoughts reached that point, Goz came crashing down from the rubble mound in a rough leap.
Looking around, soldiers of the Empire were convering from all directions, their swords and armor clanking — a pack of Sword Wolves. No doubt many of them had been gripped by confusion and anxiety during this unprecedented crisis. Yet, having gathered at the call of the "Lion Knight" Goz Ralfon, and learning that the Volakia Emperor awaited them at its head, their expressions and bearing stiffened with renewed resolve.
A sight that struck Vincent as deeply repulsive, almost hateful — the way of Imperial humans.
But to fight the disaster that was coming, the Sword Wolves could not afford to forget their hunger. Looking back on the years and months spent building national strength, maintaining training and morale, all to leave behind an Empire capable of withstanding calamity — Vincent gazed upward.
That calculation had been thrown into disarray, but he had no intention of leaving it at that.
"Mogro Hagane! Don't let those bastards use the magic crystal cannons! Guard those, and I will grant you your wish!"
'————' Whether those words, shouted at the top of his lungs, reached the ears of the Mogro currently battling the most powerful creature in the world — a dragon — was impossible to tell.
But that valiant "
With his commands to the gathered "generals" dispatched, Vincent lowered his gaze and surveyed the faces of the officers and soldiers who had assembled around him.
Meeting the undimmed fighting spirit in the eyes of those Sword Wolves, he continued.
If Chisha Gold had truly played the part of Vincent Volakia to its fullest— "We are leaving the capital! Northwest — toward the fortress city of
He declared at the top of his lungs that the strategy for opposing the Great Calamity must be waiting in that place.
△▼△▼△▼△ The battle over the fate of the Volakia Empire had begun to change shape, and both Imperial soldiers and rebels forming that battlefield were starting to realize it.
The varying degrees and hues of the chaos that had spread across every front were unmistakable. The Sword Wolves, attuned to the flavor of battle because they were consumed by it, sensed the crude interference of another's will.
When orders arrived from commanders whose faces had gone pale, the slight return of composure and battle instinct rewrote the thinking of those who, moments ago, had been locked in bitter combat — who now had no reason to be enemies.
And so, the comrades who had been crossing blades just an instant ago ceased their hostilities, scrubbing away the labels of "Imperial soldier" and "rebel" to paint themselves anew with a single identity: "Imperial citizen." They became a wolf pack once more.
It so happened that within the capital, Vincent Volakia had just raised his voice as supreme commander, and outside the city's encirclement, Serina Draglue had done the same.
Yet the change that every soul in the Empire had perceived — the necessity to move — existed entirely apart from one battlefield that still burned red, consuming all others.
There, the "Spirit Eater" Arakia defended the First Summit, facing none other than Priscilla Bariel and
"—Love? How quaint."
Amid the scarlet inferno that dominated the world, Yorna ignited a flame in one eye and kicked off the ground with effortless grace.
Her kimono hem fluttering elegantly, Yorna — tall even for a woman — planted her long legs upon the earth. In the next instant, the ground heaved upward, lending both speed and momentum to her charge.
This was not the Demon Capital, Kaos Frame. It was simply the land surrounding the imperial capital, the Emperor's very doorstep.
There had been a time when Yorna gazed toward the capital from afar — impossibly far, beyond the memories of a past when she was far removed from both Yorna Mishigure and Sandra Benedict.
The capital had seemed a place forever beyond her reach, so noble and untouchable that she dared not even whisper the word "beloved" while holding hands with a man of vastly different station. And yet, she had gazed at it nonetheless.
Yorna's Soul Marriage Art could only be bestowed upon those she truly loved.
—If so, then how could she not love the man for whom her affection would never fade, and the very land that man had cherished, no matter how many ages passed?
"—It was taken from me."
The Volakia Emperor known as the "Thorn King," and a young girl named Iris who fell in love with him.
Many praised the "Thorn King" and blessed the couple's future — moved by the young girl's courage, intelligence, and fortitude in sheltering, supporting, and choosing to walk alongside an emperor driven from his throne.
But that future was destroyed by the betrayal of a ratman deceived by a minister's honeyed words and a werewolf who exploited the ratman's ambition and pride.
The paradise the "Thorn King" had planned to build, the promised world he had meant to create — all of it was shelved. Consumed by obsession, the Emperor used the blood of the traitors to bind the soul of the girl who was meant to vanish forever to the soil of the Empire.
