Shinwa Densetsu no Eiyuu no Isekaitan - Volume 9 - Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Grim Resolve

“You return, child.” The voice sounded surprised by her audacity.

Liz opened her eyes to a presence, overwhelmingly immense. It emanated from the figure before her.

She stood in a world of pure white. Before her rose a chair decorated with gold, silver, and jewels gathered from all across Aletia—a throne of singular opulence that spoke of a bloodsoaked history. A figure sat upon it, but as ever, she could not tell who he was. Despite the blinding light of his surroundings, his face remained shrouded in shadow.

“What would you ask?” he intoned. “What do you seek of me?”

The voice hung oddly in the air, rich with both the depth of the onset of old age and the vigor of an adult in his prime. Its curious timbre lingered in the memory. His slender frame radiated both the gallantry of a proven youth and the green freshness of a plucky young boy. Liz knew at a glance that this was no ordinary man, but she had seen him many times by now—enough that she was no longer intimidated or overawed.

“I want the truth,” she said.

The entity’s gaze seemed to spear her clean through the heart. “You are not ready.”

She grunted. His refusal fell upon her like a physical weight.

“You are too hasty, child. Who are you to seek the truth when you know not yet the world’s vastness?”

The weight pressed down like a giant’s foot, trying to force her down, but she struck the ground with a fist and it fell away.

“Oh? You would resist my eyes?” There was more than a note of surprise in the man’s voice. “You have grown, child.”

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Liz shouted in the loudest voice she could muster, “Three years may seem like nothing to you, but it’s been a long, long time for me!”

She had run as fast as she could to keep pace with Hiro, chasing him breathlessly. Never again would she be left behind.

“But I’m not there yet!”

It was not a matter of strength or of talent or of experience. A distance remained that no amount of effort could close. She knew what it was, and she had tried her hardest to surmount it, but no matter what understanding she displayed, it refused to narrow. There was a gulf between them that was too wide to breach.

After all, she did not truly know who Hiro was.

“So tell me,” she said, “who is he, really?”

She knew that Hiro was Mars, the War God.

She knew that Hiro was the Hero King of Twinned Black.

She knew that Hiro was the Black Prince.

She knew that Hiro was the Desperation.

She knew that Hiro was the One-Eyed Dragon.

She knew that Hiro was Surtr, the Black-Winged Lord.

“Born to rule the battlefield, a strategist to transcend the world of men, the wearer of the mask, the arbiter of victory...” She counted them off on her fingers one by one. “I know so many different sides of him. I can barely open a history book without stumbling across one of his names. Aura and I have been scouring the records for three years, and Lævateinn has shown me things I could never have found on my own.” She bit her lip in shame. “But I still don’t know who he really is.”

She knew only who he had become after being dubbed the War God. Everything before that point was still a mystery to her. She clenched her fist and struck it against the ground once more, lamenting her own foolishness.

“He... Hiro appeared out of nowhere, didn’t he? Why?”

The mysterious man had been content to listen while she vented her frustrations, but now he spoke. “His arrival was fated. But I will tell you this: it was not a fate to be mourned.”

For the first time, his solemn demeanor seemed to crack.

“You know him better than you believe,” he said, his voice soft as if soothing a babe. A gentle smile spread across his face. “I know the answers, of course, but why tell you what you already know?”

He stepped down from the throne. As he grew closer, he reached out and roughly tousled her hair.

“You told me once that you glimpsed his past, and it broke your heart. Do you remember?”

“I do.”

Hiro’s face had been painted with grief, his expression a desperate attempt to hold back tears. The thought of it made her heart hurt.

“Hold those feelings dear, and they will lead you to the truth.” The man raised a finger. “My hopes live on in you. Thus have I entrusted you with everything I have to give.”

“Everything?”

“Nurture a strong heart, and keep it close. I asked that of you, did I not?”

He raised his finger to the sky. Liz looked up to see a great gate yawning above them. Despite its enormous size, it was bare of decoration, the intricate engravings on its surface the only trace of ornamentation. In a word, it was modest, a round wooden portal without a hint of artifice. Yet the power it exuded was as awe-inspiring as nature’s most sublime wonders. Unlike Liz’s previous visits, it now stood slightly open.

“The future does not promise joy. Uncertainties and sorrows aplenty await you. But I will tell you this: do not despair. Your path will reveal itself beneath your feet.” The shadowed man spread his arms wide, and a reassuring smile spread across his face. “I look forward to our next meeting, child.”

The sudden farewell prompted Liz to look up, but the gate did not move.

“With apologies to her, this time you shall take a different way out.”

“What do you—”

As she looked back down, blinding light consumed her, so fierce she had to squeeze her eyes shut. Its brilliance felt like it was piercing her retinas, scorching her optic nerves, and setting her brain aflame.

“Aaagh!”

She grasped at her neck. It felt like her head was being wrenched from her shoulders. Her throat dried out, leaving her unable to breathe, and as her eyes welled up with tears...

“Gah!”

All at once, a pressure weighed down on her, as if she were rising from the bottom of the ocean. Agony forced her eyes open—and she was met with the familiar sight of her tent.

She looked around, gasping for air. White canvas lay all around. A lantern hung from the ceiling. The tent walls shook with the wind from outside.

“Ngh...”

The faceless man might at least have given her some warning, she thought. She could easily have been killed.

“Need...water...”

