"Take care of your own life, Flop. Self-sacrifice is something only a total fool does."
That was
The orphanage where Flop and Medium had taken shelter as children turned out to be a far worse place than he'd imagined.
The adults always repeated the same refrain about the orphanage—a place that gathered parentless children with nowhere else to go, offering them a life with a roof and walls: "You lot are lucky. The world's overflowing with people who have neither food nor work."
And in truth, he'd believed it.
Life with his sister Medium after their family abandoned them—sucking down muddy water for sustenance—had been brutal. Food meant grass and insects, and on the rare occasion they caught a rabbit, it was cause for a wild celebration. In the worst of times, they'd gnaw on dirt and moss just to stave off hunger.
Compared to that, life at the orphanage was comparatively blessed.
They were given thin, ragged blankets, and though the soup was flavorless, meals—however meager—were consistently provided. The work assigned was simple manual labor where quantity mattered more than quality, and while the adults would occasionally lose their temper and lash out violently, it wasn't an everyday occurrence.
The adults' words held a certain logic: the outside world was far worse. If that was true, then the thought of escape would never even sprout.
And yet, seeing Medium and the other children subjected to beatings and kicks was unbearable, so Flop learned to behave as cheerfully as possible, making sure to catch the adults' eyes.
He decided that drawing the adults' attention every single day was his role.
If the conspicuous Flop earned their favor, the adults might soften their treatment of the other children. Even on days when the adults were in foul moods, their wrath would first fall on the most visible target—Flop.
Standing out, in and of itself, was a weapon.
Big voice, big gestures, exaggerated expressions and movements. Fortunately, making those habits wasn't particularly difficult. He seemed to have a natural talent for attracting attention.
He was certain of this the night Medium spent the entire time gently stroking his wounds—the night when the anger that had been aimed at a younger child was redirected at Flop instead, leaving him half-dead.
*This is the role I have to fulfill in this place.* In the midst of pain that made his vision go white, Flop repeated this to himself— "Of course I'm not gonna shut up, you dumbass!"
"Eh…?"
"After years without seeing your face, I come back and find you're still at the same irritating dump, and now some dumb kid's pulling dumb stunts too. We've already got enough loonies—no need for another!"
Having accepted his role and steeled himself to bear the orphanage's negative side alone— Flop's plans were abruptly shattered one night.
The person who appeared riding a wyvern was, to put it mildly, not much to look at.
He made no effort to hide his rough upbringing, and the sight of him irritably scratching at his gray hair was, to a child's eyes, exactly the type of person you'd rather not get involved with. Something about his face evoked a servile rat, which only reinforced that impression—the kind of person you'd normally bow your head low to avoid getting beaten by.
Yet Miles—that man—contradicted Flop's rude first impression with remarkable ease.
"I came from this very same facility, originally. My time here was plenty awful too. So I got out as fast as I could and scraped by drinking muddy water."
At night, the children's room door was locked with a crude bolt to prevent escapes during sleep.
Miles had broken the lock with brutal force and peered inside, only to see nearly twenty children crammed into a tiny room. He clicked his tongue in evident, furious disgust.
Then, he brought the startled, frightened children out of the room, said "Wait here," and headed off toward the adults' quarters.
And then— "It was day after day of 'are you gonna die or not,' but somehow I managed to scrape by. Then a few years later, I suddenly thought back to that hellhole of a home… and here I am."
With the adults bound and sprawled across the floor, Miles kicked their faces as they cursed him as an ingrate, all while wearing a vulgar grin and spitting, "How's that for payback?"
He must have suffered terribly at the adults' hands. Even so, Flop couldn't help but wonder whether going that far was really justified.
Turning back toward Flop, Miles raised his thin eyebrows— "What? You want a piece of it too? Then get your revenge. A hundredfold payback."
"N-No, I couldn't possibly—"
"I'LL DO IT!"
At Miles's devilish whisper, Flop hesitated to answer.
But leaping out from behind Flop, Medium—without a moment's hesitation—brought a stick she'd found down on the head of a bound adult. No—Medium wasn't the only one.
Every child except the stunned Flop had become a raging rebel.
"It always hurt!"
"I hate you!"
"Big brother's revenge!"
The adults' screams—cries of "Stop, stop!"—were swallowed up by the children's fury.
They dug their nails into the adults' faces, slapped their cheeks, and ultimately even urinated on them, unleashing the anger they'd bottled up day after day.
"Bwahahaha! Look at their faces! Now that's a masterpiece!"
Standing beside the stunned Flop, watching his sisters' rebellion, Miles let out a crude, hearty laugh.
Flop absolutely could not bring himself to laugh along. He could only stare in a daze, wondering what would become of them after doing something like this to the adults.
"Well, you can do whatever you want from here… is what I'd like to say, but if I just dump you here, Count Dracroy'll have my hide for sure."
Surveying the children who'd poured out of the facility, their rebellion run on raw emotion, Miles continued: "For now, I'll take you to the Count's place. What you do after that is up to you. You don't have to follow me, you know."
Accepting Miles's rough invitation, the children exchanged glances.
What showed on their faces was anxiety and confusion. Miles had said even whether to follow him was their choice—but that was a "choice" Flop and the others had never had before.
Children who'd spent their entire lives following adults' orders had never possessed the right to choose anything. So when that right was suddenly thrust into their hands, they could only tremble with it.
