—The raging wind and earth, the collision of supreme forces—truly a new fragment of legend being woven.
The battle between the "Sword Devil" who stood beyond human comprehension and the "Divine Dragon" had barely begun—no, in the span of a single blink, Heinkel was thrown from the dragon's back, cast out from the legend.
"— — —"
During the descent from the clouds, the "Divine Dragon" had held him in place with wind, but the moment the battle with the "Sword Devil" commenced, that consideration—no, that leeway—vanished from the dragon, forcing Heinkel to fend for himself. And when that effort bore no fruit, he was promptly hurled from the stage. That was Heinkel.
But he couldn't even cling on, and now he rolled across the ground, lamenting his own wretchedness, his own pathetic weakness. —Even such a luxurious self-punishment was no longer permitted to the current Heinkel.
"— — —"
The battle that had begun at the Bariel residence was now far behind, the stage expanded to the Noble District, and the superhuman clash between man and dragon continued with an almost dreamlike unreality. —From there, Heinkel could not tear his gaze away.
"— — —"
Emotionally, he wanted to look away. More than that, he wanted to turn his back and flee. If that wasn't possible, he wanted to clutch his head, crouch down, and cover his ears to reject it all.
But he couldn't. He simply could not. —If
"— — —"
The aged "Sword Devil" brought his entire being to life, challenging the "Divine Dragon's" colossal body—dozens of times his own size—evading lethal death blows time and again, raining down countless sword strikes that carved into dragon scales.
His footwork, his leaps, his blade flashes, his deflections, his posture maintenance, his weight shifts, his line-of-sight manipulation, his application of technique, his use of every obstacle—all combined to augment his sword's power. This was the ultimate form of a swordsman. Without question, Wilhelm, locked in combat against the Dragon, was the strongest swordsman Heinkel had ever known.
Not for a single instant could he take his eyes off the "Sword Devil's" sublime technique.
His breath caught, he forgot to blink, and even his own heartbeat felt like an intrusion as he was mesmerized by the flashing steel.
This was no elegant, refined sword dance. The "Sword Devil's" way of fighting—angling from every possible direction to slash at his opponent's life—was something far more visceral, a beast's instinct-driven passion.
That passion became technique, technique was sublimated into art, and it reached the legend of trading blows with the "Divine Dragon."
"— — —"
—Gazing upon that figure of Wilhelm facing the "Divine Dragon," Heinkel glimpsed countless battlefields.
The image of him crossing swords with
The image of him wielding his blade against the
The image of him severing the elongated neck of the three-headed "Evil Dragon" that dominated the skies above the commercial city.
The image of him clashing with the Empire's strongest, the "Eight-Armed"
The image of him wresting the sword from Theresia van Astrea, who had been the "Sword Saint," at the Royal Castle of Lugnica.
The blood-soaked image of him cutting down countless enemies during the "Demihuman War," earning the name "Sword Devil."
And the image of the greatest swordsman who had led countless other battlefields to victory with nothing but his blade—Heinkel saw all of it reflected in Wilhelm's present form.
And at the same time, he understood. —If things continued like this, the "Divine Dragon" would be defeated.
"No good..."
Heinkel whispered through gritted teeth and rose to his feet from where he had been on both knees.
Confirming the sword at his waist with his hand, he was driven forward by that conviction.
The "Divine Dragon" would lose. Because his opponent was the "Sword Devil," who had already decided he would win.
"— — —"
Sorrowfully, in Heinkel's eyes, the ceiling of power between the "Sword Devil" and the "Divine Dragon" was invisible.
Just as someone standing on the ground cannot confirm the sights above the clouds—even if an unimaginably vast landscape lay beyond, he could not see it.
And so, he had no choice but to exercise his meager imagination and picture it. —And in the limited world of Heinkel Astrea's imagination, the "Divine Dragon" fell to the "Sword Devil's" blade.
As a baseline, this battle overwhelmingly favored the "Divine Dragon."
Even in Heinkel's eyes, the "Sword Devil's" sword could not pierce the "Divine Dragon's" scales, and no matter how many attacks he unleashed, he dealt no decisive blow. Conversely, every one of the "Divine Dragon's" attacks was lethal—even a graze of a few millimeters deep would cost the "Sword Devil" his life and leave his corpse on display.
Heinkel could understand that premise. —And yet, the imagination that the "Sword Devil" would win remained unshaken.
It wasn't about logic. Logic and reason could never defeat the "Sword Saint." In other words, the strength of the "Sword Devil"—who had once bested the "Sword Saint"—lay on the far side of logic and reason.
And since the "Sword Devil" possessed the strength to reach across to that far side— "—No good..."
That inescapable, worst-case imagination was something Heinkel's stride would not accept.
If the "Divine Dragon" won here, the "Sword Devil" would next challenge the "Sword Saint." And just as he had defeated the previous "Sword Saint," he would defeat the current one—Reinhard.
That could not be allowed. Absolutely not.
For that battle to come to pass, there were numerous obstacles, including the existence of "The
No good. It was no good. No good, and no good, and absolutely no good. He didn't even need to explain why it was no good—it simply was. No good meant no good, nothing more. No good. Because it was no good. It being no good meant it was no good. No good was no good, and that was final. With the "Sword Devil's" pure, untarnished sword, Luanna Astrea could not be saved. Because she could not be saved, therefore— "—Heinkel."