Her throat was so dry, it was excruciating. She reached for the carafe of water on her bedside table and gulped it down, not even pausing to pour it into the nearby goblet. In the palace, a retainer might have chided her for being improper, but there was no one to scold her here. Water spilled from her lips to trickle over her collarbone and down between her breasts, but she didn’t care. Only when the carafe was empty did she finally lay it back on the table.

With a sigh, she collapsed into a chair. “Next time I see you,” she growled at the ceiling, “you’re getting a punch in the jaw.”

At that moment, a flurry of footsteps approached from outside. “Liz,” a familiar voice said. “I have news.” It was as inflectionless as ever, but its slight lisp was endearing nonetheless.

“Come in.”

“Excuse me.”

A petite woman entered the tent, stiffly formal. A valedictorian graduate of the Imperial Training Academy and the youngest aide to ever join an imperial legion’s camp, Aura von Bunadala now served as one of Liz’s retainers and the chief strategist for the empire’s campaign to liberate Faerzen. Third Prince Brutahl had once dubbed her Aphrodite, the Warmaiden, and recently “the Silver-Haired Faerie” had joined her list of monikers.

She looked at Liz with a frown. “Before we talk, I want you to do something.”

Liz tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

Aura thrust out an accusing finger. “Put on some clothes. We can’t talk like that.”

“Really?” Liz looked down to see that she was in her underwear, but that surely wasn’t a problem. Aura was the only other one there.

Aura’s eyes nonetheless urged her to put something on. “What if a soldier walked in on us?”

“My handmaidens are in the next tent over. They’ll tell us if there’s an emergency. And if a man did come in without permission...” Liz’s eyes hardened. “Well, Lævateinn would soon deal with that.”

Aura’s shoulders slumped in dismay. “Please put something on. I don’t want anyone getting killed. You’re not who you were three years ago. You’re too much for women now, never mind men.”

Liz was about to ask exactly who she was supposed to have been three years ago, but Aura was already rummaging through her belongings. A balled-up cloak large enough to cover her came flying her way.

“Put it on.”

“All right, all right...” With a half-hearted reply, Liz shrugged the cloak on and sat back down in the chair. “Anyway, what’s this news you had for me?”

“The first army has been routed.” Aura’s grave tone spoke to the severity of the situation.

Liz’s face turned serious, and she waited for her to continue.

“It happened three days ago. I’ve just sent a messenger to the second army. I want them to hold position until we catch up.”

“Good thinking. Have them organize a task force to retrieve the wounded. We’ll dispatch some men from our forces to watch their perimeter.” Liz waited for Aura to nod before continuing. “How bad are the first army’s losses?”

“Bad. Ten thousand dead, at least five thousand seriously wounded. A messenger managed to escape and made his way back. He said High General von Cain was slain by a gray-haired man wielding some kind of sorcery.”

“A gray-haired man...wielding sorcery...”

The description triggered a memory: her last sight of Stovell. If he still looked the same, he was almost certainly the one who had cut down High General von Cain. Still, what was he doing in Faerzen? She pinched the skin between her eyebrows with an exhausted sigh. It was a relief that Scáthach had left when she had. The woman was already in a volatile state; if she had learned Stovell was on the field, there was no telling what she might have done.

“At least Scáthach isn’t here,” Liz said. “If she knew about this, she’d probably go charging in all by herself.”

“Do you really think it’s Stovell?” Aura asked.

“It’s likely. There aren’t many people who could kill a high general, and how many have gray hair and skin like a zlosta’s? It’s him, I’m certain of it.”

Two of the Spiritblade Sovereigns—Gandiva the Gale Sovereign and Mjölnir the Thunder Sovereign—remained in Stovell’s possession. Even a high general would be hard-pressed to triumph against that, spirit weapon or no. What was more, Stovell was now a Fallen. While each of the empire’s high generals was said to be able to hold their own against overwhelming odds, they would stand little chance against such a foe.

“Send the survivors back to the empire,” Liz said. “We’ll reorganize the second army once we catch up. As soon as we’re done, we’ll be crossing blades with Tigris and Scorpius.”

Aura nodded. “All right. I’ll consider how to best put them to use.”

“Has there been any word from the third army?”

“They say the people of Faerzen are blocking their way. They’ve had to stop and negotiate a way through.”

“Let’s try to stay in closer contact from here on out. We’ll need to coordinate with them to chase Six Kingdoms out of Faerzen. And warn them not to harm any of the commonfolk.”

“I’ll make sure they know.”

“All right. Sorry to ask out of nowhere, but could you call the rest of the aides to the command tent?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll head there myself once I’ve gotten dressed.”

“I’ll be waiting.” With a nod, Aura trotted out of the tent.

Liz picked up her uniform, put her arm through the sleeve, and deftly shrugged it on. Back in the palace, her ladies-in-waiting would have dressed her, but outside its walls, she preferred not to rely on others for such things. Rosa had chided her not to deny her subjects their jobs, which she had tried to bear in mind, but she still preferred to put her own clothes on.

Once she was dressed, she donned her cape and left the tent, picking up Lævateinn from where it leaned against the desk and thrusting it through her belt. A starry sky spread out above her. The stars felt especially close tonight.