Seeing the children like that, Miles shrugged and said— "What's with you lot now? How pathetic. —You've already paid them back, haven't you? You can choose anything you want."
Hearing Miles's words, the children realized for the first time that they had already been choosing—by rebelling, they'd chosen it.
—In the end, not a single child chose to stay at the orphanage.
Of course Flop, too—even though he hadn't directly participated—couldn't very well say he wanted to stay at a place where they'd done something that outrageous. And besides, Medium had already eagerly latched onto Miles's offer with a "Let's go!" and urged Flop to come along as well.
He could never refuse Medium's wish, and he would never choose to be separated from his sister. For these somewhat passive reasons—compared to some of the other children—Flop left the facility.
They'd done something terrible.
Or rather, they'd been dragged into something terrible, and regret gnawed at his chest.
But then— "Good night, big brother."
On the road to wherever Miles's master was, they stopped in a roofless place and curled up together under the blanket they'd taken from the orphanage. As Medium drifted off to sleep, her words pierced his heart.
Medium nestled against him in complete relief, and outside—no shelter, no walls, nothing resembling the prison they'd known.
He realized he no longer had to worry about being beaten, or fear making his sister cry.
"…Hh."
Realizing it, Flop cried.
He cried and cried, sobbing uncontrollably, savoring the salty taste of freedom.
△▼△▼△▼△ —In the distance, wings beating, a wyvern flew off into the gray, cloud-covered sky.
Zikr maintained his vigil until the fading shadow had shrunk to the size of a bean, to confirm it wasn't a feint for another attack. Only then did he relax the tension in his body.
The reason was unclear, but the flock of wyverns had withdrawn. As long as the city hall hadn't fully fallen, there were two possible explanations for the retreat: either the objective had been achieved, or they'd determined it couldn't be.
From Zikr's perspective, the former was preferable.
Picking through the dramatic events of what had been barely an hour of fierce fighting, it seemed objectively likely that the former was indeed the case.
"The sudden temperature drop and the catastrophic damage to the southern part of the city…"
Running a hand through his luxuriantly thick hair, Zikr considered the two phenomena he couldn't fully explain.
During the battle, the fortress city's temperature had plummeted before his eyes, and when snowflakes had begun to flicker through the air, he'd questioned his own senses. He'd heard it snowed atop the highest mountains, but in Volakia, if you wanted to see snow, your only hope was a natural disaster.
Which meant the snowfall during the battle had been exactly that—a natural disaster.
Though, in itself, that had worked in their favor.
Wyverns were weak against the cold, and the sudden temperature change—particularly the frigid air—had visibly diminished their aerial combat capability. Without that, the damage would have been far worse and far deeper.
However— "That white light, what in the world was…"
An uncontrollable, catastrophic annihilation had simply erased the southern portion of the city.
Even calling it a natural disaster was an understatement—it was, in a sense, one of the visions of the end of the world. Even without any follow-up destruction, that single blast had been more than enough to devastate the city.
The chain of command was in chaos, tactical judgment stalled. If the wyverns had pressed their advantage, the city might well have fallen then and there.
That was precisely why the wyvern flock's retreat was both fortuitous and puzzling.
Zikr surmised that something on the attacker's side had made the difference.
Someone had struck a decisive blow against the enemy, relieving the defenders who were stretched thin. If so, the leading candidates were Mizelda, who led the Shudrak, or Priscilla, who had the proven track record of defeating
Whichever of them it was— "As expected, women are magnificent. But I have no desire to treat the shame of being protected by women as something natural."
The fact that women were exceptional beings did not exempt Zikr from his own shortcomings.
He would revere and cherish the magnificence of women while admonishing himself for his failings.
In any case— "To think we'd face such a fierce assault—our prior preparations proved their worth."
"…For a siege on a fortress city, deploying wyverns is standard. However, it should have been foreseeable that they wouldn't simply send the Wyvern Corps, but rather a 'Wyvern General' herself."
To the wounded staff officer's words, Zikr shook his head.
His assessment had been too optimistic. The anti-dragon weapons they'd prepared for wyverns, and the extra deployments on the western wall in anticipation of an attack from the capital—but the wyverns had struck from all directions.
He'd assumed that after the First General Arakiya's retreat, it would take time for the next First General to be dispatched—but that too had been a misreading. Thinking about the situation now, it was only natural.
This wasn't a rebellion by a single city—it was the harbinger of a much larger political upheaval.
From the perspective of the treacherous ministers in the capital, they would pour everything into extinguishing the rebellion's fire while the spark was still small. He should have factored in the possibility of successive deployments of First Generals.
"No, self-reflection can wait. With the walls breached, capturing the city should be easy even without wyverns. Confirm the damage status. Check whether the walls can be repaired…"
"—Drop your weapons immediately! This is an order!"
"Hm."
Zikr, who promptly extracted the factors for his self-reflection and filed them away at the edge of his thoughts— Was about to turn his attention to assessing the damage and planning their response, when a sharp, tense voice cut through the frigid air.
He looked, and there—in the city hall that had served as their command post against the wyvern attack—stood a single figure surrounded by guards.
The weapons and vigilance that had been directed at the wyverns were now all focused on this one man, who glared around at those surrounding him with open contempt. He gripped a longsword in each hand, blood dripping from the tips.
Not human blood, though—wyvern blood.
"That's…"
"One of the soldiers we brought up from underground for the wyvern countermeasures. He wields twin swords…"
"Ah, I saw him. He fought like a one-man army. —Hey, stand down!"
