—
That was separate from the meaning of "Star Reader" as an official position within the Volakia Empire—the first time Vincent Volakia had elevated one of them,
A Star Reader was one who received, over the course of their life, the destiny that must take priority above all else, and who cast aside everything to fulfill that supreme mandate.
It could be inferred that Vincent had given Ubilk the title of "Star Reader" as a mere office, intending to strip the name of its weight so that the very concept of "Star Readers" would gradually hollow out. But the wise emperor's true intentions could be set aside for now.
What mattered was that Rowan Segmunt was also one who had received a heavenly mandate.
The compulsion of the Star Readers upon those who had been granted their destiny was formidable.
It was powerful enough to give a mere male prostitute the clout to enter and exit the castle to press opinions on the emperor, to make a frail mother forget the love for the daughter she had borne at the cost of her life, and to make one casually relinquish the goal they had devoted their entire existence to.
Most Star Readers had their lives twisted by destiny, forced to completely reverse the course of their existence—and yet they did not consider this a tragedy.
On the contrary, they had been given a grand ambition worth devoting their entire life to, and they could not doubt that fulfilling it was the very reason they were born. They even felt happiness in it.
No matter how abnormal or pitiful it might appear to those around them, that was simply how it was.
However, regarding the common tragedy shared by all Star Readers, Rowan's position was exceptional even compared to the others.
After all, the heavenly mandate that Rowan Segmunt had received was to reach the "Heavenly Sword."
—None other than the very ambition Rowan himself had harbored long before receiving his destiny.
*** "Years I've carried steel, seeking to master the way of the sword—"
Rowan swayed his head side to side, his face flushed with drink, and sang in high spirits.
There was no particular tune to speak of, but his mood was splendid and sing he must. His staggering steps swayed pleasantly this way and that—almost like the footwork of a dance.
For some time now, since just before the stir caused by the "Black-Haired Crown Prince" had begun, the entire empire had been pervaded by a nostalgic yet rich scent of blood.
It was a harbinger of war, and because Vincent's reign had been so remarkably subdued, one could already sense that the reaction—a tremendous upheaval—was on its way.
That premonition had proven correct, and now the empire had entered a time of calamity so dire that the boundary between the living and the dead had become blurred.
"Ah, what can I say—a world to my liking, indeed."
The further the world strayed from peace, the more turbulent society became, the more the way of steel was honed.
He wouldn't say it required mutual refinement—there simply needed to be enemies worth cutting down. But on the whole, truly eye-catching strongmen rarely emerged in times of peace.
He did not know where the soul came from, but it seemed that the proper mentality took shape before the soul settled into the vessel of flesh.
Those born in turbulent times were granted the talent to live in turbulent times.
That was why the odds of a soul like that residing in someone not born in such an era were unfavorable. Rowan had failed many times himself, and Cecilus had been granted to him only after he had put down eight of his own children.
Of all his children, only Cecilus, upon seeing a white blade in his birthing bath, had laughed and declared it would be the love of his life.
"Even Cecilus has hit a wall—so the Heavenly Sword remains far off, I suppose. Ah, ah, how fitting, how fitting... He was born in the wrong era."
Rowan pressed his palm to his forehead and let out the lament he had harbored so many times before.
The more the world fell into chaos, the more peace was shattered, the more the era demanded the overwhelming supremacy of the strong. If the path to the "Heavenly Sword" was this distant and perilous, how wonderful must the era have been four hundred years ago, when every living creature feared the "
Had he been born in that era, there would have been no fear of the path to the "Heavenly Sword" being cut short.
All the more so, when it came to what Rowan had given Cecilus— "—Hey. Are you seriously planning to go through with this?"
"Hm?"
A voice called out to his unsteady back from behind, and Rowan turned with a quizzical look.
Planted firmly on the cobblestones, looking down at him with a tall frame and a piercing gaze, was a red-haired swordsman—Heinckel, a man of that name.