She set out for the command tent. From all around, regardless of the late hour, came the noises of tens of thousands of soldiers. She had allowed the men a small amount of drink, and laughter echoed on all sides. The news of the first army’s rout didn’t seem to have proliferated through the ranks yet, but even if it did, it would make little difference to morale; the Knights of the Golden Lion, the Knights of the Royal Black, and the Knights of the Rose all rode with them, and with the empire’s elite troops on their side, no one imagined they could lose. What was more, they were led by the sixth princess. After her meteoric rise, the soldiers had no more doubts as to her capabilities as a commander, only ever greater expectations.

Just before Liz reached the command tent, she halted and turned to a dark spot outside the light of the bonfires. “Show yourself,” she commanded.

“Dear me. When did you notice I was here?” Stones crunched underfoot as a hooded figure stepped out of the darkness.

“I watched you come in. I have to say, it takes guts to walk straight into our camp.”

The intruder blinked for a second, seeming genuinely caught off guard, but soon smoothed it over with a smile. “Impressive. I see your eyes are just as remarkable as mine.”

Liz’s eyes narrowed. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing. Thoughtless ramblings, nothing more. Pay them no mind.” With a shake of their head, the hooded figure bent into a bow. “Celia Estrella Elizabeth von Grantz of the Grantzian Empire. A pleasure to meet you, I’m sure. You may call me Nameless.”

Liz faintly recalled the name. It had recently been making a stir in Soleil. More to the point, it was also the name of First Prince Stovell’s álfen advisor who had disappeared after his failed rebellion.

“We meet at last, I suppose. What do you want with me?” She did not quite reach for Lævateinn, but she regarded Nameless with intense suspicion.

“You have grown quickly, haven’t you? Why, a mere two years ago, you were but a whimpering babe who was no use to anyone.”

Liz did not rise to the taunt. “Two years is long enough for anyone to grow up.”

“Truer words were never spoken.”

“Well? Have you come all this way just to trade barbs?”

“Not at all. I came to deliver a warning.”

“Then be quick about it. I’m a busy woman nowadays.”

Liz was remarkably composed for someone confronting an unexpected intruder, and it seemed to make Nameless wary. “Beware Lord Surtr of Baum, Your Highness.” The álf spoke with audible care. “I have reason to believe he plots to overthrow the empi—”

Without warning, the ground beneath Nameless’s feet exploded in flame. The camp turned bright as day as a plume of crimson fire erupted from the earth.

“Two years ago, I swore a vow. And part of it was not to let people like you turn me against him.”

Liz directed her words not at the pillar of flame but off to the side, where Nameless was now standing.

“And you have no reservations at all?” the álf asked.

“I promised I’d believe in him, no matter what. So watch what you say.” Blue flames coiled around Liz’s fist. She grinned, beautiful and dauntless. “Next time, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

The kind sixth princess of two years ago would not have been so ready to issue a death sentence. Nameless stepped back, a little intimidated, before realizing what had occurred and regarding Liz anew, now a little rattled.

“You have grown strong indeed, haven’t you?”

The álf looked around. The fire had attracted attention, and alarm was spreading. The crunch of boots echoed loud in the night air, closing around them like a net. Raised voices converged on their location.

“I daresay it is time for me to take my leave.” Nameless bowed politely. “Until we meet again.”

Liz flashed a grin. “Next time, I won’t hold back. I hope you’re ready.”

As the álf melted soundlessly into the night, Liz set off in the direction of the command tent. She arrived to find Aura’s head peeking out from the entrance.

“What was that noise?” the girl asked, her eyebrows furrowing in suspicion.

Liz looked away awkwardly, putting a finger to her chin. “Um... My mistake. Could you tell the men it was just Lævateinn getting up to mischief?”

“Pardon?”

An indignant little flame sprouted from Lævateinn as Aura cocked her head.

＊＊＊＊＊

“So that is Lævateinn, the Blade of the End... Majestic, I must say.”

The flame had faded away like the setting sun, but its warmth still lingered in the air. Ludurr Freyr von Ingunar stared into the darkness, the spectacle seared into his eyeballs only serving to stoke his ambition.

“What unexpected fortune to witness it here and now. It was well worth joining this campaign in person.”

A young retainer of House Muzuk, he had a curiously ephemeral quality, as if he were only half there. One might have suspected it was because of his slight build, but the more likely culprit was the sickly pallor of his skin. He looked around. Panicked soldiers were emerging from their tents, seemingly at a loss for what to do. Sooner or later, messengers would issue from the command tent, but until then, it seemed, the camp would be in chaos.

“I can guess what might have happened, but even so...you have made quite the scene, Your Highness.”

It was unwise to induce panic in the ranks at such a critical juncture for the empire. That said, from another point of view, the confusion had its benefits. It was perhaps the fastest way to learn which officers could respond effectively to a crisis. Some would issue levelheaded commands, while others would only contribute to the hysteria. Some might even injure their own subordinates in their inability to restore order. This was a precious opportunity to discover which was which.

“I’m glad I had the foresight to bring unseasoned soldiers.”

Opportunities like this campaign did not come around often. It would force the troops to grow, preparing them for the severity of war and acclimating them to the bloody air of the battlefield. Real combat was a far better instructor than the training ground.

“I can only hope some will prove themselves future leaders.”

There would be no point to this war otherwise. Ludurr cast one last expectant glance at the command tent before returning to his own. He sat down at his desk and crossed his arms, turning to a dark corner of the tent that lay beyond the reach of the candlelight.

“Now,” he said, “may I ask why you announced your presence so readily?”