Nodding at the staff officer's report, Zikr spread his hands and gave the order to his subordinates. One of them raised his voice— "Second General! It's dangerous! Given the circumstances, we released him from the dungeons, but…"
"And once the wyvern threat is gone, you'd put him straight back in the cell? I doubt he'd accept that. And the cost of doing so would be the real problem."
Responding to the tense subordinate, Zikr walked toward the surrounded man.
The twin-sword wielder's skill was considerably above that of an average Imperial soldier. In fact, without his ferocious performance, they might not have been able to repel the wyvern flock that had attacked the city hall.
If that sword were turned against them, the resulting damage would be considerable.
"Naturally, if you were to commit such an act, your life would be forfeit. So…"
"So, what?"
"————"
The man responded to Zikr's approach with a hostile voice and demeanor. Worse, he leveled one of his twin swords at Zikr, let out a fierce "Hah," and— "You telling me to surrender quietly? That's the same thing everyone else has been saying—'Second General' with your womanizing reputation."
"You! Would you dare insult Second General Zikr?!"
Though Zikr himself took pride in a title others might find dishonorable, the man's words carried unmistakable intent to mock it. The subordinates bristled with increased hostility, but Zikr checked them with a gesture— "I would welcome your surrender, but that's not what this is about. Your service was remarkable. Though our positions differ, the fact of your contribution to the city's defense cannot be erased. Therefore—I will release you."
"…Are you serious?"
"Rewarding merit and punishing wrongdoing is the creed of Volakia—and the will of His Excellency the Emperor."
The Volakian emperor's practice of evaluating people by their ability and accomplishments was the standard of the Empire's meritocracy, and Zikr held it as the very core of his loyalty.
But the moment Zikr gave his answer, the man's hostility became brazenly acute.
The murderous aura pouring from his entire body, his gaze—the man whose right eye was covered by an eyepatch fixed Zikr with his left eye, pouring every ounce of his emotion into that stare.
"To think you'd shamelessly say that while the 'General' who betrayed His Excellency the Emperor and the Empire has turned traitor…! If it were me, I'd cut my own stomach open rather than endure such shamelessness!"
"————"
The man's fierce words—hinting that the source of his hostility was loyalty to the Empire—made Zikr catch his breath. He stared intently at the man.
This soldier, locked in the underground dungeons, must have been one of those who'd refused to surrender when Vincent had conquered
If that was the case— "If I told you that I, too, have sworn undying loyalty to the Empire and His Excellency the Emperor, would you be willing to hear me out?"
"Oh?"
At Zikr's question, the man's lone eye widened and he let out a coarse sound. But meeting Zikr's unwavering gaze, after a brief pause, he hurled his swords to the floor.
The blades clattered against the stone. Weaponless, the man raised both hands.
"You're saying you're willing to listen?"
"For starters, at least stop this 'fight to the death' business. If I'm being honest, I could probably take the head of that traitor 'General' in a real fight, but…"
The man looked around at the circle of Zikr's subordinates with provocative eyes. Their wariness intensified, but he snorted— "I'll hold off on that. But if you're going to bore me with some dull story…"
"I intend to tell you something quite interesting, actually. …Tell me—what is your name?"
With the laying down of weapons closing the distance between them, Zikr asked the man's name. For an instant, the man hesitated—then scratched his head, deciding there was no point in evasion.
"Jamal O'relly. Corporal."
He stated his name and rank.
Accepting this, Zikr dipped his chin in a deep nod.
"Jamal. You may already know this, but I am
"Hm?"
"Right now, I find being called 'the coward' far more invigorating."
That epithet, once a source of shame, now held a special gleam in Zikr's heart.
Hearing Zikr's answer, Jamal—his face twisted in bewilderment. The man was clearly skilled with a blade, but not the type who excelled at thinking or scheming.
That was fine. If Zikr could appeal to his sense of justice, Jamal might listen.
Just then— "—Excuse me, is this where I'd find the representative of this city?"
With Jamal's surrender releasing the suffocating tension in the city hall, a voice that seemed to have been waiting for exactly this moment slipped in.
Quiet and gentle, it struck the eardrums in a way that drew out the listener's relief.
Even so, Zikr turned toward the unfamiliar voice, furrowing his rounded brow.
The voice's owner appeared on the staircase connecting the top-floor command post to the level below. Both hands raised to show no hostility, the gray-haired man let his gaze roam— "Are you Second General Zikr Osman, by any chance?"
From among those in red uniforms, he had singled out Zikr without hesitation as "the General."
Naturally, with his cape and rank insignia at the shoulder, identifying Zikr as the highest-ranking person in the room was easy. The question was whether he had the nerve to point it out.
Appearing in a command post where combat had just taken place, singling out an unfamiliar commander—the nerve of it. Reserved but not cowed, Zikr wondered about the man's affiliation.
Since he didn't appear to be a city resident, he must have infiltrated during the battle.
In that case, the most likely possibility was— "A messenger from the capital… perhaps bearing word for us?"
"Oh? No, no, not at all! We're—well, the explanation is a bit complicated, but we're not affiliated with the capital or anything."
The young man frantically waved his raised hands side to side, denying Zikr's suspicion. If taken at face value, his position became even more opaque.
Before Zikr could deepen the furrow between his brows, Jamal snarled— "We had dibs first! You can't just waltz in after the fact and start blah-blah-blahing… I'll beat the crap out of you!"
