Chapter 44

The sword saint ballad (part. 1)

Like many stories, it started with a sword.

It was a sword not like those that appear in legends. The blade had not been sharpened in the heart of magic and wisdom; arcane secrets were not enshrined in its iron; the materials that made it up had not been forged in the sacred forges of a long-forgotten god.

Its history could not be traced back to great dynasties nor heroes whose grandiose achievements still echoed in the distant winds; it had not taken part in exploits that had entered myth; it would not be remembered as a treasure of inestimable value.

It was a sword whose tip had been dulled, and the sharpness was barely noticeable. The handle had been partially destroyed, making it almost impossible to grip, and there was so much rust on it that not even the most skilled blacksmith would have been able to restore it to its former glory, if it ever had any.

Yet when he saw it for the first time, the boy could not help but be attracted to it. The sunset, that day, silhouetted on the horizon as it had done countless times before; the central star heading across the mountains; the cold autumn evening approaching with the coming of the moon.

"Leave it where you have found it. You'll get nothing from that stuff."

His father's face appeared faded in his memories, only the muscles from a hard life in the fields still retained the semblance of a distinct image. The wheat fields... the farms... the hoe and worn tools...

It had been a hard day. It was a hard life. It had been a hard existence, devoid of joys, full of sorrows. Of that time, almost nothing he could remember.

Only that rusted steel, that worn handle, that point that could not even cut paper.

And that silver line, which bordered on perfection. A beauty too difficult for his mind to comprehend.

"Soldiers... Bah... They throw away everything they have, heedless of who might find it," his father had said. The voice of the time was certainly different from the sorrowful one now echoing in his mind, like a warning. "Leave it alone, Brain. Leave that life alone. It's just stupid dreams, which will only bring you regret! Stupid dreams… Only pain and suffering, and in the end what can you say you will have left?"

"Yes, father." That had been his answer, which was followed by the abandonment of the now ruined relic.

"It's for the best. Trust me."

But the temptation was too great - a fire had been lit. While his brothers and sisters slept... while his parents mourned their misery... while only the stars had decided to keep him company... Brain had returned to that spot, where he had found it... still left to itself.

And once again, it was there, waiting for him. Destiny. That was what he had called it at the time. It was his destiny that was calling him.

It was just rubbish, which could not have been worth more than half a copper coin. Even if someone else had glimpsed it, the inconvenience of incurring the original owner's wrath would have been too great. Too great to take that risk.

'Only pain and suffering.'

Had his father been right when he had uttered those words?

Brain did not know it then, nor did he know it later.

In hindsight, it had only been a fluke, a coincidence. That wreck had been thrown away because getting rid of it any other way would have been far too time-consuming and expensive.

Although, perhaps, it had once had any value at all, it was now gone. When a weapon lost the purpose for which it was built - to kill - what was left of it?

Only dust destined to be blown away by the wind, buried by the passing seasons, until it became a trail whose shape would soon be gone.

With the moon as his only witness, Brain pulled his first lunge. His body, already toned by life on the farm, sculpted by hardship and toil, was opened to a whole new world. No more easy. It was no easier.

The resistance of the air became an insurmountable wall where his certainties clashed; his lungs, already at exhaustion, were on the verge of exploding from the effort they were subjected to; his breath died in the throat, sweat became an unstoppable cascade, the blade stopped halfway, unable to end its course.

'You won't get anything from that.'

So why did he try a second time?

The result was even worse than the first attempt. The handle was so chipped that it drilled into the skin of his fingers, making it impossible for him to maintain his grip. The second blow went even less far than the first, before he was forced to throw the sword to the ground. The blisters on his hands throbbed tremendously, and blood began to flow from them.

'Leave it alone. It's just stupid dreams.'

Before that, Brain never had a dream. He didn't even know how to have one. To continue that life of tending the fields... growing the plants... the fruits of would have fallen in the hands of someone else... while everything he cultivated was ripped away from him.

Like his father. And like his father's father before him. Until then, another path was not even contemplated. Nor would it be now.

How many brothers had he lost in the wars? How many children had his father buried after they had been sent on a mission to protect the borders from monsters, or had starved from exhaustion?

Of those who left the village in search of fortune, few survived. Of those, even fewer could find their own place in the world.

Growing up with nothing to call his own. Getting married to a woman he did not love. Bringing new lives into the world so that they could continue that endless cycle.

Was this the purpose of his existence?

His muscles ached. It seemed that every point of his body knew no sensation other than soreness.

Quit? He had never quit before. Because there was nothing worth quitting.

He picked up his sword from the ground, heedless of any wound it might cause him, heedless of any possible consequence.

Only he and the rusted iron remained.

Once, that iron had known splendor. At one time, that iron had carved out its own little space among nobles and knights. Abandoned; ruined, but not broken. It was not broken.

The ligaments that held his being together tensed once more; the blood coursing through his veins churned in a mad rush; his feet in contact with the bare earth, in those shoes so broken that they offered little protection, welded tightly together.

The world split apart, two mirror symmetries were produced by the cut. It was as if the trees themselves had been split apart, as if the air had lost its texture, as if nature had shown itself for what it really was for the first time.

Frightening, but also so surprisingly delicate. An unchanged perfection displayed by his persistence.

Brain collapsed to the ground, exhausted, but satisfied.

His breathing became labored, but his senses continued to be alert. From his supine position, the glowing moonlight was the only sign of approval he had received. As his lungs expanded at regular intervals, an oath was proclaimed, in a low tone, whose pitch not even a giant could reach.

"My life shall be the sword!"

To reach that dark sky one day would not have been impossible…

Dedication took over as the new mantra of that feeble existence.

From the very beginning, it was a secret. Reconciling training and life was a new type of hardship.

Countless were the times, when he thought of giving up; too tired to get out of bed, too exhausted to sneak out of the house.

Yet... not a single training session was missed... not a single night passed without that ritual being performed again.

It was hard at first.

Brain tilled the soil, and thought about the sword that awaited him. The hoe that struck the ground became the point that stabbed imaginary enemies. The harvest that was gathered turned into desperate campaigns against insurmountable odds.

Time for rest -already scarce in itself- became even rarer. Nothing remained but the sword.

Even more ruined, even more pathetic in its now distorted form. For Brain it did not matter.

