86 - Volume 5 - Chapter Pr

May even death not do us part. 

—VIKTOR IDINAROHK, ARTIFICIAL FAIRY OUTLINE 

PROLOGUE 

THE KING OF CORPSES 

Arcs Styrie, capital of the United Kingdom of Roa Gracia for the past millennium. At its northernmost tip sat the royal palace, its throne room currently dim, as if to symbolize the absence of the sun’s blessing upon this northern land. 

However, contrary to the impression the term northern land may give to some, Roa Gracia was an affluent nation. Though its climate was ill-suited for cultivating grain or fruit common in the south, its lands were fertile, were graced with large rivers, and possessed rich mineral veins. A chandelier crafted from such minerals—gold and diamonds—cast a brilliant glow on the resplendent decor of the throne room. The light accentuated the shadows of the princes and princesses present. 

The United Kingdom was a militaristic country, and as such, all members of the aristocracy were men and women of war. At the same time, this country was the last remaining despotic monarchy on the continent. It was a nation that still adhered to its archaic system of values. 

The very personification of those beliefs, the king, began to speak from his throne. He wore a crisp military uniform, and his whitening reddish-brown hair and amethyst eyes marked him as a Viola, the race that had lived in the Kingdom since antiquity, as well as an Amethysta, one of noble birth. 

His authoritative tone rolled like thunder, deep and grave, lending credence to his title as king of the frozen north. 

“Viktor, my son.” 

“Father.” 

The one who answered him was a young prince in his late teens, standing on the stairs leading up to the throne. While normally one would kneel when in audience with the king, his royal privilege allowed him to stand upright before him. His reddish-black hair resembled the coloring of a bird of prey, and his eyes were purple lightning. While purple eyes were the key identifier of the Amethysta, his hue of violet was especially pronounced. 

His hair was the dark, blackish red of eagle plumage hardy enough to withstand the unforgiving northern winter, his eyes the Imperial violet of the gemstones yielded by the Dragon Corpse mountain range, which stood as the shield of the country. His countenance was equal parts elegance and sharpness, the features of a monster made of ice. 

He was the fifth prince, Viktor Idinarohk: the eighteen-year-old commander of the United Kingdom’s southern front—the front lines of the war against the Legion—and the youngest child of the current king. 

“Our ally, the Federal Republic of Giad, has formed an independent detachment by the name of the Eighty-Sixth Strike Package. Do you know of them?” 

“Yes, Father. They are an elite unit with the express purpose of suppressing key Legion territories and thinning their ranks. During their first battle, they struck at a Legion production site within San Magnolia and pushed back the enemy lines.” 

The prince replied to the sudden question without hesitation. He’d returned from the front lines, where information was limited and scarce, only a day ago, and it was a question regarding a single unit from another country. Yet he answered as if it were simple arithmetic. 

“They failed to capture a Weisel and an Admiral as they were ordered, allowed the escape of the new High-Mobility type, Phönix, and took considerable losses from the new Sheepdogs, so their first mission can be seen as a failure… But they did accomplish their primary objective. And their dragging the two new Legion types to the fray ahead of time is a great achievement. If nothing else, it granted our country sufficient time to develop countermeasures.” 

“Indeed.” 

As his eyes glinted like blades, the king nodded his head, which sat atop his chiseled physique. A grave, earnest nod. 

“It has been decided our United Kingdom will cooperate with that unit. The contents of said cooperation will be an exchange of technologies and dispatching of personnel… Vika—you will be joining them. Go forth and eradicate the Legion.” 

“Ah yes, Father. I will be off.” 

Opposite the resplendent, imposing throne sat a host of retainers. 

Could you go run a little errand for me? 

Sure thing, Dad. 

It was as simple as that. 

As the other princes looked on, trying to restrain their exasperation, the two continued their exchange. 

“The coming operation will see the brunt of our forces on the second line, but after that we should have the leisure to dispatch forces to your aid. How many would you like?” 

“I’ll be just fine with my personal unit. The Strike Package is a brigade-size force as is, and I doubt any front really has the leisure to send away any of its forces.” 

Which, when simply put, translated to… 

Well, while you’re at it, why don’t you use the change to treat yourself to something? 

Nah, Dad, it’s fine. 

This was the true, casual nature of their conversation. 

The prince, incidentally, was clad not in the United Kingdom’s collared violet-and-black uniform…but in a normal black school uniform. His schoolbag sat at his feet. 

He looked as if he had just returned home. 

In fact, near the entrance to the audience chamber, the grand chamberlain was cradling his head in his hands after he’d frantically and fruitlessly begged the prince to at least let him put away his schoolbag. 

This was not offhand negligence. This luxurious castle and its many retainers were a mere backdrop for this king and his child, the prince. There was no need to stand on ceremony or jump through hoops to appear dignified. This was a simple show of power. 