"I really am sorry about that. I don't think this is a good time for a calm discussion either, honestly. So if I could just get permission—"
"Permission? Permission for what?"
"Tending to the wounded, the repairs to the city going forward… in a manner of speaking, helping with the aftermath of the battle. My companions and I should be able to assist to some extent."
Answering Jamal's scowl, the young man let out a sigh—"Though," he added, looking weary and somewhat exasperated, his expression slightly relaxed. "We've actually already started, so in part this is retroactive consent, but—"
"…Your offer is appreciated, but that's…"
"There's nothing difficult about this, Zikr. There's no lie in what he's saying."
Before Zikr could press further, a resolute, spirited voice cut in.
The sharp tap of a cane on the floor echoed as a figure ascended the stairs to stand beside the young man—Mizelda, her entire warrior's body splattered with blood, her fierce beauty all the more striking for it.
From the look of it, all the blood on her beautiful body was spatter from her kills; aside from the injury to her leg from before, there were no notable wounds. Zikr felt relief at her safe return.
Mizelda, now back, gave the young man's slender shoulder a friendly pat— "This man's companion has already begun working. I'll vouch for him too."
"Mizelda, I'm glad to see you safe. And him?"
"Don't know. Not our enemy, and he's a good-looking man, so I let him through."
"Mizelda…"
Mizelda's aesthetic sensibility differed somewhat from Zikr's own way of seeing things, but she had a point—the young man's face was gentle and well-featured.
His overall air was somewhat androgynous, yet within his gaze there was a strangely strong core.
Not a bad person—that was Zikr's assessment. Though he was probably harboring something of his own.
"In a situation like this, I find it hard to believe in selfless assistance with no strings attached. Who are you?"
"Like I said, my position is a bit complicated to explain. But I have no intention of opposing you. —I'm simply looking for someone."
"Looking for someone…"
At Zikr's repeated words, the young man nodded.
Then he removed his green hat, placed it against his chest, and bowed—a courtesy not quite Imperial in style, but showing respect nonetheless.
"My name is
And with the wary eyes of a hyena, he stated his purpose.
△▼△▼△▼△ —Miles's master, Senior Count Selina Dracroy, was a formidable woman.
Having carved her way to the upper echelons of the Empire's nobility at a young age, she adhered to the iron law of imperial meritocracy, placing great weight on elevating those of proven ability.
At the same time, she possessed the nobility of spirit that refused to allow the strong to trample the weak at will. Because of this, the children Miles had brought back were not mistreated.
"I've heard the report. For Miles—who hates anything troublesome—to go to the trouble of bringing you back, he must have found your circumstances truly pitiable. You may stay in my domain as you please."
Welcoming Flop and the other children, Selina responded with a gracious smile.
Standing before a presence far too immense for a child to comprehend—the kind that instinctively made you want to bow—and confronted with the lavish interior of a mansion unlike anything he'd ever seen, Flop was overwhelmed.
"Someone with the Count's composure has no reason to go out of their way to bully the lowly. In the end, adults who hit kids are just adults who got hit when they were kids themselves."
Bathed in hot water, gorging on enough food to fill their bellies, and changed into clean, fragrant clothes, Flop and the others received this explanation from Miles in his characteristically rough manner.
Unlike Medium and the others, whose eyes spun with wonder at everything in this unfamiliar world, Flop was deeply moved by the many new perspectives and ways of thinking he encountered.
The influence of the philosophy Miles dropped casually into conversation was particularly profound.
It was a way of seeing the world, a way of understanding things, that Flop had never even conceived of—and if Miles hadn't brought him out to the wider world, he never could have known it.
Above all— "Oh, a fellow guest! You here courtesy of Big Brother Miles too?"
Chasing after his sisters as they ran freely through the mansion—now that they'd been given freedom—Flop stopped in the beautiful garden within the vast estate.
As he stood, overwhelmed by the sight of magnificent flowers blooming in full glory, a soft voice called out to his back.
Startled, he looked for the source, but couldn't spot anyone in the garden. Frowning— "Over here, sorry! Pardon me for poking up from below!"
"Whoa!"
"Oh, there he goes—right on his butt!"
With a quick motion, a head popped up right in front of Flop from the other side of the fence he'd been leaning on to peer into the garden, and Flop couldn't help but topple backward.
Laughed at for falling on his behind, Flop blinked.
The one laughing at him was a boy slightly older than him, still retaining a childish charm. Twelve or thirteen, perhaps, with a lovable face and brown hair.
"…Is laughing really necessary?"
"Oh, sorry, sorry. You really did go down spectacularly, and I couldn't help it. I'd help you up, but I'm kind of stuck here right now."
"Stuck…?"
Dusting off his behind, Flop walked around the fence to stand before the boy. The boy was sitting on the ground with his legs crossed, and resting on his knees was a round object.
Seeing it, Flop's eyes went wide.
"That's… is that an egg?"
"Yep, a big one, right? Actually, this here's a wyvern egg."
"What are you going to do with a wyvern egg?"
"Hatch it, of course!"
Hugging the white egg—which was about the size of a small child—with his entire body, the boy beamed at Flop.
—This was the encounter that would lead Flop and
△▼△▼△▼△ —It could be said that she had gained knowledge far beyond mere hearsay about the threat of wyverns.
She had viscerally understood the danger of their claws and fangs, the breadth of their aerial tactics, and their relentless ferocity—each lesson driven home by the sight of devastated cities and attacked people.