It became easier, easier and easier. It took a long time before he realized it, but his blows became more precise, his cuts more elegant. The fatigue seemed to fade, and his breathing harmonized with his movements. The body also became stronger, more resistant. The farmer's life was abandoned altogether; he had become too superior to others to be able to remain in that same pathetic routine.

Eventually, he was discovered.

Or perhaps, his father had known from the beginning, and had let him indulge in those childish games until the moment he realized that that was not the way for him.

Brain was ready, ready to fight if he had to. Against his father, against his brothers, against the whole village.

He would not allow himself to be returned to what he was before... to what he never wanted to be again.

"If you keep this up, you will die."

In his old man's gaze, there was no anger. Nor any other feeling of rage. There was resignation, that was there. And an almost extinguished flame of a long-lost ardor.

"I am aware of that."

Dying. Dying did not seem so bad, compared to what would have otherwise awaited him.

Why be afraid of what was not there when the alternative was far scarier?

That they had killed him! That they had torn him to pieces! But they would not have been able to break him!

"I cannot syndicate which path you wish to take." The father had sat by the son's side, in that house too small even for just the two of them. "The life of a warrior... is not an easy life. For every legend that is passed on... for every story that finds its happy ending... a hundred, a thousand more, end up forgotten. As if they never existed."

Perhaps that was the first and only time they spoke not as two strangers, but like a parent and child.

"I don't want to be remembered, father. I don't want to become more than what I am."

He would leave the legends to others; tales would not be written about him, being a hero was not what he desired. Taking his skill to the limit, even if it would then only be a tiny, almost insignificant point in history would be enough.

"What is it that you desire, then?"

"I want to reach the summit. I want to show that the path I chose had meaning, however small. Touching the stars… is impossible. However, I will not stop to tend my hands to the sky."

He remembered how much his father had snorted at that exclamation, how small his eyes had grown.

"You are my son. How can I, as your father, condemn you to an existence that leaves you only emptiness?"

"Better to become empty than to remain what I am now."

In the iron he could find the only truth that mattered to him.

"...So be it." His father had said. His hand had stroked his head, his dirty black hair, in an awkward, clumsy gesture. "You will have regrets. Many."

"I'll be ready for them."

Nothing more was told, for there was no need to speak anything else.

Over the next few days, Brain's life began to change. In a small village like his, knowing how to wield a weapon was a rare talent and one to be preserved.

Too many were the victims of wild monsters, and too much time was taken by the local lord to arrange troops or adventurers to put an end to the various dangers.

With great effort, and under the advice of the village chief, a sum large enough was raised to enable Brain to wield a sword worthy of the name. His tasks were greatly diminished, to enable him to embark on the path of a warrior.

In reality, given the meager resources, what he obtained was not altogether different from the now unusable blade he had been training with until now. The signs of wear and tear were also evident on this new weapon, the constant passing of hands having marked its history.

"It will do."

When he saw that unsharp point, it was not disappointment that seized him. Like that day, so many months before, he felt that that little piece was trying to communicate something to him.

"Use me," it pleaded.

And Brain listened to it.

No longer having to worry about the tasks entrusted to him by his family, thanks to the help of most of the villagers, he was able to resume his training, with greater intensity and commitment than before.

Not even the most devout of the faithful could compare to him in devotion.

He stayed in the same spot, sometimes for days and nights, without changing his position, practicing and practicing again, to the point of exhaustion. The results, the improvements he could glimpse, would have seemed like a useless waste of time to outside eyes.

"Why do we let that kid waste time if he doesn't show the slightest talent?" They had insulted some malicious tongues. Brilliance, all too often, was not always understood.

And envy gave breath to the mouth regardless of gender, age or social position.

Brain ignored those voices. Every day, unfailingly before heading to the fields, his father asked him the same question.

"Are you satisfied now?"

"Not yet." The reply never changed.

Eating was a luxury, drinking a necessary nuisance. The body of a boy just entering puberty, battered by entire lifetimes of renunciation and sacrifice, shone pure as a diamond in the rough, its luster shining brighter every day.

The experience was molded by the monsters that tried to attack those poor little lands.

Homeless goblins, with no purpose and nothing to lose, infiltrated the villages, trying to kidnap chickens and other animals in order to satiate their hunger.

That time, all they found was a little boy not much taller than them, with milk teeth still on his arrogant mouth.

"Unbelievable!" This was the exclamation of his fellow villagers when they found the bodies lying on the ground, traces of blood barely visible.

"No, it is not." Brain had merely retorted, already back at his training station. "It's not." He kept repeating.

It didn't matter what threatened the village. Whether it was goblins, orcs or bandits. Every single time, they found their end at the hands of a boy not yet made a man. And each time, the little boy would return to his place, sword in hand, muttering in a low voice: "It is not enough."

It was never enough.

Soon, the others realized this too. Just as the gratitude they felt towards him grew, so did a certain distrust towards the one they could not understand. They ignored him, pretending his existence was no more than an afterthought, justifying themselves with not very convincing excuses.

"We must leave him alone so he can train and defend us."

"That's what he wants. If you try to talk to him, he will kick you out in a bad way."

His peers isolated him, his brothers and sisters ignored him, his mother merely brought him food once in a while, always in religious silence.

Ingratitude, perhaps. But it didn't matter to him.

His father was now the only one he spoke to. They were not great conversations, of course. They were more rare moments spent together. Of rest for both of them.

"How's practice going?" He would ask sometimes, not without some embarrassment.

"Good." Try as he might, Brain couldn't bring himself to say more, letting the unspoken communicate what he was feeling.

Thus the years passed. The child became a young boy, and even the sword he wielded was replaced in time with a weapon worthy of the name. New, this time, the work of a blacksmith from a nearby town who had spent whole nights forging it.

Even the lord of those lands began to take an interest in him.

When the fateful day arrived, it seemed to be only a foretaste of what was to come.

"Come work for me."

When the offer was made, no one was surprised. Not even Brain himself.

"Your talents will be put to good use, under my service." The count of the fief was an insignificant personality. Nothing about him stood out except his heavy breath. Too heavy, for a man accustomed to all possible and imaginable comforts. But in him, there was also a charisma that was perhaps not sparkling, but which was discovered little by little, with a certain amount of awkwardness.

He was rarely seen by his subjects, and it was even rarer to see him address one of them. For many, that would have been something to boast about for years, to tell their children and grandchildren, in the prime of old age.