The prime minister, who stood near the throne, bowed his head. He had light-purple eyes, graying hair reminiscent of fox fur, and a white beard. Despite being a Taaffe, a second-class citizen, this old retainer had climbed up the ranks with wit and intelligence and served the court since the former king’s rule. He’d already grown used to the royals’ insolent conduct. 

“If I may speak freely, Your Majesty, Prince Viktor and his Songbirds are the crux of our national defense. Will we be able to maintain our defensive lines in his absence?” 

“Refrain, minister. If my presence or lack thereof are what our ability to hold the line leans on, it would stand as evidence of negligence on the side of our men, to say nothing of yourself. I say take this opportunity to fortify yourselves.” 

Without even sparing him a glance, the prince cut down the prime minister’s words. The old retainer smiled and bowed his head deeper. The decision to deploy forces to the Strike Package, as well as which personnel would go, had already been approved by the Imperial council. This was all to make said decisions known, as some of the princes lacked the privilege to take part in the council, and the minister’s words represented the doubts they all held. 

As such, this audience was done with the implicit understanding that this was the case, but there would always be those who were dense to the atmosphere. Following the minister’s statement, objections rose from among the princes’ and princesses’ lines. 

“Father! This war with the Legion is all Viktor’s fault to begin with! Giving this insane Serpent of Shackles any further responsibilities is simply—” 

“Silence, Boris! Who gave you permission to speak?” 

A single bellow from the throne made the third prince shrink back as if he’d been struck by lightning. The stifled chuckling of the first princess and the court warblers of her clique echoed through the room, along with the sound of the second prince—who was the third prince’s de facto superior—clicking his tongue. After watching his son, his own flesh and blood, go back to the line, the king returned his gaze to his youngest child with a teasing smile. 

“If one were to tally all your accomplishments up till now, not only would your right to the throne be restored, but your place in the succession order would surely rise above that of Boris.” 

“I’ll be just fine without that. The status would just be a pain. You can have the credit go to Brother Zafar, as always.” 

Speaking in a manner that was all too unfitting in the presence of the king, without so much as a hint of reservation, the prince cast his gaze backward. 

“…If that’s all, can I go? I haven’t been to school in a while, and I have a mountain of work to get through.” 

The king smiled wryly and waved his hand, as if shooing the boy away. 

“Very well… Try to finish it before supper. I long to hear your stories of the front lines.” 

“By your will, Father.” 

It was only now that the prince bowed in a very elegant fashion and turned to leave. His footsteps clicked loudly against the throne room’s floor, which was elaborately designed with a crystalline, five-colored pattern of a butterfly’s wings. The moment before he left the room, someone’s voice drowned out the sound of his footsteps. 

“…You damnable, doll-obsessed King of Corpses…!” 

Whoever said it certainly intended for the prince to hear it, but it was still a somewhat restrained vilification. Regarding the owner of the voice with a sneer, the prince left the throne room. 

When he opened the door, he was greeted by the faintly medicinal scent of mixed black tea and his older brother’s smile. 

“Welcome home, Vika… Though you returned to the castle the night prior, no?” 

“Ah, Brother Zafar. Yes, I arrived late, so I didn’t have time to greet you.” 

Vika addressed his eldest brother, who was currently pouring him a cup of tea with a childish grin. It was Zafar Idinarohk—the crown prince of the United Kingdom of Roa Gracia. They were in his personal chamber, which was built of marble gorgeously inlaid with amber and was decorated with polished ebony furniture. 

The brothers were quite similar, but a ten-year age gap granted Zafar’s features a certain well-formed symmetry and his voice the pitch of a fine instrument. His reddish-black hair, which was now held back with a thin silk ribbon and an emerald hairpin, was the same as his younger brother’s, as were his Imperial violet eyes. 

Sitting down in the opposite chair as prompted, Vika watched as a chamberlain set tea snacks and sugared, boiled rose petals on the table with the acute motions of a mechanical doll. As the chamberlain left the room, Vika asked, “Is the situation really that bad?” 

As Zafar observed him wordlessly, Vika shrugged and went on: 

“When I’m on the front lines, I’m unable to stay abreast of every little thing that goes on in the Kingdom. Not retreating during that last large-scale offensive was honestly the most we could manage.” 

“Given how badly you’re struggling, surely you realize the war situation’s gotten critical… We have the results of the staff officers’ preliminary calculations.” 

Elegantly lifting a silver spoonful of sugared petals to his mouth, Zafar lingered on the fragrance and refined sweetness. He then continued. 

“At this rate, we won’t make it to next spring.” 

Vika’s expression did not waver in the slightest. 

“So that’s why they swallowed their pride and asked Giad—the country that had its land stolen by the common folk—for help. ‘Technology exchange’ and ‘personnel dispatch’ are just excuses used to sugarcoat their fragile ego,” Vika scoffed. “…Trivial rubbish. The Imperial council is nothing more than a gathering of self-aggrandizing crones.” 