Honestly, she couldn't understand the thinking of those who would attempt to tame and employ such dangerous creatures. They seemed like irreconcilable enemies—like the enormous serpent she'd stumbled upon in the jungle, creatures that were nothing but dangerous.
And yet— "————"
Outside the window, gazing at the scene before her,
In the mansion's garden, a wyvern rested its wings while a soldier fed it by hand. The creature that should have been terrifyingly ferocious had a gentle look in its eyes, making almost cooing sounds as it accepted food directly from the soldier's hand.
Having been told that wyverns were savage and vicious, having witnessed their danger firsthand, Rem found the sight of one bonding with a human utterly astonishing.
She'd once been thoroughly lectured by a girl who claimed to know a great deal about dragons—dragons had too much pride to ever befriend humans, she'd insisted. It really did seem like a completely different story.
"You look rather melancholy."
Suddenly, a voice spoke from behind Rem as she gazed at the garden.
Of course, the person had been approaching with audible footsteps, so Rem had noticed someone coming. She simply wasn't startled.
But it was an unfamiliar voice, and given the location, she retained a measure of tension— "I wouldn't describe it as melancholy, but I do have thoughts. I wasn't brought here willingly, after all."
"Hoh. Quite forthright, aren't you? A refreshing quality."
"…Who are you?"
Assigned to this room—a luxurious chamber that would befit even a prisoner's quarters, furnished with chairs of such premium quality that they were uncomfortable to sit in—Rem asked about the identity of the elderly man who had appeared.
He was an old man with white hair, a white beard, and eyes so thin they resembled threads.
His attire was far from a warrior's, so she could only surmise he held some elevated position.
His bearing, his age, and the way the guards watching Rem had straightened their postures and bowed their heads upon his arrival—all confirmed he held a position of considerable authority.
Meeting Rem's unabashed stare, the old man lightly waved his hand and gestured for the guards to leave. They complied immediately, bowing once before departing.
Once the old man and Rem were alone in the room, he gestured with his hand to the seat opposite her— "May I sit?"
"…Please."
The old man took his seat with a slow, deliberate motion before Rem.
Facing her directly, he touched his chin with one finger— "Have you been told nothing about us?"
"No. Nothing. 'Heal, rest, and if you do anything unauthorized, I'll kill you'—that's all."
Recalling the instructions of the mansion's owner—Madeleine, the First General—who would brook no arguments, Rem shook her head.
She was under house arrest, with strict orders not to escape and guards posted to ensure it. Rem had no intention of fleeing, but the situation was undeniably unpleasant.
The old man nodded—"I see"—at her answer.
"That was, I must say, rather poor treatment of a guest. I shall speak to First General Madeleine about it myself."
"…You can give her orders?"
At the old man's enigmatic words, Rem's eyes widened involuntarily.
During the time spent with Madeleine between the fortress city and this mansion—time she couldn't call either long or short—Rem had been thoroughly exasperated by how impossible Madeleine was to reason with.
She was stubborn, obstinate, and only just barely susceptible to being talked around—that was what had saved her.
"I thought she was the type who hated being told what to do by others. The kind who'd get angry and turn violent the moment someone said something…"
Having shared that much of her impression, Rem clasped her own hands together.
Calm reflection brought a sense of embarrassment at what she'd just said—from someone who refused to listen to others and had even broken an opponent's finger.
But at this moment of self-reflection, the old man chuckled softly— "Not entirely inaccurate, I'm afraid. It's uncomfortable to hear. In fact, this time too she failed to follow instructions correctly. However—"
"————"
"This time, Madeleine's whim wasn't the primary factor—something else played a much larger role."
The old man's lips relaxed, yet the laughter had drained from his voice.
From behind those thin, unreadable eyes, a probing gaze bored into Rem, and she held her breath ever so slightly. That gaze eloquently conveyed that he viewed Rem as the "something else."
And that, in turn, had produced an outcome unfavorable to the man before her.
"…Who are you, exactly?"
"My apologies for the belated introduction. I am
"The Prime Minister… Berstetz…"
At Rem's query, the old man—Berstetz—bowed respectfully.
At the mention of his name and title, Rem's cheeks hardened further, and the tension in her shoulders increased.
She had heard both the name and the position before.
"Then you're…"
"Yes. —I am the enemy of His Excellency Vincent Abelux."
"————"
The words came without a trace of hesitation, and Rem again found herself unable to respond.
It was confirmation of what she'd already known, but she hadn't expected it to be stated so bluntly. At the same time, she was painfully aware of being swept up against her will into a massive crisis—that she'd stumbled into the very heart of it felt terribly out of place and deeply ironic.
The ones who should have been here were not Rem, but Abel, Priscilla, and Subaru.
Thinking that far, Rem felt a strange relief that Subaru wasn't here.
"If he were, he'd absolutely try to do something reckless on his own…"
The black-haired boy's boldness and his penchant for defying expectations beyond all imagination were beyond question. Even in a situation like this, he would have conjured up some outlandish scenario she couldn't have predicted.
In that sense, it was just as well he wasn't in a city attacked by wyverns. She couldn't imagine he would have been able to do anything about it, and he would only have ended up with more wounds.
However— "————"
However, if he learned that she had been taken away by Madeleine, what would he think?
That thought gnawed at Rem's heart with the keen edge of a blade.
"…So Abel really is the true Emperor."