Since then, again and again, changing her name and her form, Iris was reborn, over and over.
She loved someone, was loved by someone, and continued to live.
And yet, despite everything, she could never bring herself to love this Volakia Empire — only the land of the Empire. Perhaps that was because the farther she strayed from the dream she had envisioned, the more hateful it seemed.
But still, when compared to what truly mattered, such things were trivial.
"—Love? How quaint."
It was not a question of whether she could love. It was simply a decision to love.
The Empire was never a place where only happy memories resided. Whether in the days when she was Iris, or through the countless lifetimes that followed, happiness and sorrow always came as two sides of the same coin.
The beloved children Yorna had raised in the Demon Capital were no different — there were times when her heart swelled with tenderness, and times when their impudence made her blood boil.
"—It is all equally fulfilling."
When "love" locked into place within her with an audible click, the burning earth erupted in acclamation.
The ground — meant only to receive and bear her footfalls — began to gambol with high spirits, its exuberant tremors serving as footholds to launch her high into the sky.
Spinning through the air, Yorna's thick-heeled foot came down upon Arakia, suspended above.
Arakia attempted to phase through the blow by merging with the surrounding atmosphere. But the kick tore through her brown skin, striking true.
"—Eh?"
Her shoulder exploded from the impact. Arakia gasped at the impossible force.
Whether fire, wind, or shadow — whatever Arakia had merged with, her body burst apart under the blow, and her expression, so rarely showing emotion, twisted with pain and shock.
For Arakia, who had leveraged the full extent of her Spirit Eater properties to maintain supremacy against every opponent she had ever faced, this must have been a bolt from the blue.
Yet Yorna was neither surprised nor satisfied by the fact that it had connected. Planting the heel that had landed the kick as a pivot, she straightened and flicked her pipe, unleashing a follow-up strike.
"Ha—uh—wh—"
The repeated sound of something hard striking flesh echoed as Arakia's expression distorted again and again.
Unable to comprehend what was happening to her, a thin, strangled sound escaped Arakia's throat. It was less a reaction to the pain itself than a refusal to accept the fact of receiving it.
Her eyes — both the seeing one and the blind one — flew wide open, demanding an answer from Yorna.
"If there is love in it, then no amount of crude hesitation serves any purpose."
"Love…?"
"I believe she is the milk-sister of my own ill-mannered daughter?"
At Yorna's demurely smiling answer, Arakia's face filled with incomprehension.
Unable to understand the answer even after receiving it, Arakia clenched her jaw and took to the sky at high speed, unleashing a barrage of catastrophic natural phenomena — earth, fire, metal, water — upon her foe.
Caught in midair, Yorna had no means of evading the incoming onslaught.
"Well, before I reconciled with the Empire, things would have been different."
With loosened lips, Yorna spoke as she dashed through the sky, planting her feet on the successive rising pillars of earth.
The Volakia Empire — a source of deep grudges, yet also abundant happy memories. If she had decided to love the whole of it, then the earth answered Yorna's passion with fervent devotion.
Fire rain, water lances, waves of wind, slivers of light — she dodged them all and closed in on Arakia once more.
The earth rose to meet Yorna wherever she stepped. Arakia's advantage of being airborne — now rendered meaningless against Yorna, who could reach the same height with ease — could no longer serve her.
"—Ugh."
Merging with the spirits in the atmosphere to phase through enemy attacks — that evasion had become so habitual that Arakia was slow to react to the danger of Yorna's approach, and the kick struck her squarely in the exposed torso.
The force of the blow burst through the back of Arakia's body, and the great wind with which she had merged wavered, sending ripples through the red-dyed world of flame.
"—!"
At last, even Arakia's expression was carved with pain, surpassing mere shock.
It was proof that Yorna's attacks were undeniably driving Arakia back. The momentum had swung decisively in Yorna's favor. Yet Yorna herself felt no room for optimism.
Because— "Someone like you…!"
Cheeks twisted with pain and fury, Arakia swung a wooden branch down upon Yorna.
It was an unremarkable piece of wood, merely picked up from the ground, yet within the Spirit Eater's grasp it displayed its true worth — like a legendary sword or divine artifact, invincible even amid the cataclysm.