A humanoid form condensed from the darkness, slinking forward as if pulling itself free from the gloom. “Forgive me. I thought it might be to our mutual benefit.” The hood made the álf’s expression impossible to discern.

Ludurr showed no particular alarm or wariness at the appearance of the mysterious newcomer. “If anybody were to learn I was meeting with you, Nameless, my head would roll.”

“Then it is fortunate that any prying eyes are presently distracted, is it not?” Nameless stepped closer and laid a sheet of paper on the table.

Ludurr picked the paper up and read through the contents before looking up at Nameless with suspicion. “And you truly expect me to believe you can do such a thing? You cannot be in your right mind.”

“It will be difficult, but not impossible. And I believe you stand to gain.”

“True enough. Still, you will forgive me if I don’t take you at your word.”

“Trust me or don’t, the choice is yours. As far as I am concerned, you are simply another pawn. Your loss would hardly break my heart.”

With that, Nameless turned from the desk and stepped back into the darkness. In moments, the álf was wholly gone.

Ludurr stared into the dark for a while. Eventually, he tore his gaze away and touched Nameless’s letter to the candle flame.

“Ever the enigma. What is it you truly want, I wonder?”

Holding the burning paper in his palm, he sank into thought. The stench of burning flesh filled the tent, but he did not so much as grimace, closing his eyes and taking shallow breaths. At last, he opened his eyes again.

“Are you there, Lord Hydra?”

A disembodied voice echoed through the tent. “What would you ask?”

“Tell our Father that I have need of what he promised.”

“It will be done.”

The voice did not ask his reasons. Once its reply was given, it simply faded away. Ludurr crushed the blackened paper in his fist. Ash sprayed from the gaps between his fingers and danced through the air.

“All I do, Lord Beto, I do for the glory of House Muzuk.”

With an apology to his absent lord, he bowed his head, staring all the while at the burned skin of his palm.

＊＊＊＊＊

The twenty-third day of the ninth month of Imperial Year 1026

The new capital of Faerzen, established under the control of Anguis, was surrounded by a number of smaller cities. The commonfolk dwelling in the lands around one such settlement had fled to the safety of its walls in fear of imperial attack. The city, however, refused to let them in, concerned imperial spies could be hidden among their number. A checkpoint was erected at the gate for soldiers to conduct baggage inspections, but too few hands and too many refugees led to a great many commonfolk sleeping outside the walls. Some had tents to set up, but others slept on the road with their own packs for pillows. Either way, with the roads blocked, merchants could not enter the city. The local economy ground to a standstill.

Other problems arose too. Public order began to break down, with ne’er-do-wells appearing to ravage the fields, steal valuables, and even snatch unfortunate victims away. Six Kingdoms moved to address them as best it could, opening its granaries to the refugees, setting up campsites to serve as temporary accommodation, and assigning units of sentries to patrol the area. Nonetheless, with more commonfolk arriving by the day, the city’s storehouses grew steadily emptier. Conflict broke out between the townsfolk and the refugees. Guards were found to be aiding the people-smugglers, the people grew enraged, and the situation devolved into a vicious cycle with no resolution in sight.

“Sun’s down,” an exhausted Anguis soldier announced. “We’ve let in all we can today. The rest of you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

A villager clung to him, pleading. “You can do one more, can’t you? Just one more? Please, it’s only the one of me!”

Unfortunately, soldiers who might be swayed by emotional appeals were not assigned to the checkpoints. “No more. The gate shuts when it shuts or I get an earful from the higher-ups.”

“You’ll only let me in tomorrow anyway!” The villager was begging for all he was worth. “What does it matter if I’m a day early?!”

The soldier waved the man away. “You’ve been in line a fair few days already. It’s only one more night.”

“The imperials are coming as we speak! They’ll take everything we have! Don’t you know what they’ve done to the east?!” The villager rounded on the soldier, more desperate than ever.

“Keep your head on. The empire hasn’t gotten this far yet. You’ll be safe in the camp tonight, and then you can come back tomorrow.”

“Bugger that! I waited in line all day for this?!”

“What am I to do about it? Can’t control the sun.” The soldier, perhaps unsurprisingly, was starting to run out of patience. “Spies might be lurking anywhere. I can’t hold the gate for one man.”

At length, the dispute attracted the attention of other soldiers, as well as discontented refugees.

“Begone with you, human.” An álfen soldier from Tigris raised a bow at the protesting villager. “The checkpoint is closed. Return after sunrise.”

The soldier from Anguis stared at the álf goggle-eyed. “Put that down, you fool! If Queen Lucia hears of this, these refugees will be the least of your concerns.”

“I do not answer to her.” The sneer was audible in the álf’s words. “Soldiers of Tigris take no orders from the queen of Anguis, nor from any human.”

The Anguis soldier’s eyes narrowed in anger. “Are you mocking Her Majesty?”

“Was that how it sounded? Humans do have a way of finding the least charita—” Abruptly, the álf staggered sideways. He recovered his footing and spun around, eyes flashing. “Who was that?! Which of you ingrates pushed me?!”

He looked around, but nobody met his eyes. The nearby soldiers were all staring fixedly to the side. An ominous silence had fallen. He turned to follow their gaze, wondering what could have captured all of their attention.

“Argh! You bloody went and did it!”

The villager lay on the ground, an arrow through his shoulder. He glared hatefully up at the álf as he writhed in pain.

As the álf stared in wide-eyed shock, the Anguis soldier grasped him by the shoulder and relieved him of his bow. “Look what you’ve done, you idiot!”