Forcing herself to ignore the pain lancing through her chest, Rem pressed Berstetz. To her question, Berstetz replied calmly— "Of course. Allowing his escape was a failure, but everything else has proceeded according to plan. Rather, it *has* proceeded. The truth is, the destruction of Guaral was concluded midway."
"Why Abel? I can't even imagine what it takes to decide on something like treason… Was it because of Abel's personality?"
"The head of a nation—the Emperor—requires no personality. Personal feelings and attachments are trivial matters when viewed from the standpoint of national governance. What is demanded is ability, trust that one will fulfill one's responsibilities, and a proven track record—nothing more."
Slowly shaking his head, Berstetz answered with an expression and tone from which no emotion could be read.
His voice was unwavering, his expression utterly unchanged. This was not merely due to Rem's limited life experience—Berstetz's superior negotiating skill rendered his inner thoughts completely opaque.
Was the absence of emotion a sign of deception, or of truth? She couldn't even tell.
But she wanted to believe his statement that the treason had not been motivated by Abel's character.
She had seen blood and death on a massive scale in the fortress city. The idea that the trigger for all of that was Abel's personality—she couldn't accept that, and neither could the dead.
Therefore— "You're saying Abel was exiled because he was unfit to be Emperor?"
"Exile was not our intention. That was simply the result."
"What did Abel lack? I don't understand the burden of the Emperor's role or the abilities required, but he is, I think, an exceptional person…"
Rem wasn't sure herself why she felt compelled to defend Abel, but she chose her words to settle a nagging unease inside her.
In truth, setting aside combat ability, Abel was outstanding in terms of his intellect and depth of knowledge.
The fact that Mizelda, Zikr, and even Subaru had considered following his reasoning was proof that he possessed the leadership to convince others of his views.
She didn't know the details, but she believed Abel had the qualities of someone who should stand at the top.
The kind of qualities necessary for the most powerful person in a nation.
To that— "I believe we haven't exchanged names yet, Healer."
"…Rem, I believe."
"Indeed."
Her aversion to Berstetz had led her to introduce herself in a detached manner.
Rem had by now accepted that her name was "Rem." Ever since she'd forcefully declared it to Priscilla—or rather, since she'd allowed Subaru to call her that.
In any case, letting the name settle on his tongue, Berstetz exhaled softly— "Lady Rem, how many heirs do you believe His Excellency the Emperor currently has?"
"H-How many… heirs? You mean, children?"
"Yes."
At Berstetz's quiet nod, Abel's face surfaced in Rem's mind.
Though Rem had no memories, the knowledge she'd accumulated before losing them had not been lost. How humans reproduced—that, she still retained as knowledge.
Whether Abel could have built proper relationships with others, however, was questionable. In truth, Rem struggled to imagine any woman who could stand beside Abel.
"I can't imagine. He has none, does he?"
"…You are quite perceptive. That is correct—he has none."
"Oh, so that's the case after all. Sorry if that's rude to Abel—"
Rem was about to say "to say," but stopped.
Berstetz hadn't said anything to silence her, nor had he indicated she should be quiet. It was simply that the old man's narrowed eyes had opened ever so slightly, and the pupils visible behind them—the expression on his face—had frozen the words in Rem's throat with an utterly inconceivable aura of menace.
Berstetz sat quietly, his hands resting on the table between them. From his entire still body poured forth a fury beyond imagination.
"He has no heir. —And that is the problem."
"Ah—"
"The Empire must be strong. If it is not, then this nation—"
Before Rem, who let out a ragged breath, Berstetz stopped. He opened the fist resting on the table and exhaled.
Then, hiding his eyes once more beneath his lids, he looked at Rem.
"My apologies. This is my first time being a traitor, and I must confess it's left me rather overwrought."
"…Why did you tell me all of this?"
"————"
"It was a story you had no need to share."
Berstetz's words carried not emotion, but something heavier and more limpid.
Rem didn't feel he was lying, but that only deepened her question—why had he told her such things?
Rem didn't consider herself to be in any important position, and in truth, she wasn't.
She had occasionally been placed close to Abel and Priscilla, but that was circumstance, not because Rem herself was anything special.
"Yet, why?"
"…You are a healer, and you are of the Oni. If possible, I'd like to have you on our side. You are a valuable existence."
"————"
It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the full truth either.
Yet when Rem sought the rest of the answer, Berstetz seemed unwilling to devote any more time to her. Slowly, the old man rose from his chair.
"I would like to speak with you more, but even someone like me has duties to attend to. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I will instruct the household to see to your comfort as best they can. Please, rest easy."
"…Berstetz, what is your relationship with Madeleine?"
"A collaborator, I suppose, would be most accurate. Of course, from her perspective, she likely sees it as her being magnanimous in making use of a shrewd man. This mansion is also mine, you know."
Shrugging his surprisingly sturdy shoulders at his own answer, Berstetz's words made Rem look around at the room and the garden.
The way Madeleine had made herself at home had led Rem to assume it was her mansion—but even that had been wrong. The elegance of the building and its furnishings now made sense, at least.
"But I have no desire to rest easy, nor do I want to."
"What refreshingly direct manner of speaking. Very well—Lady Rem, do stay in good health."
With a small smile, Berstetz bowed once more and took his leave.
Rem considered calling out to stop him, but could find no words, and thought he likely wouldn't stop regardless—so she said nothing.
In Berstetz's place, the guards who had been sent outside returned.