For Brain, it was just another day.

"Leave these commoners behind. The opportunity given to you is unique. For their and your sake, join me."

The nobleman's fat, stubby fingers had perhaps once wielded a weapon, as a fundamental part of that chivalric pedigree of which Re-Estize was so proud, but it was a past so distant that few signs could be revealed in the present. Now, they merely covered their master's snub nose.

His garish and fanciful clothes compared to the filthy rags Brain wore, threadbare and worn, so gray as to make one doubt if they had ever been fitted with any other hue, emphasized a difference in class that could never be bridged.

What could a young boy possibly gain from joining such a man?

Brain would have refused. If the nobleman had been alone, he would not have thought twice before answering with a flat no.

But the count had not come alone that time.

"Are you doubtful? There are many methods I have at my disposal to persuade you. Much less... pleasant methods." Brain's silence had been followed by not too veiled threats. Towards those he had protected up to that moment, undoubtedly. "If you fear for the safety of your people, in the event of your absence, you have nothing to fear. The defense of these lands is a duty imposed upon me by the sacred oath my family has sworn to the crown. Their peace will continue to be guaranteed, even after you are gone."

But that could not have been further from what the boy was thinking at that moment. His attention was focused on one of the guards, an old man with long black hair, with just a few strands of white, who wore, unlike his fellow soldiers, an iron shirt, whose rings sparkled like silver gems in the warm spring evening.

"Fight me." Brain addressed him, trying to appear as humble as possible. "You are... different from the others."

The man, who had kept his eyes half-closed until that moment, slowly opened them again, showing two small blue bottoms. "Boy, don't push your luck." That warning was whispered, but not without ferocity. There was in the way the old man posed a cautious indifference, combined with dangerous bloodlust.

"Ahahahah," over the years, the count's laugh was one of the most indelible sounds Brain would ever hear. A guttural sound, not totally unpleasant, actually. Almost a resonance of the very soul. "You've got some guts, kid. I like it, I like it. Sir Nicholas is an old wolf, but his fangs are still sharp. He served for years as an adventurer, attaining platinum rank. And he served for as much time as a mercenary, in some of the most dangerous parts of the Kingdom. The fact that he is here with us now, with his whole body nonetheless, only attests to his skills. If he is now in my service, it is only because he was tired of the hectic life he led. Am I right?"

Nicholas snorted, giving little weight to that praise. He held tightly onto the reins of the horse he was riding, ready to leave at any moment.

"All the more reason to face him." Some would have called it mere arrogance, but for Brain it was something else. It was about opportunity. An opportunity to taste, if only in passing, a new world hitherto precluded to him. "I mean, wouldn't it be appropriate for you to sample my abilities before hiring me as a guard? You don't want to waste your time with what should later turn out to be a mere bluff?"

The count plucked the mane of the horse carrying him, getting a loud neigh in response. "That is reasonable. Let us brighten this day with a pleasant duel. It will also be the perfect opportunity to bring amusement to my beloved subjects." Then, turning to the old man, he demanded, almost if he was the peasant and him the lord, "Sir Nicholas, that's not a problem for you, is it?"

Nicholas started to dismount from his horse. "It shouldn't take long. But are you sure this is the right decision?" One of the other guards followed him, handing him a liner.

"We'll need every bit of help we can get when the time comes. Raeven accepted the deal, and soon... It will be fine. Just try not to scramble him too much."

"As you wish, Lord Harold." Nicholas drew the blade from its case. To compare that splendor with the weapon wielded by Brain would have been completely unfair. Not only must the material from which it was made have been far superior to ordinary iron, but an overwhelming, breathtaking energy was released from it.

The old man said something to the soldier next to him, who moved swiftly away from the two challengers as soon as he had finished listening.

"Tell me when you're ready, boy."

Brain swallowed.

"I'm always ready."

Nicholas chuckled. "You get right to it, don't you? Admirable."

It was not only the swords that emphasized the differences between them. A necklace worn around Sir Nicholas' neck enveloped his entire body in a warm glow, while most of his fingers bore small rings that sparkled like rubies.

Brain assumed a fighting stance, calculating the proper distance that separated him from his opponent.

"Two of three. A single touch with the sword is enough to guarantee a point. No need to make things too dangerous, don't you think?"

A deadly duel would have been desirable, but Brain accepted those conditions.

The atmosphere that followed found silence for only a second. Brain's right leg took the first step, covering the space that separated him from Nicholas, his sword traced a half-arc in the air, heading for the old adventurer's chest. The latter, predictably, parried the blow with his own weapon without too much effort; the metal that shattered on the other produced a handful of sparks that spread to the four winds.

Unperturbed, the younger of the two retreated, moving back just enough to unleash a new blow. Again, the result was no different from the previous one; the power Brain imparted on the sweep was far less, leading to far less recoil. With enough room to maneuver, and trusting in an haughtiness that would dictate his next moves, he made a quick turn on himself and threw a second slash, aiming for Nichola's right leg. Certain that the old man would not have expected a blow towards such an unusual spot, Brain already anticipated the first point, before a sharp pain struck him in the side.

"Not bad. But we didn't say only our weapons were allowed, did we?"

The knuckles of his opponent's fist had made their way through his defenses, and, finding an opening recklessly left uncovered, made their way towards his skin, impacting with their pressure even Brain's internal organs, who had to give all his strength not to roll to the ground in spasms.

The old adventurer gently leaned his sword towards his head, giving it a gentle pat with the unsharpened part of the blade, in the same way Brain's father used to show affection towards his younger brothers.

"One-nil."

In that brief exchange, Nicholas hadn't even needed to move from his position.

"Take all the time you need to rest and regain your strength. One of the boys can bring you some water if you wish."

"I'm fine," Brain replied, once again picking up his distance. He settled back into his guard position, ready to go on the assault once more.

This time, he had no chance.

Nicholas was already on him, aiming a deadly lunge from above. Brain had the time and readiness to defend himself, but the difference in strength was such that he not only found himself forced back from his position, but he was completely thrown off balance by the shockwave produced by the impact.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He regained his balance just in time to notice that Nicholas was at his side, ready to strike a second blow. The difference in size was the only advantage he had, and Brain took the opportunity to throw himself to the ground and aim for Nicholas' toe. The tip of his sword was inches away from the adventurer's shoe, ready to penetrate the fabric.