Moments ago, Heinckel had been drinking right alongside Rowan, but now his face was entirely sober—a stark contrast. Despite looking neater than when they had first found him in the field, he somehow seemed even more haggard, which was curious.
"What a grim face you're wearing. Come on, red—have a drink. The city may be in ruins here and there, but luckily the dead haven't touched a bit of food or drink."
"Luckily...?"
"Oh dear, seems I've hit a nerve."
Rowan raised his sake gourd, and Heinckel clenched his teeth with hardened cheeks.
Interpreting that reaction as a refusal, Rowan resignedly tipped the homeless sake down his own throat.
Just as he had told Heinckel, every visible shop and home was deserted. The dead wandered about searching for the living, yet their goal was blood—not food or drink.
In other words, they had complete freedom to satisfy their hunger and thirst as much as they wished.
"What's not to like about that? If we just leave it, it'll rot anyway. It's only logical for us to help ourselves."
"Food, drink—who cares about any of that! I'm not even going to expect anything from you or your family's sense of ethics. More importantly—answer me. Are you seriously planning to go through with this?"
"————"
Heinckel raised his voice, and Rowan closed one eye in silence.
The red-haired swordsman seemed too impatient to wait even a few seconds. Rowan tried to guess what he was concerned about, but couldn't quite grasp the answer.
Estimating what others were thinking or feeling was something Rowan was particularly bad at.
The same flaw seemed to be inherited by Cecilus, but Cecilus overcame it through an entirely different angle, bulldozing through problems by force. Rowan couldn't do the same.
In any case— "So red's worried about whether we're going along with that helmeted fellow's plan, is that it?"
"That's right. I came back as things turned out, but like Aldebaran said—this is our chance to turn things around. I can't afford to fail this."
Heinckel nodded and pointed his finger toward the far end of the street—no, far beyond that, at the sturdy city walls that encircled the Imperial Capital from within.
These were the star-shaped walls that had functioned during the Battle of the Imperial Capital to protect citizens from the rebel army, and— "One of the five peaks we need to bring down."
Heinckel named the objective in a heavy, stiff voice.
The "path" that the man in the iron helmet—the one called Al—had instructed them to establish. It was groundwork for the "Hero," meant to trail behind Rowan and the others now inside the Imperial Capital.
Currently, on this street, only Rowan and Heinckel were among the living, and fortunately not a single dead person was in sight. Cecilus, Gruby, and Al were operating separately.
All of them were working to punch holes in the fortress walls that guarded the Imperial Capital.
The way Rowan, Heinckel, and Gruby had broken into the Imperial Capital had been an exceedingly reckless method—it would be difficult for anyone else to replicate. That meant creating an alternate passage was a reasonable proposal.
And so, now separated from his smaller, loudmouthed son, Rowan had expected a leisurely journey for two middle-aged men—but that was clearly not what the fired-up Heinckel had in mind. Rowan scratched his cheek, wondering what to do about it.
Disregarding Rowan's feelings entirely, Heinckel clicked his tongue.
"Honestly, I don't know what your son meant by 'groundwork'..."
"Well, I wouldn't worry too much about the way he puts things. But there's no denying those walls need to come down before we can go on."
"If you understand that, then—!"
"—Then why does yours truly keep choosing the 'no' side when asked whether to go along or not?"
Heinckel bared his teeth, about to shout, but Rowan cut him off with a shrug.
The look of frustration on his face was a masterpiece—Rowan would have liked to say it went perfectly with his drink, but he had better not push the alcohol too far. Procuring more sake around here would be a hassle, and the man in front of him might carelessly draw his sword.
"No, actually—red probably wouldn't draw his sword against yours truly anyway."
"——!"
"Ah, ah, there's no need to feel ashamed about it. At the very least, yours truly doesn't consider someone brave just because they draw their blade against anyone and everyone... Whether being scared or not counts as a virtue, I'm not entirely sure."