“What would the royalty have left if you took away their vanity, Vika? Have them dress in rags and they’ll learn soon enough that nobility and splendor are but an illusion.” 

So said the crown prince. The blood running through his veins, cultivated by dozens of generations over one thousand years, boasted unparalleled beauty. The dignity with which he lifted his porcelain cup was enough to cause anyone to regard him as an aristocrat with a single glance. 

Observing the younger prince, who could have been posing for a royal portrait, Zafar continued. 

“As you’ve said before, the Federacy is under considerable pressure itself, even if not quite to the same extent. They’re the ones who asked for assistance with their operation, and they’re also the ones who took the bait when we proposed the technology exchange.” 

The Federacy had maintained the largest territory and population since the war with the Legion had broken out, and it likely still maintained the strongest position out of all the other countries. Despite being a former world power, the United Kingdom paled in comparison when it came to land and population. And still, the United Kingdom had lost only half of the Dragon Corpse mountain range and had maintained its defensive line since, an achievement the Federacy was likely eager to learn the truth behind. 

Perhaps they expected a new weapon or possibly a new kind of strategy. Whatever it was, they expected it to help defend their country. And knowing that, Zafar smiled thinly. 

“Yes. Your repulsive, if lovely, little Songbirds.” 

“I doubt the Federacy would make use of them if they learned how they worked… That’s probably why, isn’t it?” 

Given the technology wouldn’t be of any use to the Federacy, it would hardly be missed even if the United Kingdom did hand it over. That was why that overly prideful minister of technology had okayed it. Humans really are as sinful as can be, Vika thought. Even in a situation where tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed, they were still absorbed in petty rivalries. 

“The Federacy had other reasons to ask for cooperation. So be it…,” said Zafar. “There was another condition in our agreement with them that Father didn’t voice in the audience chamber. We will give that to them without fail. No complaints, I hope?” 

“…The Merciless Queen.” 

“‘Come find me,’ it said. The message to the Strike Package officer must have held a great deal of meaning. A remonstrance for submission or some sort of negotiation. Perhaps it will try to provide some kind of information… It may sound like wishful thinking, but the chances of it wanting to end the conflict now that it has spread to its own homeland aren’t exactly zero, you know.” 

“Yes, I suppose there’s no guarantee she wasn’t some eccentric Imperial, and she may have set a safety net or two in case things go awry. But that’s all it is. I’m surprised the Federacy went along with it.” 

“So long as there is a chance Ms. Birkenbaum is involved, that’s all they need to know. If nothing else, they might draw the Legion’s tactical algorithm out of her… And the only remaining person capable of making such judgment calls regarding her character is, at this point, you alone.” 

“I haven’t spoken to her that much. If anything, the Republic’s researchers knew her better… Oh. But they were Eighty-Six, no? In which case, they no longer number among the living.” 

Vika had heard of the Republic of San Magnolia’s persecution of the Eighty-Six. Surrounded by the Legion and with their backs against the wall, the Republic’s Alba had chosen not to liberate themselves from the situation but instead to blind themselves to it and shift the responsibility to another party, leading to a pathetic conclusion. 

“Well, come what may, I’ll act as I always do,” said the younger prince. “I’ll trust in the decisions of Father and the Kingdom… Even if I die, in the end all you lose is another dog.” 

Zafar gave a slight grunt and tilted his head at Vika, who added with a shrug: 

“The Eighty-Sixth Strike Package. They’re all Eighty-Six, aren’t they…? They may be commoners, but even the Federacy’s top brass found them too much to manage. Same as me.” 

“Vika.” 

“Calling them an ‘elite unit’ has a classy ring to it, but all they’re doing is sending out these monsters they can’t control to maintain the front lines, banking on them buying into their propaganda. The survival rate in dispatch operations is low. In a unit that specializes in those kinds of operations, the value of a squad member’s life doesn’t amount to much. Just like in the operation against the Morpho.” 

The child soldiers back then were Eighty-Six, too, Vika thought, narrowing his eyes. “Lives that don’t amount to much”? If that’s the case, in times of peace, they would amount to even less. 

“If you hunt down the wolves, you rid yourself of the hounds you used to hunt them down, as well. No one needs a ferocious beast in peacetime. If the enemy and the monster you use to kill it end up finishing each other off, it saves you the trouble of dirtying your own hands putting one or the other down.” 

Zafar knitt his coiffed brows anxiously. 

“You’re no beast, Vika.” 

“Yes. To you and Father, perhaps.” 

With a grin, Vika sipped his tea. The sweet floral aroma of cornflowers blossoming in the field at the Kingdom’s south wafted into his nostrils, their blooms a shade of blue nowhere to be found at this time of year. 

“But can the same be said for the rest of the world? To them, I’m just like the Eighty-Six… A monster in human form.”