Once again, he was certain he had won the first point, and this time too he had to see his hopes dashed.

Nicholas, who until a moment before had been within his grasp, had disappeared, as if he had never been there in the first place.

"Oops, you were almost there."

The old man sneered, provoking laughter from all his companions.

Brain could not understand. Nicholas had not just moved quickly, but had broken all logic to find himself at the starting point.

Almost as if he had used magic. But a warrior capable of such a miracle would not have been possible, right?

"Martial Arts. It shouldn't be impossible for you to use any. But without proper guidance... it's no wonder you were left to molder in this place."

It wasn't the first time that term was heard by Brain, but it was the first time he grasped its meaning.

The warrior's magic. The ability to bend the laws of the world using one's body as a formula, one's sword as a wand.

A smile was painted on the young man's face.

"Show me again, old man. Show me how far I can go!"

Nicholas approached again, this time aiming sideways. The first blow was parried, but in the meantime the second had already gone off. The intensity of the impact was replaced by a lightness of touch. Brain adjusted himself to that rhythm without letting the overpowering get the better of him. Indeed, never before had he felt such enjoyment.

After a few more exchanges, he decided to go on the counterattack. Taking an example from his opponent, he pulled a hook towards Nicholas's stomach, just at the moment when the latter was about to sweep him with a side slash. The damage done was not much, but it caused the opening and hesitation necessary to allow Brain to aim straight for the elderly man's heart.

Adrenalin soared, and the sweat-smeared face contracted into a grin. Nicholas' sword, summoned by its master, moved in an unnatural gesture, first crossing the threshold of space to parry the blow, momentarily causing Brain to lose his last hope of victory, and then returning to its original position and resuming its assault, stopping just short of the cheek of the youngest of the combatants. A small trickle of blood wet the blade, mixing with the drops of sweat that continued to trickle down from his forehead.

"Too bad, you were almost there boy."

"It seems a new element has joined us." Proclaimed the count, amused and pleased by the result.

Brain remained motionless. But there was no despondency in his gaze.

"Old man. Have you reached the summit?"

"Not even close, boy." Was his reply. "No. Even in my glory days, there were many who outclassed me. And outside this realm, even more were the monsters I could not even dare to imagine. Even you will understand, one day. What you decide to do at that moment will be the decision that will influence the rest of your life. And then... there it is, it's coming."

The soldier who had left just before the duel had returned, bringing a spade with him, probably taken from the village. Brain's father was with him, looking at his son with regret.

The tool was handed to Nicholas, who in turn handed it to Brain.

"What am I to do with this?" The boy asked. His father continued to look at him.

"Your first lesson," the old man pointed to the ground. "Dig. In the road you have chosen, there will be no time to think about your grave. Better to anticipate; someone else will tend to it for you. Unless you have second thoughts, of course."

Brain looked at his father, evidently called as a witness. He picked up the spade, without any hesitation.

And he began to dig.

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Masakan Desert

The beast emerged from the sand, leaving an imperceptible trail behind it. The grains slowly slid over its scales, at the same time as one of its three mouths, the right one, slowly opened its jaws, showing a string of sharp, white teeth. The mouth moved, slowly, while the other two remained motionless, captive in the deepest of dreams, until it stopped in such a position that it could make a single bite out of the closed hand of the man who had approached it.

"Isn't that dangerous?" A woman, her face entirely covered in long, precious silks, slowly approached Aeneas, taking care not to deviate from the tiny amount of shade the oasis afforded. "Desert crocodiles are dangerous creatures. Very few remain unharmed by an encounter with them. And even fewer are those who manage to make friends with them. "

"Let Quaiesse do his own," Aeneas reassured, sipping slowly from the jug of water. Never before had that liquid seemed so precious to him. "He has not reached his position by carelessness. And he would not have my trust without concrete skills. I can assure you, Princess, he has nothing to worry about."

"Hum... it's nice that you give so much credit to your partner." Shaimaaa shrugged her shoulders, letting one of her maids hand her an enchanted cloak capable of filtering the sun's rays. "It is a bond that would make many envious." She muttered thoughtlessly.

Aeneas wiped away a drop of sweat -the young captain had lost count that day of how many times that gesture was repeated- as he sheltered under the only palm tree growing in that small corner of paradise.

A wizard of the theocracy cast『 Clean』 upon him -another thing he had given up keeping track of- while internally he wondered why the Six Great Gods could not have descended in an armor more suited to the unbearable heat on the mortal plane.

"Bond, eh. I don't know if it can be called that." Respect, for sure. Trust, too, was an element that was certainly not lacking. But beyond that? It was difficult for their relationship to go deeper than that. As with the rest of his companions, after all. "Simply, in our line of work, it is essential to know inside out what each of us is capable of doing. As a leader, this responsibility is far more pronounced."

Quaiesse remained focused, opening his hand slightly, not letting the gesture provoke an unexpected reaction. The fingers unfolded, as something unidentifiable fell onto the reptile's tongue.

In doing so, the Quintia heir remained cool-headed, as if he had created a space reserved only for himself and the animal. That stillness, however, was disturbed when another girl, with a graceful bow on her head, hurriedly shrieked with the utmost concern.

"Quaiesse! Quaiesse! Your hand. The future does not lie! That beast will slice your hand clean off! Ohh, what a disgrace! How will we prevent your sister from finding out? How will our ears be spared from her sniggers?"

The tone, deliberately exaggerated, provoked more than one laugh from the members of the company. Had the beast not been intent on savoring what was on offer, it would not have been impossible to see him join in that moment of fun.

"Well, perhaps you are closer than I and you thought," commented Shaimaaa, straining not to be caught out, in what was evidently for her an unseemly act in such a situation. She brought a hand to her mouth, and her lips stretched in an unmistakable way. "Every day you amaze me, in ways I could never imagine."

Aeneas was on the verge of teasing her about that oddity, only to ask himself 'what's the point?' and leave it at that.

"I suppose it is."

In the meantime, the crocodile had taken on a festive expression and was wagging its tail in a top-down manner, raising small clouds of dust, in a markedly different manner from the image it had been giving just moments before.

"You like my preparation, eh little one?" Quaiesse had taken on a triumphant expression as his attention was divided between his new friend and Cassandra, who was fanning herself with her handbag in a futile attempt to create the slightest gust of wind. "I wasn't sure if it would have the same beneficial effect that I have found in many other reptile species. Fascinating. Despite what some untrusting women may think, I still manage to have a way with magical beasts."