He tapped his temple with his finger, touching on a deficiency unrelated to intoxication.
Watching Heinckel's eyes go wide at this, Rowan turned his gaze toward the city walls.
"The reason yours truly can't go along with the helmeted fellow's plan is quite simple. The helmeted fellow's objective is to take back the Imperial Capital from the dead, yes? Yours truly doesn't particularly want that."
That was why he had no reason to cooperate with the plan to breach the capital's defenses.
That was Rowan's honest feeling, but Heinckel continued to stare blankly. Rowan tilted his head, thinking he had given a fairly clear answer.
"So that means... you're on the side of the dead?"
"How does that follow? That's a completely different story. All yours truly is saying is that the situation being convenient because the dead are running rampant and the country is in chaos—that's one thing. Being on the dead's side is something else entirely."
"...No good. I can't make heads or tails of what you're thinking. And anyway—"
"Hm?"
"Even if you're not interested, your son... the 'Blue Lightning' is on board. Are you just going to sit by and watch that happen?"
Heinckel put his hand to his mouth, trying to digest the information being forced upon him. But what he said next was, in Rowan's view, just as off the mark.
It was true that Cecilus was eager to go along with Al's plan.
"Yours truly is mine truly, my son is my son—that's all there is to it. Besides—"
"Besides?"
"The way Cecilus is now, the summit of the 'Heavenly Sword' is still far off. Shrink down and your sword skills dull. He wouldn't even be able to keep the promise he made when he cut me down."
"————"
Rowan lightly ran his hand over his chest, recalling the sword scar carved there.
He bitterly remembered the story Gruby had told—the "attempted assassination of the emperor." Rowan's position had been on the side that sent Cecilus to do it, so it amounted to incitement to assassinate. Either way, it had ended in failure, and the blow dealt as penance still made him recall the searing heat of that moment.
Just as he had reached that thought, Rowan suddenly cocked his head.
"But, red—you sure are eager to latch onto the topic of yours truly and his son. Come to think of it, you had the strongest reaction of all. Is there something going on?"
At the revelation that the shrunken Cecilus was still Cecilus, and that Rowan was father to both sizes of Cecilus, Heinckel's reaction had been heavy and dull.
When Rowan pressed him on the meaning behind it, an unexpected answer came.
It was— "...My name is Heinckel Astrea."
"Astrea... Astrea, Astrea, Astrea... Oh—ohhhh!"
Rowan stared at Heinckel, who had made a grand show of introducing himself.
At first, he had to roll the sound over his tongue several times before the realization truly sank in. But once it did, the meaning made his blood boil with excitement.
"Then that means—you, red! You're from the 'Sword Saint' bloodline!"
The House of Astrea of the
Notably, the current "Sword Saint,"
"Could it be, could it be—you, red! The current 'Sword Saint' who goes by the name Heinckel?! Then that would make you a relative... no, a son! A son is Reinhard! Father of the 'Sword Saint'! How utterly unexpected! What a strange and wondrous connection!"
Reinhard was the same generation as the original Cecilus—same generation as the original Cecilus, he had heard.
If that was the case, then Heinckel, who was roughly Rowan's age, would have a predictable relationship with Reinhard. At the same time, Heinckel's bitter, teeth-grinding expression finally made sense.
Rowan and Heinckel—the fathers of the "Blue Lightning" and the "Sword Saint."
"More importantly—you must be a descendant of the lineage that reached the 'Heavenly Sword'!"
"...Huh?"
"The first 'Sword Saint,'
The "Sword Saint" title—a testament to the House of Astrea's uniqueness. Its inaugural holder, the apex and transcendent being of every swordsman who had first reached the concept of the "Heavenly Sword."
The moment that thought struck, Rowan felt that all his previous behavior toward Heinckel had been unspeakably rude. To have treated a descendant of the one who had achieved the "Heavenly Sword" in such a manner!