Under their sharp gazes, Rem looked out the window once more.
Just then, the wyvern—having finished being fed—was carrying the soldier who'd fed it on its back as it slowly took flight into the sky.
"————"
A ferocious, terrifying wyvern, yet riding on its back through the air had been exhilarating.
Of course, there was no room to enjoy it given the circumstances—but being transported to her destination in less than a day from Guaral made her previous journey seem pointless.
While treating Flop's injuries, Madeleine had brought her to— "—The capital,
The city that Abel had been driven from his throne to reclaim.
Gazing from afar at the Crystal Palace at the city's center, Rem was a captive. She touched the window that wouldn't open, feeling the texture of the glass with her fingertips, and thought— "…That person."
If he learned that she was gone, would a pain pierce his chest?
The same pain that pierced hers, deep within, as if a blade had been driven in.
What kind of feelings gave rise to that thought, Rem couldn't say.
△▼△▼△▼△ —Slowly, Flop opened his eyes to the ceiling of an unfamiliar room.
"————"
For a moment, he spent time organizing his thoughts, then immediately began surveying his surroundings to assess the situation.
It was the habit of a traveling merchant who camped out often. Of course, his sisters—with far sharper senses than his own—handled the watch, but that was no excuse for laziness.
His own slow reactions could be the difference between life and death. So, keeping himself alert upon waking was a skill he'd naturally acquired as part of his survival toolkit—but— "Where am I—guh?!"
The instant he tried to look around carefully, a searing pain in his chest drew a scream from him.
Had it been nighttime and outdoors, that would have been a spectacularly foolish act—announcing his location to any beast nearby. But there was no taking it back.
Trying to recover, Flop struggled to sit up, panting— "What the… why won't my body move at all…?!"
His arms had no strength, and the plush bed absorbed his weight. His entire body sank into softness—and yet, the bed seemed to function more like a cage, holding him in place.
Even so, he writhed and struggled desperately, trying to free himself— "This… this thing…! It's putting up quite a fight!"
"…You're a rather peculiar individual."
"Huh!? Someone's there?!"
From behind, where he'd been wrestling with the bed, a high voice reached his ears, and Flop tried to turn toward it. But his efforts were futile—his disobedient body couldn't even manage to turn around properly.
Floundering like a fish on land, Flop heard a deep sigh— "I'm a dragon. I'm still treating your wounds, so stop thrashing about pointlessly."
Looking up at the person who'd walked to the side of the bed, Flop let out a small "Ah."
Sky-blue hair and golden eyes, with two black horns protruding from her head—it was Madeleine. The First General of the Empire, the "Wyvern General" who had attacked the fortress city.
And in Flop's final memory— "I believe… your claws were what scratched me. It hurt quite a bit."
"That's right. A dragon's claw tore through your life. …That girl healed it."
"That girl… ah."
Madeleine looked away, her expression uncomfortable. The face her words conjured in his mind, and the pieces of what had happened to him, fell into place.
At the same time, in his fading consciousness, he remembered how terribly he'd asked her—Rem—to do something for him.
"Madeleine, was it? There's something I'd like to know—what happened to Guaral? It was hit by a very large explosion, and then your friend's attack."
"————"
"Given that I'm alive—barely—I'd say my wife and I survived. But the outcome, as far as I'm concerned, is the second-worst possibility. The worst, of course, would be if both my wife and I had died."
Raising a finger, Flop pressed Madeleine with a stream of questions.
Watching his finger move, Madeleine's pained expression persisted. Flop guessed it traced back to an outcome she found unacceptable, and pressed on— "How about it, Madeleine? You look displeased—maybe sulking. My sister used to get like that too, all fidgety and pouty. She's a big girl, so even when she tries to be subtle, it's anything but—but I suppose you're the same type?"
"…I am not!"
"Hmm? What's that?"
"The city is fine! I couldn't destroy it all! Is that good enough for you?!"
Baring her sharp teeth, Madeleine roared back at Flop's words. Feeling like a gale was battering him head to toe, Flop let out a long, relieved breath.
"Fine" wasn't exactly the right word given what Flop remembered of Guaral's state, but Madeleine said she hadn't destroyed it all.
If that was the case— "My wife… she made good use of my life, then…"
Through his clouded consciousness and the ringing in his ears, Flop reflected on his own actions just before everything went dark.
He'd glimpsed Madeleine in great distress upon seeing him—bloodied, his life slipping away. She had been desperately questioning him, clinging to what he'd offered.
So he'd thought he could use it. He could offer to save his life and give Madeleine the answer she wanted, in exchange for relief from Guaral's dire situation.
He wasn't sure the peace-loving Rem would have been capable of such a heartless decision, and even in what seemed to be success, he felt he'd placed an enormous burden on her.
"The woman who treated my wounds—where is she?"
"…I brought her back together with you. That was the dragon's condition, and she accepted it. Dragons keep their promises. You will keep your promise to a dragon."
"A promise…"
"Here."
Relieved to hear that Rem was safe, Flop watched as Madeleine thrust something before his eyes—a red-stained tooth ornament. No—a dragon's tooth ornament.
The precious keepsake that Flop normally wore around his neck, never parting with it for a moment.
It was being held right in front of his nose as he lay face-down on the bed.
"Oh, you found it? Thank you truly. It's an incredibly precious thing. If I lost it, I don't think I could live with a straight face. So…"
"—Calyon."