The accusation shook the álf back to his senses. He paled, shaking his head furiously. “It wasn’t me! Somebody pushed me!”

“Save your excuses! Call a physician!”

Fear began to spread through the gatefront crowd at the sight of the villager’s blood. The rest of the soldiers tried to calm them, but to little avail. And at that moment, more fuel fell upon the fire.

“The camp’s burning!” a shout went up. “The empire’s come for us!”

For an instant, all was silent. Heads turned to look at the camp, where black smoke was rising. And then, as one, the refugees surged toward the closing gate.

“Calm yourselves! Someone’s knocked over a cookfire, that’s all! There’d be ten times the smoke if we were truly under attack! Don’t be misled!”

The plume of smoke was far too small to indicate a real threat, but it did not matter. All of the refugees’ accumulated terror erupted at once, turning the crowd into an unstoppable avalanche. Now that they had descended into panic, they would not listen to reason. The soldiers had no choice but to respond with force. Yet that only made matters worse. A mob did not quail before threats; it only grew angrier. Chaos engulfed the gatefront, and as the crowd spilled into the city, the townsfolk joined the confusion. Suddenly confronted by hundreds—if not thousands—of angry faces, anyone would take leave of their wits.

“I see smoke rising,” Scáthach remarked as she surveyed the horizon. “Here and elsewhere.”

“Our agents’ work. People don’t think rationally when they’re under pressure. To someone who’s spent weeks looking over their shoulder, the tiniest fire looks like a raging inferno.” Hiro pushed his mask back into place as he watched the uproar spread through the town. “And more importantly, it helps to broadcast the city’s fall.”

Now that the dam had broken, there was no going back. The ensuing flood would swallow all it touched.

“We moved against six cities. I would have been happy with two successes. This is more than I dared to hope for.”

Hiro raised his eyes to the heavens. The sun had gone down. Darkness was closing in. The sky was cloudless—a perfect night.

The air was humid, with no sign of rain. On an ordinary night, the stars would have shone. On an ordinary night, the world would have been silent. Yet this was no ordinary night. Plumes of smoke rose to smother the stars. Beneath a somber sky, the land burned red with pitiless flame.

Screams and cries pierced the night, calling out in rage and grief, begging for deliverance. The stench of blood rose skyward on a storm of clashing steel. An unstoppable tide of malice surged through the streets, cutting down innocent lives in its path. It was brutal. The work of fiends. But it was reality, and reality would not be denied.

“Hope comes only to those who know despair,” Hiro murmured as he watched the town burn.

His voice was level, far too calm for the frightful spectacle before him. His words carried no inflection. No emotion lay within. An effect lent by the mask obscuring his expression, perhaps—or perhaps not.

“Hate me all you like. I won’t ask for your forgiveness.”

His right hand rose to touch his mask as he seared the sight into his memory. The night wind set his mantle billowing even as he dismissed the air he wore.

“It’s finally time for this stalemate to end.”

Cries for help reached his ears. He lifted a hand, thinking for a moment to answer them—and let it fall.

“No. I won’t pretend to be a savior.”

Casting aside every last shred of compassion, he turned and spread his arms wide.

“Let us go to war!”

＊＊＊＊＊

The twenty-third day of the ninth month of Imperial Year 1026

A plain near Skye, the former capital of Faerzen

The empire’s banners covered the field. Fifty thousand soldiers awaited the signal to charge. The scent of battle hung in the air, a heady mix of tension and exhilaration. Yet most noticeable of all was the silence—an uneasy tranquility lying over the ground like a carpet, the calm before the storm. The morning dew slid from the leaves, heavy with the quiet.

The empire had fielded fifty thousand. Across the field awaited Six Kingdoms’ troops, a force of thirty thousand drawn from Tigris and Scorpius. By a twist of fate, this was the same plain where High General von Cain and many of his generals had fallen. Unrecovered corpses glared up at both sides’ combatants with resentment in their eyes. The stench of blood and death lay undisturbed by the wind, haunting the field like a curse.

The sixth princess stood on the vanguard, her expression stern as she surveyed the battlefield. Her eyes narrowed as she caught sight of the man at the head of the enemy troops.

“Stovell... It really is you.”

The reports had been correct, it seemed. The gray-haired man was none other than First Prince Rein Hardt Stovell von Grantz. Arrogant and cruel, he had once been the heir apparent to the throne before he had rebelled against the empire, slain his father, and vanished.

“Look what you’ve become.”

Once, he had been a strapping young man, fair of hair and blue of eye. Nothing of that gallant figure remained in him now. His skin was violet and his hair was gray. He had already been chosen by Mjölnir, but he had sought even greater power by becoming Fallen, and this hideous form was the result.

Liz looked back, casting her newly sharpened eyes over her own camp. With Aura there to take command, she was free to lead the charge herself. Aura had demanded she stay with the core, but that would mean letting soldiers die needlessly; as formidable as the empire’s troops were, only Liz could meet Stovell on equal terms. In the end, Aura had been unable to persuade her, and after much indecision, she had given Liz her blessing to take the vanguard.

Liz was thankful for that. She could not have abided waiting on the back lines as she had in Steissen. She looked up at the sky and smiled, feeling no fear. Her most faithful retainers were watching over her this day, and she would show them nothing less than her best.