Yorna caught the sweeping branch by pressing her pipe against the arm that wielded it. The corners of her mouth trembled ever so slightly as the two locked eyes at close range, locked in a stalemate.
"Ngh…"
The force of the branch pressed through the pipe and wrung a groan from Yorna's throat.
The Soul Marriage Art transferred pain and injury into Yorna's beloved personal effects — items she had adorned herself with. Naturally, this required an appropriate depth of attachment and its tangible backing.
Yet none of Yorna's possessions — from her hairpins to her earrings to her obi clips — had been diminished. They were offerings from her beloved children, the inhabitants of the Demon Capital. And still, Yorna herself had borne the pain.
The answer was simple and clear: love must never be a one-way street.
"—Love? How quaint."
If she had decided to love the Empire in all its entanglement of love and hatred, and had decided to discipline Arakia — with whom she had fallen into enmity — then she could not simply impose her love unilaterally. She had to aim for mutual love.
That was the Soul Marriage Art of Yorna Mishigure being used in precisely the opposite manner from its intended purpose.
△▼△▼△▼△ "————"
In the sky above, Yorna and Arakia faced off, their fierce exchange unfolding at a furious pace.
Priscilla, who bore the flame of love in one eye and held the blindingly radiant Solar Blade in her hand, furrowed her brow at the sight of her mother and milk-sister clashing without restraint.
As a fellow practitioner of the Soul Marriage Art, she understood the logic behind what Yorna was doing.
But precisely because she was a fellow practitioner, Priscilla also understood how taboo it was.
"Fixating solely on the technique's strengths while ignoring its weaknesses entirely — Mother is being reckless."
She could see at a glance how Yorna had bypassed Arakia's Spirit Eater properties to land her attacks. But doing so demanded exquisite control of the art, along with the willingness to take wounds herself.
The Soul Marriage Art, which both Yorna and Priscilla wielded with such composure, was a technique so rare that it had lacked a successor throughout history. Its practical use required a miraculous sense of balance.
Put simply, Yorna's gamble risked not only losing her ability to reach Arakia — it could sever her connection to the beloved children who had gifted her those items.
"————"
That Priscilla was not so foolish or heartless as to fail to grasp the reason Yorna had taken this desperate gamble.
Yorna had challenged that taboo for Priscilla's sake.
—To prevent Priscilla from having to raise her hand against Arakia.
"With my Solar Blade, there is no need for Mother to take such risks."
The Solar Blade's true essence was to cut what one wished to cut, to burn what one wished to burn.
If she unleashed its true power — the white flame — she could deliver her strike even against Arakia, whose properties allowed her to turn all natural phenomena to her advantage. The blade would override those properties entirely.
It was possible to attack while preserving the Soul Marriage Art's effects.
Indeed, it was Priscilla who had demonstrated this in their reunion after nearly ten years. Under the present circumstances, the idea of employing the same method herself never even crossed her mind.
That was precisely why Yorna had bonked Priscilla on the head and stepped forward to fight in her place.
"To think she would bonk me on the head as though…"
As if she were trying to be her mother — the retort rose to her lips, but it was nothing more than the truth.
And reflecting on her own heart, Priscilla admitted that before Yorna had tapped her on the head with that pipe, she had been uncharacteristically heated. She had even thought that she ought to deal with Arakia personally.
However— "The karmic burden of being a Spirit Eater, then."
For a created race like Arakia to possess such a uniquely warped nature was inevitable. Wielding great power demanded an equivalent price. The same was true of Priscilla's Solar Blade and Soul Marriage Art, and no less so of Arakia's Spirit Eater ability.
Of course, when Priscilla had taken Arakia under her command, she had been told what kind of being Arakia had been born as. She had even investigated on her own. But she had not been sufficiently considerate of the consequences — of giving Arakia, who could not stand without a pillar to lean on, a pillar named Priscilla.
"Were a sun like mine to be hidden, the world would be tantamount to one sealed in darkness."
For ten years, Arakia had lived in a world sealed in darkness.
Was there no one who — even if filling Priscilla's role was impossible — could have cast even a single ray of light into that shadow?
When she had decided Arakia should not be brought along, she had thought that if anyone could have done it, it might have been Vincent.
"Unlikely."
Priscilla grimaced at her own thought and discarded it.
At the time, she — still young and clever, back when she was Prisca — had been mistaken. She had believed her brother could be entrusted with it, but that had been a flawed assumption.