"I owe you my apologies, red. Forgive my rudeness up to this point. I never imagined that the kin of Reid Astrea, who reached the 'Heavenly Sword,' would have fallen so far."
"————"
"Red?"
Heinckel did not respond to Rowan, who had placed his hand on the sword at his waist and bowed deeply.
Wondering at this, Rowan looked up to see Heinckel covering his face with his palm, shaking his head. Then he let out a long, exasperated sigh.
"...Fine. I get it now. I really do. You and I—we're fundamentally different, at the very root."
"I'm not sure what to make of that, but don't let it get you down. Yours truly is mine truly, my son is my son, and red is red. No matter what, without steel as a medium, there's no cutting any deeper than that."
"—The fact that I survived back there was thanks to you. That much, I'll be grateful for."
As if refusing any further exchange, Heinckel turned his back to Rowan.
For a moment, the urge to slash into that upright back stirred, but Heinckel was not the type to draw his weapon even at the risk of his life, so Rowan decided to spare himself the pointless killing.
A pointless kill would only tarnish the blade.
Heinckel would head to the designated peak and devote himself to sabotage work.
Whether there were experts there who would pin him down, Rowan couldn't say—if Heinckel had accounted for that in his calculations, he might have been counting on Rowan to fill the gap, in which case Rowan owed him an apology.
But Rowan had his own purpose, and his relationship with Heinckel was not remotely a priority.
So, though it was lonely to part ways with his drinking companion, this would be farewell for now— "You're ditching your own son too—what exactly are you trying to do?"
Just as Rowan was about to dash off, Heinckel's voice—still directed away from him—drew a wry laugh.
His face, his expression, even his mannerisms—he never once failed to contradict the impression of being a man with a spineless streak. In any case, Rowan answered the question without hesitation, tapping the scar on his chest.
"For my own lifelong ambition, of course. —Just like you, red."
If the complaint was about ditching his son, that much was the same for both of them.
Moreover, entirely indifferent to whatever reaction Heinckel might have, Rowan set off toward his objective, running lightly through the Imperial Capital entirely devoid of the living.
*** Now, Rowan Segmunt was a "Star Reader."
He swore upon his honor to say this: before he became a Star Reader—before he was consumed by the mandate of destiny—Rowan had a personality, desires, and a life of his own.
Of course, as was true for most Star Readers, the moment Rowan received his heavenly mandate and became one of the Star Readers, he was forced into a different way of living than before. But to those around him, Rowan's change had not been particularly noticeable.
This was because, even before receiving his destiny, Rowan Segmunt's deepest ambition had been to reach the "Heavenly Sword," and he had thrown himself wholeheartedly into anything that might serve that goal.
Like Rowan, those who sought to master their craft, the fearsome magical beasts that attacked villages, the people of villages nearly destroyed by those beasts, villains who oppressed others, saints who aided others—Rowan slashed through them all so long as it might serve to hone his blade. But the results were meager.
He learned various schools, acquired techniques, then killed the heads of those schools. He tried to integrate the many techniques he had absorbed into his own, only to realize it threw off the balance of his skills—and abandoned that too.
Quite literally, he walked and walked and walked the path of blood, and still could not reach the "Heavenly Sword." He so desperately craved it that he even considered ending his own life—when that happened.
That was when Rowan received his heavenly mandate and became a "Star Reader."
Bound by the destiny that commanded him to reach the "Heavenly Sword" no matter what, Rowan was driven into a cycle of trial and error—not to reach the "Heavenly Sword" himself, but to create a being who could.
But the correct answer was unknown. Fundamentally, Rowan's methods were always the same.
For now, all he could do was try everything one by one. The idea of finding someone with talent, nurturing them, and guiding them to the summit—he abandoned that quickly.
If he did it himself, he could do it better. And if someone couldn't surpass what he could do, then the "Heavenly Sword" was nothing but a dream within a dream—such a fragile hope was better cut down and discarded.