"I just wanted to warn you of a possible future you might have fallen victim to!" She replied scandalized, without concealing the playfulness. "I could never make fun of you! Impossible. Absolutely impossible."

Quaiesse ignored her, throwing a second ball into his new pet's mouth. "In any case, I thought there were more dangerous creatures around. Leaving the nonsense aside, I didn't expect only a small three-headed crocodile to be lured by my trap."

Not far away, Rinaldo kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, although there was little to be glimpsed in the midst of that sand which, monotonous and without deigning to show a hint of originality, continued an endless repetition of dunes in that depression called desert.

"I see no one on the horizon, neither possible dangers nor potential friends."

Cassandra wiped her glasses, with a cloth pulled from her ever-present handbag. "Of course. When I proclaimed that no danger was present in the area, no one should have had the slightest doubt."

Quaiesse gently stroked the animal's scaly forehead, as he turned to Aeneas. "What do you think?"

The Black Scripture captain continued to keep his eyes half-closed, enjoying what little coolness his position afforded him. "We have someone who could tell us every little secret about these areas. Why not ask her?"

Feeling called upon, Shaimaaa let out an emotionless sigh. "There is a reason I asked to accompany you. Besides wanting to be present during the... let's call them negotiations with the prince of Musaaid, my entourage is experienced in exploring the Masakan desert."

And with no time to conclude, a feline soldier approached her, in the company of Silmi, her handmaiden.

Evidently, General Bulgari had heeded his request, Aeneas found herself thinking. The newcomer, whose presence he only now noticed, had a hardened face and a lean physique, with obvious signs of captivity well hidden by the cloak he wore. He squeezed Selmi's hand with particular intensity, as if he were afraid of losing it forever, should he ever have to leave it.

"Yes, here," resumed the princess, glad to see the two. "Can you see, Captain Sourpuss?"

She had a map with her, illustrating the Masakan desert with particular care. With the finger of her right hand, the princess pointed to a small dot, a short distance away from their destination. To be honest, even on the map one could hardly make out the differences in what appeared to be an immense ochre expanse.

"Is this the place where we are now?" Aeneas inquired. Even while sitting, he did not appear much shorter than the girl. Their faces met almost halfway.

"Exactly. Another couple of hours and we will have arrived. It has taken our people years to plot a suitable and almost danger-free route. Since there are very few oases, there are also very few beasts that dwell in the wild. For a long journey, indeed, the road would have been far different and less... peaceful." Beneath the veil, it was possible to catch a glimpse of a satisfied and... happy expression. A far cry from what Aeneas had been used to the last few days. No less pleasant, nonetheless. "Of course, the few dangers we encounter are to be taken into account. But luckily the escort at your disposal is excellent this time!"

"You could almost say you like it," he commented, starting to share her good humor. "I remind you that the fate of your people rests on this mission. It almost seems as if the roles have been reversed."

Shaimaaa lifted her veil, crinkling her eyes. "The mold that was growing on my body finally disappeared after I left that palace. My brother used to take me around these dunes when I was little. Just me and him. And… well… the royal guard. I know that for you foreigners they are places devoid of charm and beauty. I understand that. I do not expect others to share my feelings." There was a sweet nostalgia in her words. However, there was not that typical melancholy that remembrance brings. Only love. That was there. "And then... I'll see your pompous ass get kicked in the backside in a few hours. There's a lot to be happy about today!"

"Oi, Captain, I bet a lot of silver coins on your victory. See that you don't lose." From where Cassandra had gotten that notebook inscribed with the various bets, Aeneas preferred not to know. "It's not as if just because a pretty face is hoping for your defeat you're going to get all silly, is it?"

"The Captain would never be capable of such a thing. I fear for the challenger who will have to submit to the judgment of his lance."

Luckily there was Rinaldo, always a guy you could count on. A true friend would never have been able to... he had bet on his victory too, right?

"Do you really think I could lose?"

He struggled to get up. The temptation not to leave that spot was starting to get strangely bewitching.

"No. But it's better to be sure, isn't it?"

"I thank you for the consideration. It is good to know that you have such confidence in me." His attempt to appear sarcastic seemed more clumsy than confident. Aeneas had to take special pains not to snort like a misunderstood child. "I hope the sum won is at least high enough to justify such an attitude. And then... may one know with whom you have staked my victory?"

The soldiers of the Theocracy were out of the question. General Bulgari's elite troops were far too devoted and pious to sell their souls for such an unappetising return. And the lower ranks were not even aware of their existence, save for a few rumors blown out of proportion.

"It's not about money, it's about fun! Do you realize how hard it is to feel any excitement when your magic allows you to predict events with particular accuracy?" That didn't sound so bad, now that Aeneas thought about it. Far preferable to throwing oneself into the unknown. "Besides... our princess was the first to accept the terms."

Shaimaaa had lowered her head, guiltily.

"Don't look at me like that!" She exclaimed, with more force than was to be expected. "We are talking about a saint of the sword. A sword saint! That's not a title you hear every day. In fact, I have never met anyone with such a reputation. Is it not fair to expect something exceptional?"

"Indeed, it is no small thing," agreed Aeneas. "Too bad we already know who it is."

"Huh? What?" An expression of doubt was painted on the princess' face. Curiosity also spread to her attendants, though not comparable to concern. "What do you mean? Unless... You don't mean to tell me it's one of your own? You've maneuvered everything from the beginning, to make us look like fools?"

She certainly didn't lack imagination.

"That really would have been a considerable waste of resources," Quaiesse had let go of the crocodile and taken part in the conversation, yawing without a care in the world. "Wasting time on such nonsense? That would not have been the most efficient method to conquer you." He smiled. "There was no need for such elaborate plans, after all."

The princess pretended these last words were not pronounced.

"Then how did you do it?"

Was instead her question.

Cassandra avoided talking too much. "It doesn't matter how, the important thing is that we know. It took longer than expected, but the identity was discovered a couple of days ago. He was the former captain of the Re-Estize guard. A certain Brain Unglaus."

Shaimaaa confided in her cat-headed handmaiden for a moment, before asking doubtfully. "What is Re-Estize?"