She slid Lævateinn from its sheath and raised it high. Behind her, fifty thousand soldiers stood with bated breath, awaiting her command. Fire welled up within her, stoked by their fervor.

“I dedicate this glorious victory to the Twelve Divines.”

She looked to the fore as she leveled Lævateinn at the enemy. At that moment, the rays of the sun spilled down upon her. An awestruck sigh escaped some unwitting throat. Cast in sunlight, she looked as fantastical as a painting, the fluttering imperial banners in the background imbuing her with something sacred. She was a supernatural being, composed as only a lion could be, and her inhuman beauty captured the hearts of onlookers as surely as the aspect of a goddess. There could be no question that she was their next empress. The Crimson Princess was Artheus reborn, her might beyond reproach. A goddess fought alongside them, and she promised them victory.

“Now, ride with me.”

Pretty words were not needed to vanquish the enemy. Gilded phrases were not needed to fly across the field. All she asked, all she dreamed, all she wanted to say was clear from a single glance at her back.

“Charge!”

The air behind her erupted with zeal. Horns blared. Drums beat. A bestial roar arose from the battlefield, soul-shaking in its magnitude, and lion banners went up as far as the eye could see. The flag of monarchs was at her back, and her soldiers would follow it to the ends of the earth.

“Victory to the Crimson Princess!”

With a cry, the Knights of the Rose thundered after her. A moment later, a rain of arrows darkened the sky above them.

“Shields!” Liz cried.

They obeyed, and then the deluge was upon them. Several riders fell from their horses, pierced by stray shafts, and more than a few more were wounded, but their momentum would not be halted.

Before them, their goddess led them still. The rain of arrows could not touch her. Gouts of flame from Lævateinn burned them to ashes mid-flight. Polished by the razor edge between life and death, her beauty shone all the brighter. The knights fixed their eyes forward. Their wounds were of no import. All they wanted was to follow, to see what heights she would lead them to. Their spirits swelled, and their eyes shone as they watched her forge ahead. Proud cries tore from their throats.

“Victory to our Crimson Princess!”

She had been called a beauty for the ages, and that was no lie. To look upon her was to fall under her spell. Seasoned veterans charged gladly into carnage, unable to resist her allure. They would have chosen honorable death in an instant had their goddess bidden it. What was this but a femme fatale? It was all too easy to imagine what the rest of the imperial troops felt to see their comrades charge fearlessly into the fray, and their momentum slowed the judgment of the normally levelheaded álfar.

“Here they come,” the enemy commander remarked as the imperial charge bore down on them. “Archers, retreat. Send the heavies to the front. Raise a shield wa— Argh!”

“Too slow!”

His last sight in this world was the goddess plunging into the front line, and then hellfire consumed him. The Flame Sovereign slaughtered its foes with blinding speed. Six Kingdoms soldiers stood all around her, but in the face of her monstrous skill, hesitation filled their eyes. Even as they faltered, the Knights of the Rose bore down on them.

“Death has come for you! Lay down your lives for the Crimson Princess!”

For a fleeting moment, all was still, and then the armies collided. A cacophony rose skyward, born of screams, roars, shrieks—every conceivable noise a human throat could produce. Bones shattered, flesh tore, blood sprayed. Hooves crashed through chinks in the line to crush foes underfoot. The front line descended into disarray as the Knights of the Rose tore a ragged hole through its center, and twenty thousand soldiers of the first imperial cohort poured into the breach.

“Hah!”

“Urgh!”

Corpses piled higher and higher before Liz. The edges of their wounds were reddened and charred, and their faces were contorted in agony.

“Who’s next?” she cried.

Neither skill nor numbers could prevail against her—or at least, so her strength made it seem. Her enemies’ hesitation turned to terror, and the álfar wasted no time in retreating.

“You’ve grown strong, sister.” An enormous battle-axe clove through the blood mist wreathing the field.

Liz coldly batted the blow aside. “I have. Stronger than you.”

She bounded back, readying Lævateinn. Her feet had scarcely touched the ground before a barrage of mutilated corpses flew toward her. Through the chunks of flesh, she glimpsed Stovell, laughing alone amid a rain of blood. Sparks burst in the air around him—a series of unpleasant cracks like exploding firecrackers. The lightning surging from his body was striking the dust in the air.

“How long it has been, sister mine.” He thrust Mjölnir into the ground and spread his arms wide. It almost looked like he was inviting her to embrace him, but it would have been the first time he had ever shown her a shred of brotherly love.

Liz snorted. “You disgust me.”

“Oh, don’t be so stubborn. Your dear brother seeks only to free you from your curse.”

She laughed, gazing back dispassionately. “Does he now? Then I hope he won’t mind if I save him from yours.”

In a split second, Stovell vanished. Liz, unhurried, slid one leg back and braced her left hand against Lævateinn’s blade. A massive impact crashed into her guard. The ground cratered beneath her feet.

“Impressive!”

“I see you.”

Stovell swung his axe with gleeful abandon, but Liz would not be pushed back. Their Spiritblades clashed once, twice, three times, four. Shock waves blasted outward with every impact. The gusts of wind sent soldiers tumbling across the ground, and even those who managed to stay upright tripped and stumbled on the broken earth. The fighting temporarily ground to a halt as the storm of violence consumed friend and foe alike. In time, both sides’ soldiers drew away from the unearthly spectacle for fear of being swallowed up.

“Curse you...”