In the course of this, he came to realize something.
The reason he had been chosen to reach the "Heavenly Sword" must have meaning in itself.
With that thought, he tried once more to aim for the "Heavenly Sword" himself—but toiling blindly led nowhere, and indiscriminately killing people only to let them go led nowhere.
That wasn't it. Not Rowan himself. —It had to be Rowan's seed that reached it.
And so, through Rowan Segmunt's unceasing efforts, a vessel capable of reaching the "Heavenly Sword" was born in the form of
Seeing his own child laughing in the birthing bath, gazing at the white blade pressed against his neck, Rowan felt himself freed from the bonds that had bound him for so, so long.
A Star Reader was released from the role they had been given the moment their destiny's fulfillment was witnessed.
What seized their mind afterward was that the values they had unconditionally obeyed—even the beliefs and convictions they had twisted themselves to follow—now made no sense whatsoever.
Naturally, this happened to Rowan as well.
Having desperately created a child with the talent to reach the "Heavenly Sword," the moment he laid eyes on the child born of that effort and thought he had succeeded, everything became meaningless.
What remained was a son—recognized as having the potential to reach the "Heavenly Sword"—and himself, who had lost sight of his own purpose of reaching that summit, having spent his prime in service to others.
Before this almost unbearable truth, Rowan now moved toward the decision he had never been able to carry out before—to take his own life.
But— "Oh..."
When the child, who had laughed at the life-threatening blade and who was born with a promise to walk the path of the "Heavenly Sword," grasped the fingers of his despairing father, the thought vanished without a trace.
The impact that this fragile life had upon Rowan was immeasurable, even for a man who had cut down countless lives and bathed in enough blood to fill a lake.
He realized.
The being who now could not even hold a single chopstick would one day gain the swordsmanship befitting the "Heavenly Sword." If that was so, then where was the reason to write off his own future as nothing but decline past his prime?
If an infant could reach the "Heavenly Sword," then a path remained for an aging swordsman as well.
Therefore, Rowan forgot the despair of having his path closed off, and renewed his vow to press forward toward his own desire.
Rowan Segmunt—who had received his heavenly mandate, fulfilled it, given birth to a child who would reach the "Heavenly Sword," and been freed from his role as a "Star Reader."
—Even now, he had not abandoned the path of reaching the "Heavenly Sword" himself, and he continued to advance.
*** Parting ways with Heinckel, Rowan ran lightly toward the north side of the Imperial Capital.
At the end of his path stood the Crystal Palace—the most prominent building in the Imperial Capital—and there was no doubt it had become the stronghold of the dead.
Presumably, the ringleader who raised the dead—the one Gruby and Al had identified as the problem—was inside the palace. But that was no reason for Rowan to stop his feet.
To storm the castle and cut off the enemy leader's head before anyone else—he was not heading to the Crystal Palace for the purpose of resolving the situation. Let that be made clear.
The words he had told Heinckel were without a shred of falsehood: Rowan could not have cared less whether the empire was saved or not. Chaos and calamity—the bigger, the better, as far as he was concerned.
There was, however, a reason Rowan was rushing frantically toward the Crystal Palace.
That reason, of course, was his own son, Cecilus Segmunt. Though saying Cecilus was the reason did not mean it was about parental love or sentiment.
"That little runt—letting go of 'Masayume' and 'Murasame' is absolutely outrageous."
In Rowan's mind, the image was of two extraordinary blades. While there were any number of magical swords and holy swords in the world, truly powerful swords numbered only ten.
Two of those ten had been Cecilus's beloved blades—the "Dream Sword" Masayume and the "Evil Sword" Murasame, which he had relinquished after shrinking.
Under no circumstances could those two swords be lost.
To reach the "Heavenly Sword," the individual's swordsmanship and skill went without saying, but the steel that proved them real to the world could not be just anything.