As she learned more about how the imperial capital's defense had been pushed toward such extremes, and the caliber of the forces Vincent Volakia had gathered — every divine general except Arakia — she came to understand.
Vincent had been prepared to fight something far greater than a rebellion. And at the end of that fight, he had never intended to survive. When it was over, to whom had he planned to leave the throne he would no longer occupy?
He could not have redirected Arakia's loyalty for the sake of that unknown someone.
"Ridiculous."
He orchestrated everything on paper, and the world was built to match that blueprint as fact. That was Vincent's strength. But no matter how brilliant a strategist he was, if his envisioned endgame was flawed, the distortion in the constructed world became undeniable.
The price of that blind spot would come for him eventually. Perhaps it would come during this very battle— "We were apart for ten years. High time you let go of your little sister, dear brother."
Draping the dishonor onto the absent party, Priscilla stepped forward.
The sky blazed red with fire. The earth ran wild under the whims of the "Extreme Spectrum." Heaven and earth alike seemed to reject the intervention of a sun named Priscilla.
Yet the words that Priscilla Bariel — no, the girl who had once been Prisca Benedict — spoke to this presumptuous world were singular.
"The world was made to suit my convenience."
△▼△▼△▼△ To call what Arakia felt in that moment humiliation or disgrace would have been inaccurate.
Humiliation required a name that could be tarnished by defeat.
Disgrace required a pride that could be sullied by falling behind.
Arakia had neither name nor pride to cling to.
She held the most honored rank of General in the Empire — the "Two," the highest of the Nine Divine Generals outside of Cecilius, who was universally deemed a complete aberration. She possessed the Spirit Eater ability, a power without equal across the entire Empire, perhaps the entire world.
Yet despite being blessed with the status and strength that others would kill for, none of it could serve as the "pillar" that supported the individual known as Arakia.
She defined herself as a beast that roamed the wild.
A beast that survived by hunting other creatures had no pride in its own fangs or claws. —No, that was merely what Arakia believed. Perhaps beasts had their own pride and code.
If so, then Arakia's self-perception fell even short of being a beast.
Fire, wind, water, earth, light, shadow — phenomena that could not even be touched.
Phenomena without will, that simply brought about what was requested of them.
Arakia wanted to be not a person, not a beast, but a phenomenon.
Just as phenomena felt no humiliation or disgrace, she wanted to be one of them.
If so, then— "I am—!"
Facing the sword-storm of attacks raining down upon her, Arakia tried to counter by becoming wind. But she could not manage it. The wind was caught, and blows hammered their weight and pain into Arakia's core.
A strained cry escaped her. Her expression twisted with anguish. As a Spirit Eater, she was seldom made to feel pain in battle. But she was by no means weak against it.
Arakia had experienced every conceivable form of suffering since she was a child.
To obtain this Spirit Eater ability, the adults around her had subjected Arakia to every ritual and procedure they could conceive of, inscribing them into her body, over and over again.
Pain did not frighten her. Recalling the past did not make her legs go numb.
What was greater than the pain, what truly shook Arakia, was the fact that she could be reached.
Fire, even if extinguished by water, did not cry out in pain or die.
Was Arakia nothing more than a fire that would weep and perish when doused?
She was terrified of being denied — of being told she could not even be a phenomenon.
"I—"
"—Be quiet."
Urged on by mounting frustration, Arakia opened her mouth to speak — only for her opponent's open palm to strike her across the face.
The force of the slap obliterated Arakia's head from the neck up, temporarily merging with the flame. The head reformed moments later, but the pain remained, and the wound to Arakia's spirit was just as real.
Not humiliation, not disgrace — the terror of having her very existence denied. Unwilling to submit to it, Arakia desperately heaved the earth upward and thrust her palm at the incoming Yorna.
She did not understand the mechanism, but both Prisca and Yorna had been deflecting Arakia's attacks to some other location. The instant Yorna sealed that technique, Arakia's attacks began to land — and simultaneously, Yorna's began to reach her as well.
"Just once — one hit — that's all I need."
Yorna was enhancing her physical ability through some unknown technique or magic, but if she stopped using the evasion technique, Arakia's attacks would connect cleanly.
If only they connected— "The Princess and…!"
If the bothersome Yorna could be removed, it would be just her and Prisca alone.