It was natural that she did not know, Aeneas reflected. Whether this was good or bad was not for him to determine, though his idea leaned distinctly towards one of the two.

"A human kingdom, located north of here. The population is composed exclusively of our kind," Rinaldo explained. The paladin, more than anyone else, did not seem to suffer from the sultriness, probably also thanks to his magical abilities. "According to our informants, he left his position a few years ago, at the height of his fame. Why, it has not been possible to know for sure. We lost track of him a long time ago, according to our reports. Now, at least, we have an idea of what happened to him."

"Your Grace, I believe it is the nation bordering the republic founded by the sacred protector," Salmi, the demihuman attendant, spoke with reverence; her catlike face curved in an atonal smile. "Your father always spoke of it, calling it a paradise on earth."

"Ohh, I think I remember. The Republic of Arkland. Arfland? Something like that. The son of all that is holy founded it over two centuries ago, right?"

"If we're talking about the Platinum Dragon Lord, yes that is correct."

"Is that what you call him? I suppose it makes sense, since his scales are said to be more precious than any jewel, and his luster dazzles even the most precious of diamonds. We would never dare address the one who saved these lands, reclaiming the city in the sky from the hands of usurpers."

"Interesting," Quaiesse had taken on a more friendly and relaxed look, more than usual at least. Although it was hard to say for sure, Aeneas could almost call it genuine. "I thought the Eight Greed Kings were worshiped as deities in these parts. Do you not find that strange too, Captain?"

"I had believed the same myself," Aeneas replied listlessly.

"Some cities profess that cult, but the Diarchy has always had cold relations with them. After all, it was the sacred protector who founded the nation. Or so it is narrated. In any case, we don't have a state religion, so we are quite friendly to everyone." There was a pause of barely a few seconds. "Unless they give us a reason to profess otherwise." She added at the end.

A nation founded just south of the Theocracy, with few points of contact with them. It was all too evident what the intention behind that design had been.

"In any case," Shaimaaa further persisted, "if this Re-Estize is placed near such a nation, its champion must surely be an exceptional warrior!"

"He is a remarkable talent, no doubt about that."

If half the stories Aeneas had heard about him were true, Brain Unglaus would have been a worthy opponent indeed.

"Yet you do not seem convinced. Do you think you will win?"

Aeneas felt his body grow strangely heavy. Every limb was in the grip of a strange and unusual sensation, which electrocuted his being with particular intensity.

"... I suppose we will find out before long."

----------------------------------------

Life under Earl Harold took on a new meaning. With Nicholas as his teacher, Brain could devote himself to the sword as he had never done before.

He was already in the prime of his youth when he realized that very few memories remained of his homeland. Sounds and smells that used to be an inseparable part of everyday life became increasingly blurred, becoming, along with faces and voices, an indistinct and meaningless amalgam.

What was there, and what would always be there, was just him and his trusty companion. A companion that sometimes changed shape, size and sharpness, but remained, inexorably, always the same.

Life at a nobleman's court was not so different from what he had imagined. Unbridled luxury, beautiful women accompanying the finest food, the most sumptuous robes and the strongest ceilings were not what his heart desired, what his soul yearned for.

Everything a man could desire had been placed at his disposal. Everything that could be conquered, had already been conquered; everything that could be triumphed over, had already been won. What was the purpose of such an existence? The nobles were born with everything, but for those who wanted nothing, their possessions were only tinsel before foundation.

It would not have been correct, in any case, to say that the world for Brain had not changed. That change, however, had been heralded by the clash with Nicholas, and only then did it begin to unfold in its magnificence.

Martial arts, the magic of the warrior. What was an established gray reality, for the young swordsman's mind was a world taking on colors for the first time.

"How to learn them? You just have to put in the effort and follow my teachings. Imagine your body is a board, and the sword the tool to refine it. Figure out how and when to cut, and imagine the result you want to achieve. At the beginning, don't think big. Be modest. Simple. A small advantage, that is what you need, what you must learn to use."

As a teacher, the old adventurer was shoddier than he ever could've imagined. Rather than passing on even the smallest trace of his passage on that world, Nicholas found it more fulfilling to get drunk and enjoy the company of the prostitutes who wandered around the guardhouse.

The few times he was not intoxicated by the most expensive wines or playing dice with the other soldiers, there were meetings with the count. Always an endless source of worry, those reunions.

"That damned king! Incompetent, there are no other words to describe him." Earl Harold used to maintain a certain aristocratic self-control, except when the subject of conversation shifted to their beloved ruler. Only in those moments did anger become the tutor of his temperament. "Boulloppe has once again trespassed on our lands. Chasing a band of bandits, he proclaimed. Such generosity! If all these bandits were really here, not even an ounce of gold would be left in the whole territory of Re-Estize by now!"

Disputes between nobles were... complicated. For the most part, Brain was clueless about the intricate relationships that bound vassals with their lords. And it wasn't his intention to change that.

"Instead, the crown washes its hands of it, as always! If only that living corpse had the strength to make a decision. What's the point of trying to maintain balance if each faction is tearing each other apart as soon as you look away for a moment? And that damned old man Pespea. He got the hand of the royal scion for his brat, and it didn't take him a second to push us aside, forgetting the plans we had devised. If not for Raven, we will be without allies now."

Brain listened to those conversations, mostly in silence, memorizing names and situations more to kill time than for his own amusement.

"Will it be war then?"

The prospect wasn't so bad. He yearned to test himself, once more. Once more with an opponent who could make his blood boil. Nicholas was getting older and older by each day, and their sparring less exciting each new occasion.

Brain, on the other hand, was climbing, little by little, up the mountain, catching a glimpse of that peak there, among the clouds, more and more every day.

"War? You're joking I hope. It's going to be a massacre. A legitimate massacre, a punitive expedition to feed the bodies of traitors to the vultures. Our own, gentlemen."

There would have been no band of men whose appellation gentleman would have sounded more out of place. Beer flowed freely in that room, more than a villager could have consumed in an entire cold winter.

After hard days spent worrying, it was legitimate to drown those sorrows in alcohol. If one had to die, one might as well do it with a worn and ruined liver.

"I'm telling you kid. In a few months we'll all be dead. You should run, while you still can."

If Nicholas was not the greatest example when it came to the way of the sword, he certainly was in the sacred one of drinking. For the first time, Brain learned to relax, if rarely, and take his mind off his fixed thoughts.