Lightning fizzled out as it clashed with flame. Gales dispersed as they met searing heat. Stovell grew steadily angrier with every attack she nullified.

Liz brushed back a strand of hair and smiled. “Your life ends here.”

Her counterattack came slowly at first. Lævateinn’s blade slashed vertically, slow as a caress. Stovell blocked it easily, but his brow furrowed with suspicion.

“Oh? Am I not worthy of your full strength?!”

Reddening with rage, he lashed out with Mjölnir. Liz turned Lævateinn level, then shifted to angle the blade diagonally just before impact. Mjölnir skittered along its length. As Stovell lurched off-balance, Liz unleashed a lightning-fast slash.

“Ngh!”

Surprise blossomed across Stovell’s face at her sudden increase in speed. He managed to deflect the blow, but Liz took his motion in stride, harnessing his momentum to bring Lævateinn round again. Up, down, left, right—her sword traced a crimson web that grew steadily denser. Countless blade trails blazed with searing fury, toying with him like a cat with a mouse even as they flayed him open. Their speed fluctuated unpredictably, leaving him at the mercy of an arrhythmic assault.

E’er did flowing water cleave hard stone.

Hiro had fought stronger opponents in much the same way. She had watched enough to learn. From the moment they had first met to now, she had seared his battles into her memory, adapting his techniques to suit her own strengths as she practiced day by day. All to catch up to him—and surpass him.

“I won’t lose, Stovell. Not to a man who abandoned his potential.”

They fought with the same school, but their styles had grown apart. A weapon took on the weight of its wielder’s steps. The path they had walked—whether one of sorrow or joy or even anger—hardened them and spurred them onward. Convictions made people strong, raising them up beyond their limits to the highest heavens.

“Liz... You...”

The Crimson Princess had walked a thorny road, and her convictions were weighty indeed.

She had overcome sorrow.

She had walked with anger.

She had held fast to joy.

And now her bladework was a thing of beauty.

It was delicate as a priestess’s dance, soft enough to part the flow of time, yet fearsome too. She lacked experience. Her edges were rough. Her failings would have brought a sigh of disappointment to her predecessors’ lips. Yet that very immaturity compelled devotion from friend and foe alike. All who saw her loved her—her retainers, her people, her soldiers, even her enemies. That was her gift, her proof of royalty—a regalía of her own.

“So it’s true!”

Stovell charged, roaring denial. Liz met him head-on. The clashing of their might gouged great furrows in the earth. A furious blast connected with ground that looked like it had been carpet-bombed. The earth below bucked, and a whirling gale lifted it aloft, showering stones across the battlefield like rain. Stovell cleared the tempest with a swipe of his arm, his face twisted hideously with rage as he bore down on Liz.

“You stole my birthright!”

All at once, Stovell seemed to sag. Liz could make no sense of his words. He glared at her with loathing in his eyes, but whence it sprang, she could not tell. She had plenty of cause to hate him, but none to be hated in turn. For a while she peered at him, trying to divine the truth, but that could only last for so long. This was a chance she could not waste.

She thrust Mjölnir away with all her might and raised her blade level.

“Bloom in splendor, Lævateinn.”

Flame spewed from Lævateinn’s blade, painting the world crimson. Here was the Spiritblade’s inviolable domain, impervious to gods, let alone men.

“Now,” Liz said, thrusting out a hand, “can you survive this?”

Stovell readied his guard. A wave of heat rolled out across the field, but that was all. He looked behind him, cocking his head. Confusion was written plain on his face.

“You think to stop me with a breeze—”

All at once, the field lit up. It was truly the work of an instant. Where the searing wind had passed, pillars of flame sprang from the earth to pierce the sky. Stovell looked down to find half of his body blasted clean away.

“What...? How...?”

His wounds would have been fatal to a mortal man, but Stovell had transcended both mortality and humanity. His missing flesh regenerated within seconds. Nonetheless, the impact struck him to his core. He sank to one knee, chest heaving. Sweat poured from his forehead, trickled down from his cheeks, and soaked into the earth.

“I am not yet done, sister!”

A roar burst from his throat. Mjölnir materialized in his right hand and Gandiva in his left. As his passions ran wild, a gale blew in answer, catching the crackling lightning and sweeping it up into a tornado. The tempest drew nearby soldiers indiscriminately into its orbit, hurling them up into the air. Liz scowled at the carnage and brandished Lævateinn. A fiery serpent sprang forth, coiling around the tornado and swallowing it whole.

“Nobody likes a pushy man.”

“Silence, brat!”

Razor winds skimmed Liz’s cheek. Lightning crackled overhead. The force of their clash reverberated through the earth. Her eardrums thrummed with a piercing echo as a Spiritblade’s screams resounded across the battlefield. Desperate pleas came to her on the wind. Gandiva, bent forcibly to Stovell’s will, was crying for release.

“Enough!” she cried.

Impacts rang loud as crimson sword clashed with battle-axe, their blades repulsing rather than biting. Stovell tried to leverage his colossal reach to aim for Liz’s neck, but she slapped his weapon away one-handed and stepped in. Forging steadily ahead, weathering the storm of violence, she closed the distance. Lævateinn licked out with a horizontal slash, seeking to reap its enemy’s life, and only a timely retreat saved Stovell from worse than a flesh wound.