If that happened, everything would work out again. Surely.
*'If there's something you want, it's more constructive to go take it than to wait for it, you know?'* Yes, Todd had said that too.
Strangely, Todd's words resonated deeply within Arakia's heart.
She did not think it was because he spoke conveniently, or because of any human favoritism.
Todd's words carried no emotion toward Arakia whatsoever. And that was comforting. Just as humans did not love fire or water, Todd felt nothing toward Arakia.
Being treated as an empty thing — that had been Arakia's salvation.
And so— "————"
The wooden branch in her hand ignited from base to tip in an instant, turning to black ash.
The branch was nothing special — a mere found stick with no inherent power. It served only as a convenient marker to direct the flow of Arakia's power when she willed it.
The fact that the branch burned to nothing was proof that she had unleashed a level of firepower that required no such guide.
Arakia, the "Spirit Eater" — rated among the strongest in the Empire — had never unleashed her full power in all her life except during her skirmishes with Cecilius Segmunt.
Because the opponent was Cecilius, no damage had been inflicted. But Arakia's rampage — which had reduced the northern district of the imperial capital to a scorched wasteland — had earned her a decree from the Emperor himself: this would not be permitted a second time. Though Chisha later proposed converting the wasteland into a reservoir, the power concentrated in that single strike had been enough to redraw the map.
"The world was made to suit my convenience."
—That declaration, delivered with a voice brimming with composure and confidence, was swept away by the slash that followed.
The flash of the Solar Blade swallowed the flames that should have scorched the world black.
Prisca leaped to Yorna's side. Her hair ornament shattered, she let her long, beautiful hair stream in the scorching wind as her eyes — one ablaze with flame, one not — fixed upon Arakia.
Then— "Mother."
The instant her lips moved, Yorna — who had circled behind Prisca — launched a devastating kick.
Prisca pressed the sole of her own boot against the back of that kick, converting its momentum into her own forward thrust. She shot toward Arakia at a speed mistaken for light.
Still in flight, Prisca raised the Solar Blade overhead— "Arakia."
That single word sealed every trace of Arakia's movement. A flash followed.
Arakia's reflexive defensive action — merging with the atmosphere to evade — was crushed completely. Prisca's slash pierced through her entire body without mercy.
"————"
Arakia's consciousness severed.
Ironically, just as when she had scorched the northern district of the capital — the moment after unleashing her greatest firepower, she was struck down by Cecilius's blade. The same pattern.
But just before the end, she heard.
"My Solar Blade cuts what I wish to cut, and burns what I wish to burn. —And it strikes what I wish to strike."
As she spoke, Prisca had swung not the edge of the Solar Blade, but its hilt — aimed at herself. Falling, Arakia never noticed.
△▼△▼△▼△ That boy was laughing. At all times, in all circumstances, he was laughing.
Even if the sky changed color, the earth cracked violently apart, and a cataclysm the likes of which his blue eyes had never witnessed engulfed the world — even if an unprecedented event loomed before him, he laughed.
Was he mad? Ah, he was mad.
Was he drunk? Ah, he was drunk.
Not on battle, not on wine, not on women, not on blood.
Mad, mad, mad, mad. Drunk, drunk, drunk. The boy kept laughing.
If he didn't— "—A dull actor's stage wouldn't even catch the eye of such busy people, would it?"
Sometimes tears fell for no reason. But could one truly laugh for no reason at all?
If so, then laughter was the beginning of something. Laughter meant the start of a story.
Whether it was a story already begun or one starting from this moment, he could not say.
But to laugh — that, the boy declared, was proof of one's resolve to step onto the stage.
And therefore— "By all means, do try laughing! The stage is all set, everything's been prepared with such care. You might as well go for a hearty laugh — it'll make both the winner and the loser feel better!"
"————"
"Oh my, is it so surprising to see me here? If you're wondering whether one of your companions betrayed you or whispered something — rest assured, that is entirely unfounded! I simply followed my gut and made my way here on a hunch!"
He clapped his hands together with a bright smile, stamped the ground for dramatic effect.
Behind him stood the retaining wall of the reservoir, cracked and gushing water. And there, before this boy — Cecilius Segmunt — stood the figure of his adversary.
It was— "What ought to be done with you — that is a most troublesome question. —In short, it requires careful consideration."
A "witch" of short stature, trailed by a multitude of dead.