With all that was going on in that castle, the opposite would have been almost impossible.

"And what will you do, old man? Will you die with your master? Or will you run away as soon as you smell danger?"

Every time, the adventurer managed to surprise him. Behind the incessant vomiting and reddened eyes, inevitably came the delirious cry of a man who felt the end approaching.

But when it all passed, when only the stench remained to be unbearable, Nicholas' words became short and heavy, weighted by considerations that it was seldom possible to see a personality like his even touch.

"Someone like me has nowhere to run. I'll stay here, and let the gods, or whatever way you decide to call those assholes who watch us from up there, decide. But you... you're still young. It would be a waste if you were to end up like me. But, well, your head's as hard as steel. I wouldn't be surprised if you had to kick the bucket before me. In that case, I'll have a drink in your honor too."

"I am touched by that. I didn't think you had to find a reason to drink. Is it the end of the world?"

And Nicholas laughed at that. A laugh that came straight from the soul, or the guts, as he used to put it.

In retrospect, both he and his rabble of no good had accepted Brain as no one else had before then. They shared his eccentricities and approved of his journey to the top. Men without a fixed abode, with nothing left to lose and with the tombstone already raised somewhere.

That was the kind of person with whom the young swordsman found himself to be part of a group, part of something bigger, however small it was.

And this made, perhaps unconsciously, the detachment he felt all the more painful.

That night, his oath had changed the course of his destiny.

Being out of place, even in a place that had decided to make you part of its foundations, was not easy to accept.

But Brain was fine with it.

No one could enter his space, that little corner he had carved out just for himself, without his will. And his will dictated that he would remain alone, forever.

"You want to create your own martial art? You're out of your mind! But if it's you, maybe…"

All of Nicholas' knowledge was consumed in little, and in little was the time it took his body to adapt to that new fighting style. What Brain was looking for was something of his own, something personal. An art of his own, one that would push him to the very limits of that wall he so stubbornly hoped to one day overcome.

"I have never seen anyone who has succeeded. By the gods, even those who passed on what I taught you learned it in turn from others. If you went to the Theocracy, you might have a chance. But foreigners are not well liked over there. Why did you put such a snappy idea in your head?"

There was no specific reason. Why was everyone looking for a clear and concrete explanation for what was driving him on?

"I have no reason except the usual one. To get stronger."

Stronger, stronger, stronger. That fire had never stopped burning. If anything, it had become more scorching.

In the last times of their life together, Nicholas also began to look at him with that look. The same one his father used to look at him with. The same with which every person he had ever known would one day look at him.

Respect and admiration, combined with a fear of the unknown. What could not be understood was not necessarily a source of dread, but being wary of it was an almost natural instinct.

"Boy, I haven't the faintest idea. I've never needed to, and I have no more energy to think about it. Creating a new martial art out of nothing... Listen to him. The last one to succeed became rank adamantium, and one of the most famous swordsmen in the history of the kingdom. Do you perhaps want to become a legendary hero? The thirteen and their fights with the Evil Deities weren't crafted in a day, you know?"

"It's not what I desire. The thirteen, their stories are of no importance to me. The heroes of the past are, indeed, old history. Mine is not a tale that will be handed down, not by my will at least. To be flattered by adoring crowds is not what I set out on my path for. Let the panderers be happy with that. I want more…"

The sword could speak, at times like that. What did it say? For Brain was unique in the motif that was repeated each time.

The dance could not end the moment the music had just begun.

"I suppose it can give you some input. Find something you want to accomplish. I am not an expert in magic... but sorcerers jealously guard their secrets and arcane knowledge. If you wish to imitate them, and bend the mysteries of creation to your will, you must first understand the truths that lie beneath your essence. In short, what I am trying to say is 'imagine what you want to do, and then do it.'"

"As simple as that?"

"As simple as that."

The question asked was the subject of Brain's future queries and lack of answers.

'What do I want to do?'

He stabbed the blade into the bare earth, and pondered.

The first day, he achieved nothing. The sword remained in place.

On the second day, he drew the sword. He held it, for so many hours, motionless, until he could no longer even feel his legs. This time, too, no result.

On the third day, he could hear an echo calling him back. Faint and fleeting, it was made of the same substance as the howling wind. Brain remained in meditation, waiting for the sword to speak to him once more, for that whisper to become a thunderclap that would light up the sky and make the earth tremble.

Again, no result.

Days became weeks, and weeks became months. Brain felt his body reaching full maturity, the last traces of an unconsummated youth making way for an adult reaching the peak of physical and mental strength.

The worn swords were replaced. Each time, iron and steel swapped places, being replaced by more and more precious materials, but the voice, that voice, remained the same. Engraved in the orichalc, imprinted in the muscles, flexible and unstoppable. If the gods existed, that was their way of communicating. If the gods spoke, that was the sound their message had.

It was the same voice that Brain heard in the morning, when he woke up, and that accompanied him in the evening, when it was time to rest.

That voice, which was not synonymous with madness, illuminated his every step. It was the fury of his ambition, which knew not the sacrifices of thirst; the courage of his ardor, the flame that burned at the beginning and would only be extinguished at the moment of the end; the loneliness of that life that would never be regretted, never be extinguished, for not even cruel and sweet death would be able to tame it.

The world was divided between those who had nothing to lose and those who had already lost everything.

Brain had found his art, honed after a thousand attempts and as many sacrifices; the loneliness that accompanied him was not a weakness, but a new hope that took on an entirely new and innovative form.

His legacy was written in his blood; the pen was his trusty blade, what he left imprinted in the collective memory was his will.

『 Field 』was born in that moment of infinite passion. For those who walked alone, it was nothing less than the longed-for answer.

"Only I decide who may enter!"

He had become both guardian and challenger. His technique was inscribed with the ambitions and desires of those who had defied fate, and yearned for a truth that was meaningless, but no less precious.

Just as a baby just out of the womb needs all possible care in order to be able to walk on its own legs, a new skill also needs to be nurtured in order to fulfill its potential.

The human soul, even in peace, knew the putrid cravings for power and control. Brain found himself thanking those malevolent excrescences, which once again gave him the opportunity to prove himself.

Thus, the count's fears proved to be correct, and war broke out in the lands of Re-Estize.