Masayume and Murasame were precisely the pair suited for that purpose.
"Who knows when that kid will return to normal, but without a sword, he won't exactly cut an impressive figure."
When Cecilus returned to his original size, he would need his swords, or it would be meaningless.
Or perhaps, in this great calamity, Cecilus might reach the "Heavenly Sword." If that happened and Cecilus had no sword, it would be unthinkable.
—Even if Cecilus reached the "Heavenly Sword," cutting him down without him having a full set of blades would not constitute proof that Rowan himself had reached it.
For that proof as well, Cecilus needed to have his swords returned to him.
"That brat—shrinking down and forgetting his promise to his father. What an infuriating boy."
The promise that had once been made between Rowan and Cecilus, father and son.
When Rowan had tried to quickly make enemies of the entire empire to drive Cecilus toward the "Heavenly Sword," Cecilus had refused on the grounds that it was "too much like a generic villain," and instead followed Vincent to cut Rowan down.
At that moment, Rowan had made a promise to Cecilus in order to be spared.
That someday, when Cecilus reached the "Heavenly Sword," Rowan would come to cut him down.
Cecilus had agreed, and dropped the gravely wounded Rowan into a river to let him escape. He nearly died, but survived, and Rowan had honed his skills while waiting for that day.
And now, it was almost upon him.
"If the location hasn't changed—"
Cecilus, despite holding the position of "One," had spent nearly all his earnings on swords.
For that reason, he did not maintain a residence befitting a general. Instead, he had built a small hut in the field north of the Crystal Palace and lived there. If that had not changed, then the "Dream Sword" and the "Evil Sword" were very likely stored in that hut.
To retrieve them and deliver them to Cecilus, Rowan headed deep into the Crystal Palace— "——!"
Ducking past the dead, passing straight through the Crystal Palace, and making for the base of the collapsed Stillwall—at that moment, Rowan leaped sharply to the side at the sudden presence.
And that was the right move.
—A tremendous impact plummeted straight down, and its ferocious destructive force caved in the main street in a perfect circle.
The wall surrounding the Crystal Palace's vicinity along the street warped and collapsed, and smoke from what seemed like an explosion filled his vision. Rowan clicked his tongue and drew his sword in one fluid motion.
If he cut through the smoke using the same technique as his Kumo-kiri—his cloud-slashing strike—he would see the source of the impact on the other side.
It was a single woman—slender and tall.
A woman with long white hair, clad in a blue dress, standing with elegant poise. Rowan was thoroughly oblivious to matters of beauty and ugliness, but by his own values, her lithe figure could be called beautiful.
Her narrow blue eyes held a shade of grief, and Rowan wondered at this.
Unlike the dead, she did not have black eyes with golden irises. Blood flowed through her white skin, and the woman staring at him was most likely among the living.
But this was a castle of the dead, a city of corpses—her actions should have made her an enemy of the living.
"You are—"
"—Iris."
"...Didn't expect you to introduce yourself right off the bat."
With his sword still drawn at his hip, Rowan licked his lips and narrowed his eyes.
She was a woman, but that was no reason to underestimate her. Above all, the aura she exuded was that of an unbelievable powerhouse. She did not wear an expression befitting someone who would use that power benevolently, but that was a trivial matter to Rowan.
With an expression conspicuously preoccupied with precisely those trivial matters, the woman who had called herself Iris twitched the fox ears buried in her white hair.
"Welcome back. As long as you're within my sight, nobody needs to die."
"My, my—my sincerest apologies for that."
Before the desperately pleading woman—Iris—Rowan closed one eye and tightened his grip on his sword.
Whatever the opponent's intentions, if she stood in his path, there was nothing to be done. Above all, retreating before such a powerful foe was unthinkable for him as a swordsman.
Therefore— "—The path to the 'Heavenly Sword' remains steep. I'll have to cut through you and press on."