Ahead of him, there stood the back of the motionless "Sword Devil."
That muffled voice, forced through blood foam as though drowning—it reached Heinkel without fail, and he recognized it as calling his name.
Knowing that, while suppressing the trembling in both arms with every ounce of self-control he possessed, he gripped the hilt of his sword.
"...With your way of doing things, you can't bring Luanna back."
Debris from collapsing buildings rained down on his forehead, and blood trickled along his skin. He had been blown away multiple times by shockwaves like concussive blasts, crushed beneath falling pillars. He had been half-seared by the aftershocks of the Dragon's breath cleaved apart by sword flashes, dragging the agony of scorched blood, bone, and flesh, and still he walked.
Filthy beyond measure with dust and blood, walking, walking, walking—Heinkel now stood behind Wilhelm. He stood there, and with the drawn "Astrea," he impaled his own father from behind.
"— — —"
Through the sword that pierced him, Heinkel felt Wilhelm trying to turn around. He clenched his fist to stop it, inflicting a deeper wound to prevent him from turning.
He could not see Wilhelm's face now. If he saw himself reflected in those eyes, Heinkel would be rendered speechless—now and always. That was why he would not let him turn. Absolutely not.
He must not let him turn and speak.
If the "Sword Devil" was made to do it—if he was made to say he would accomplish it—that future would be pried open by his sword.
That pried-open future might banish all the dark clouds and reveal the long-sealed clearing beyond. —But Luanna would not be there.
With the "Sword Devil's" sword, Luanna could not be awakened.
And without her, Heinkel—Heinkel and the rest of them—could not be saved.
"You can't... You're not my father. I am. —I'm the one who has to do this."
He cursed the fact that what he squeezed out came as a pathetic, sobbing whimper.
Clench your teeth, you failure. Put strength in your voice, you coward. Don't you have time to hang your head, you spineless waste?
Even with this hand, this sword, stained with his father's blood, he still couldn't stop his teeth from churning, the heat behind his eyes, every organ writhing inside him, the overwhelming urge to vomit it all out—unable to kill any of it, good-for-nothing that he was.
He kept spouting that he'd steeled his resolve, but when would he ever stop deceiving himself about his own wavering? Pissing coward that he was.
"—You absolute fool."
Heinkel drove himself forward with unrelenting self-condemnation.
And into his ears came a rebuke that was not his own, yet one he had no choice but to agree with.
A voice not drowning in blood—and the very next instant, Heinkel's eyes widened in shock. —He had locked eyes with Wilhelm, who he had been trying so hard not to let turn around.
"—Ah"
He looked down. The sword was still in the same place. And yet Wilhelm had turned because he had twisted his body and forcibly pulled the blade through his own torso.
It was only natural, but pulling a sword from a wound meant blood would flow. Forcibly, the wound would only widen.
But the "Sword Devil" had drawn the blade. If he didn't, he couldn't turn around.
"...Heinkel."
Heinkel had gone mute in the face of that reckless act, and Wilhelm called his name once more.
Wilhelm swallowed down the welling blood to keep his voice from wavering. But his body—wounded from the battle with Yae and the "Divine Dragon," now bearing the deep wound Heinkel had dealt—was already fatally exsanguinated.
Sure enough, without the support of the sword through his body, Wilhelm collapsed to his knees.
"O-oh... o-ld man..."
Instinctively, Heinkel's hand shot out to catch the collapsing body. But it was his own outstretched hand that was grabbed instead, and he was unexpectedly pulled close.
With blood pouring from him in quantities that belied the strength still coursing through a man supposedly on death's door, Wilhelm looked at Heinkel with eyes that had never lost their intensity and said: "It's about time... you woke up..."
"— — —"
That appeal sent a dark heat kindling in Heinkel's heart, which had been about to shrink away.
Did he intend to lecture him about not dreaming? That awakening Luanna was nothing but a pipe dream? Or that even if she did awaken, she would never be happy about it? —He didn't need to be told that. He already knew well enough that Luanna would never welcome it.
Nothing Heinkel had done to this day would ever be affirmed by Luanna.
He would be despised, she would lose all affection for him, love would invert into hatred, and his name would inevitably be engraved in Luanna's heart as the most loathsome man in the world.
But that was fine. Anger, hatred, contempt—any of it was fine. If Luanna opened her eyes from that slumber, reflected the world in those blue eyes, and spoke life with her lips—then that was enough.
He had no interest in convenient dreams.
Heinkel would live, and die, in this reality that resembled a nightmare but was no nightmare.
And for that— "—No."
With the return of the throbbing headache that came with that dark resolve, Wilhelm nonetheless interjected.
Heinkel held his breath, staring intently at him. The father who refused to avert his eyes from his incompetent son—Wilhelm—moved his bloodied lips.
There was something familiar in that expression. An unpleasant memory from the past. —The anguished face Theresia had worn when she told him that his mother had not returned from the battle against the White Whale.
"Wake up, Heinkel... No matter... whom you earn the hatred of..."
With the face Heinkel recognized as the moment the "Sword Devil" Wilhelm had shown his greatest vulnerability— "...Reinhard will never... abandon the seat of 'Sword Saint'..."
—just like that time, he hurled the words that would wound Heinkel's heart the most.