It was not called that, of course. Men repudiated war, peace was the only moral imperative that dictated their actions. It was not a confrontation, it was not an execution, it was a bringing back of order where, no one would ever believe otherwise, there was none.

A necessary sacrifice. An inevitable immolation. It would cause innocent victims and create new rivers where tears would flow. It was the right price to pay for serenity and prosperity. Foolish were those who closed their eyes and ignored how that calm they had enjoyed so much had been built.

In order to climb to the top of the mountain, to reach the summit first, the competition had to be eliminated. A cruel and bitter truth, but no less inaccurate. Brain had accepted it, had made it his philosophy and his guide.

"The royal edict has arrived. Accused of treason. And for what? For trying to open his eyes to the situation in the kingdom. Raevan, that snake. He sold me out. How could he?" The count's laugh was hollow and spiritless, a far cry from his usual one. A last, almost mechanical reaction before his fate was realized. "Everything I built... destroyed. Unbelievable. I should have accepted Boulloupe's offer. Even exile would have been better than this. But I have sinned. Sinned in daring to hold out hope. In the end, he was in the right and I was in the wrong. But it is too late. The kingdom I imagined is over. Indeed, it was never possible in the first place."

"How many troops are we talking about?" As the last remaining general, Nicholas had asked the only question that was worthy of being asked at that moment. "And what are your orders?"

There was no need to clarify who would be left. Those who were planning to escape had already done so long ago. Those who intended to betray, were already in the enemy ranks. Those who had remained, were only bound by foolish affections or bonds, too sentimental to be easily severed.

"About five thousand men loyal to Boullope. Then there are other soldiers of small feudal lords hoping to get rich or carve out a little space for themselves. Idiots. From the moment Boullope and Raevan set their eyes on these lands, they should have known that nothing would be left for them but scraps. The main city is already in their hands… and this manor will capitulate soon."

"The royal guard? Are they coming too?"

"Difficult. I think the king hopes this little battle will cause a general weakening among his proudest opponents."

All that political talk was useless. Only one thing Brain wanted to know.

"When will we start?"

"Draw your sword, for it has already started."

The siege began at the end of that summer, before preparations could be completed. It was not as it was to be expected. Mainly, it was a matter of waiting. Supplies began to run low early on, and the colder the weather began to get, the lower the morale dropped. Skirmishes on the walls were fought from time to time, but without a clear winner.

Obviously, since this had already been decreed long before.

"Coff... coff…" Nicholas' coughing soon began to become noisily annoying. Of the valiant adventurer the image faded little by little, leaving in its place a decrepit old man. "It's over, boy. They will come for us soon. You... you must run."

"That is what I intended to do from the beginning." That was not where his end would come, of this they were both aware. The god of death would only be able to claim Brain the moment he decided, and certainly not surrounded by countless enemies. Intimacy was what he was asking for, for when it would come time to take his last breath. "I'm just waiting for one more assault so I can perfect my martial art even more."

"How far along are you? Have you made it?"

"I'm almost there. Just one last try, and I'll have succeeded."

"Unbelievable. Unbelievable. I knew you would make it. Maybe these old bones will see one more miracle, before they get buried in dung and end up absorbed into the earth."

Miracle. Was that what it was supposed to be called? For Brain, there was nothing extraordinary about it. An ode to mediocrity, he would have named it.

"What will you do if you manage to survive?"

"I have a daughter out there. A young lady... no, she must have grown into a really wonderful woman by now. I wonder if I even have a grandchild in that village. It's been so long…"

"Do you want to meet her again?"

"I doubt she would recognise me. And maybe it will be better that way. Nono, just knowing that she's fine is enough. You, Brain, have a place to return to, don't you?"

"...Yes."

"...But you will not return there."

"I doubt it."

The last sip. Where Nicholas had gotten that flask from, Brain could never figure it out.

"I lost count of how many times I called you an idiot. Even if I gave you advice, you wouldn't listen to it. I just pray you can be happy."

It was not like him to pray. To turn to someone superior, to watch over your safety... it was not akin to the life they had chosen.

"I will do the same for you, old man. I bet it will be your liver that will give you the coup de grace. Should I lose the money, I will visit you all the way to hell. This is a warning."

"Bwahahaha. Bring something light. It's going to be deadly hot, and I plan to stay there for a long time."

That was the last laugh -the last speech- they shared.

Eventually, the siege ended with an intrusion. A great pitched battle, a hard and costly assault on the walls, were just fairy tales, reserved for events that etched history with their importance.

In most cases, men surrendered and sold their ideals and loyalty in exchange for salvation.

At night, the moon shone.

When the fighting began, the stars came forward, to illuminate the battlefield with their quiet light.

With the first cut, Brain severed the head of an enemy. The soldier was young, as young as he had once been. So young, that his dreams could still be cherished and his hopes not yet dashed. What was one supposed to feel when killing a man?

Self-loathing? That was an emotion for the weak. Blood was to be shed, for there was an offering to be immolated. But it was not euphoria that Brain felt at that moment. Killing was part of him - whether man, beast or other creature - and as such he accepted it.

Each blow was one more piece added to the mosaic; once each piece was put in its place, the picture would become clear at last.

"『Field』."

It was not in the emphasis of a clash between two legendary valiants, nor in a desperate situation requiring divine help, that his art was honed.

Brain's senses did not awaken in a moment of pure ecstasy; rather, they completed a journey that had begun in the past, in the moonlight.

Whoever entered his zone was inevitably cut off from this world. As the new reaper, Brain reached that longed-for peak. Reality was divided between those who could be saved, and those who were cut off. Discretion was in his sword, and as judge Brain found himself to be inclement, but impartial.

They tried to overwhelm him with numbers, but there was no strength in quantity.

They tried using arrows, but even those were too slow for his world.

They tried, finally, to escape, but escape was a luxury they had renounced when their decision was pointed to the last attack.

The castle fell, the count's troops gave way, the latter was hanged, but Brain remained in place, unmoved.

It was only when the moon made way for his companion the sun that he began to head for the exit. None of the survivors, whether assailants or old comrades who had found salvation in surrender, tried to stop him.

"Old man."

In his path, the lifeless body of Nicholas looked at him with unusual intensity. The still-open eyes seemed to mock him.

Brain moved closer, to slowly close his old friend's eyelids.

Then he walked away, leaving Nicholas there.

For him a grave was already out there, somewhere.