"————"
Reaching out, Flop tried to take back the tooth. But Madeleine deftly dodged his hand, and in exchange for returning it, spoke a name.
Flop's breath caught at that name, and Madeleine continued— "This is Calyon's tooth. Why do you have it?"
Calyon—a name Flop hadn't misheard. Madeleine had said it twice.
There was no possibility of mishearing. Because that name was— "Answer me! Why do you have Calyon's tooth—"
"When Calyon was born, I was there. I helped choose her name, together with Big Brother Miles and Balroy."
"——!"
"When her old teeth were replaced with new ones, I was given this as a memento. A bond between sworn brothers—between family. That's why my sister and I have Calyon's tooth."
Quietly, as though opening a treasured box deep in his chest, Flop gave his answer.
The wyvern tooth in Madeleine's hand—its origin was his answer. Precious family—benefactor and sworn brother, both already gone from this world. The keepsake of two people.
Hearing this answer, Madeleine was struck speechless, her lips trembling, eyes wide.
Reading her reaction and the fact that she knew Calyon's name, Flop formed several hypotheses, and with a "Listen,"— "Where did you hear Calyon's name? You recognized her tooth at a glance—that's no shallow connection. And you…"
"…Ah."
"You're the one who became the 'Ninth' after Balroy, aren't you? Could it be that you knew Balroy and Calyon before any of this?"
Madeleine's reaction was painful to watch—her youthful face being pushed into a corner made his chest ache.
But Flop's chest was being ravaged by a pain far greater than what he'd felt watching Madeleine hurt over the same topic before. There was no more potent medicine in this world than the face of his sister weeping uncontrollably.
So he didn't hesitate to corner Madeleine, to draw out what she carried in her heart.
—Balroy Temegriff.
One of Volakia's "Nine Divine Generals," the sworn brother of Flop and Medium, a traitor who had raised the banner of rebellion against the Emperor and lost his life—the man who had loved his beloved dragon Calyon, and his benefactor Miles, with all his heart. That gentle, dear man.
What kind of relationship had existed between him and Madeleine?
And— "Why did you become one of the 'Nine Divine Generals'?"
"…Revenge."
A beat of hesitation before the answer came, but the words she spat out were clear.
Madeleine's lips trembled, her eyes wide open—her expression slowly shifting, and in her golden eyes, the same passion that animated her face took hold: fury.
The fury of this dragon-commanding girl scorched Flop's entire body as he lay on the bed.
So intense was Madeleine's anger that it felt literal.
She had revealed that she'd taken the seat of the "Nine Divine Generals" for the sake of revenge.
The word "revenge" carried weight for Flop too—because it was the goal of his life. Flop's target of vengeance, however, was not an individual but the world itself.
A world that forced people to their knees—the revenge he sought was against that world.
But the fury blazing in Madeleine's eyes was something entirely different.
The passion burning in her golden eyes knew exactly who its target was.
"Whose revenge are you seeking?"
"…Balroy's. The revenge for the man who was supposed to become the dragon's consort."
"————"
"A dragon will never forgive the one who killed its mate. For that purpose—"
Madeleine answered, her small body brimming with rage, that she would exact revenge for the dead Balroy.
Flop didn't know how Balroy and Madeleine had met, what experiences they'd gone through, or what form of bond had been forged between them.
But he understood that Madeleine genuinely mourned his death.
And so, and so, and so— "—Who was it that killed Balroy? What must be done for the revenge to be complete?"
If Medium had been here, she would have embraced Madeleine without hesitation.
Medium—who had wept in torrents over the deaths of Balroy and Miles, who had cried out in great, wailing sobs—would surely have taught Madeleine how to grieve.
Someone precious had been killed, and Madeleine was consumed by rage over that fact.
She didn't know how to mourn. The being who commanded dragons and bore enormous black horns—this existence of unfathomable power knew only rage as her response to grief.
And that was exactly the same as Flop, who had forgotten how to cry.
So— "Balroy was killed by—"
To Flop's question, Madeleine answered, her small fists clenched.
The love that had lost its place—stolen of her mate, with nowhere for it to go—Madeleine had packed it all into her tiny body and burned it as the flames of rage, deciding she would fulfill her vengeance.
"————"
And when Flop heard the name from Madeleine's lips, he closed his eyes.
He closed them and sat in perfect silence. Only in this moment did he forget the pain of his wounds—still being treated—forget the wound torn open in Madeleine's heart, and surrender himself to the darkness behind his eyelids.
If he closed his eyes, he could still recall the faces of those precious to him.
*'You and Medium both don't think enough. The Count's place was right there—you could've stayed and been taken care of, but no, you had to make things difficult, honestly.'* *'That's Big Brother Miles's way of worrying, y'know? He wanted us to stay here so he could keep looking after us. He's not very honest about it.'* *'Shut up, Bal! People who get ahead need to stop coming back all the time!!'* *'Nah, that sort of thing just isn't for me. Hanging out here with Big Brother Miles and Flop, and Medium and the rest—that's way more my speed, right?'* The day of their departure—Balroy going out of his way to visit from far away, and Miles arriving late into the night. The exchanges between them stirred nostalgic memories.
Balroy, waving goodbye with a broad smile, and Medium and Flop leaving the place that had been their home for so long. And then— And then,
With those illuminated eyes still fixed ahead, his lips spoke words.
They were— "—You're the one who killed Balroy. Mr. Village Chief… no, Emperor Vincent Volakia."