With her opponent on the back foot, Liz took the offensive. She launched a punch, twisted to drive a heel into his flank, blinded him with a burst of flame as he moved to retaliate, then closed in and rammed an elbow into his sternum at point-blank range. His bulk rocked on its foundations. She followed up with a front kick to his stomach, then transitioned her momentum into a barrage of slashes. The air screamed as wind swirled around her blade, drawn in its wake as it sheared his flesh away.

Stovell’s cheek hung open. Blood poured from his wounds. His flesh was ragged and torn, and his guts spilled from within. Even so, he kept fighting, howling with rage as he sprang after Liz. His injuries healed within seconds. It seemed their battle might be fated to continue forever. Liz, however, did not falter; if anything, she attacked with redoubled force, devoting everything she had to eradicating her foe. Until every cell of Stovell’s body was annihilated and his regeneration quashed, until nigh-eternal torment sapped his will to fight, until his very soul shattered to pieces, she would put her full strength behind every swing.

This was a battle in which mere mortals had no place. In the center of the field rampaged transcendent beings like unto gods. To stand in their presence was to know fear, to face death, to feel compelled to flee. Six Kingdoms’ front line crumbled, its ranks falling into disarray as the álfar of the first and second cohorts sounded the retreat. The imperial troops, on the other hand, were less afraid. They kept their distance so as not to get in Liz’s way, but none turned to run—instead, they pressed forward, fighting valiantly to aid their princess.

One of Stovell’s tornadoes bore down on the imperial line. Lævateinn’s fire reared up to swallow it whole. Still, while the Flame Sovereign was powerful, it was not invincible. Stovell wielded both Mjölnir and Gandiva. In terms of power, in terms of numbers, he ought to have had the upper hand; if that was untrue in practice, the wielder was to blame.

“Gah!”

All at once, the battle reached its end. Stovell’s body began to fall apart. Liz leaped back and looked him over. The power of the Spiritblades was raging within his body, coursing like poison through his flesh—or no, perhaps it was his curse that was transforming him. That was to be expected, in a sense. He had never been able to fully control it.

His skin melted and his flesh putrefied, revealing stark white bone. Even so, life burned in his eyes, fixing Liz with a fierce will. He could barely walk, but his will to fight blazed as strong as it ever had.

Liz’s nose wrinkled at the stench. “Tell me, Stovell. What was worth becoming that?”

“Power, sister. Power beyond question. I needed the strength to cast my shadow over all, to hold the world in my grasp...”

There was an unpleasant squelch, and something white dripped from his eye socket. His eyeball had melted like candle wax.

“Urrrgh... RAAAAAAAAAGGGHHH!!!”

He roared; one might have wondered if he was capable of anything else. It was hard to call him human anymore. He no longer even looked humanoid. With his skin hideously burned, sloughing from his bones like melted candy, he was more of a mud golem than a man.

“I will not fall here... I cannot... Not yet...” He rounded on Liz, howling like a beast, but he was pitifully slow.

“I’ll put you out of your misery.”

Liz raised her right hand high, and a fireball swelled into being. She let her arm fall. The fiery orb traced an unerring arc toward Stovell...and disappeared just before it made contact.

“That will do for today, I think.”

Nameless stood before Stovell as if shielding him from harm. The first prince lay slumped on the ground, spent, little more than a crude mass of bubbling clay. It was hard to tell if he was even still alive. Nonetheless, nothing good was likely to come of letting him escape.

“Do you think I’d let you get away?” Liz brandished Lævateinn coldly. The ground beneath the pair erupted in flame, sending up a plume of dirt. “But I remember. You don’t like attacking from the front. You much prefer...here!” She spun around, unleashing a fierce punch.

“It makes it so much easier to stick the knife in. But I fear I must retreat for now.” Nameless’s hood fluttered as Liz’s fist sailed past, but that was all. “If you would excuse me...”

The álf waved a bell staff, setting the air tinkling with its chime. Space distorted and Stovell disappeared, still barely clinging to human form. At that moment, a rent appeared in the air where he had lain. A foul miasma belched forth, like smoke from an open window, and spiraled skyward.

“So, you would intervene...” There was more than a note of surprise in Nameless’s voice. The álf turned back to Liz, lips curling in a smile beneath the cowl. “Still, he is beyond your reach now.”

“So it seems.”

Liz bounded forward, swinging, but Nameless blurred and disappeared, reappearing a short distance away. A trail of fire slithered across the ground like a snake in pursuit, but its fangs failed to bite. It still managed to coil around its prey, but the álf reappeared elsewhere, only to be consumed again by fire. Still, Liz was skeptical that her attack had landed. She looked around. Sure enough, Nameless stood off to the side, unharmed.

Liz was the first to tire of the game. “Enough!” she exclaimed, driving a fist into the ground. A tremor shook the soil. Fissures crisscrossed the earth, from which pillars of flame blasted high. Yet even in the bowels of hell, Nameless remained unscathed.

“Oh, impressive. How the Flame Sovereign bends to your will.” The álf’s bell staff struck the ground. “But you are still no match for me, I fear.”

The álf vanished, leaving Liz alone in a desolate world. The flames receded, and the clamor of steel reasserted itself over the silence. There was no time to regret letting Stovell slip away. The fighting was still going on. She had to end this battle with minimal casualties. It was enough for now that the greatest threat had fled the field. She breathed a heavy sigh, forced back her anger, and lifted Lævateinn high.

“Rout them!”

She set off once more across the field, rousing her allies’ spirits. For today, she would think only of victory and try her best to quash the misgivings welling in her breast.