Chapter 45

The sword saint ballad (part 2)

The streets of the capital were awakened by a fanfare whose sheer uproar soared through the sky as far as the empyrean; trumpets blared solemnly and drums drummed with titanic force among the houses and dwellings.

The royal coats of arms of the Vaiself house decorated the very structure of a skeleton made of stones and wood with their scarlet red; the walls, tall and imposing, echoed the joy and clamor of the event from their height. In the safety of Re-Estize, men and women alike left behind them the cares of their everyday life; formerly gigantic in their drama, now meaningless in their insignificance.

King Ramposa the third had proclaimed the beginning of a new golden age, now that the heir to his lineage, Prince Barbro Andrean Ield Ryle Vaiself, had come of age. With the splendor that would follow this new era, a tournament had been convened. A tournament, the likes of which had never been seen before. A tournament, to determine who would be the first to boast the title of strongest warrior.

The entry lists drew the Kingdom's brightest swords from all over the world. Masters and pupils, adventurers and mercenaries, knights of fortune and honored guards ran to prove that virtue belonged to one and the same: their own.

In this festive air, in that air that smelled of sweet roses and gentle lilies, abundance took the place of decadence, proud and untamed; the grain flowed innumerable as the drops in the sea were too many to count.

Was it really the new coming forward and letting the misery, the rot that had clung to the bowels of those lands be swept away, once and for all, to make way for a prosperity that only legends had known? The past concealed in its wisdom a warning: a warning not to repeat the mistakes that had already been made.

Brain had no answer to those questions that crept like unwelcome guests into his mind, nor did his sword require those same answers.

The way of the warrior was a way of renunciation, just as it was a way of excess. The body was honed, just as the point of one's weapon, at once companion and only friend, was sharpened; and the mind knew the despair of others as well as its own. Death was the only companion with whom he laid in bed. His being, having become one with what was the goal, had become devoid of history and experience, except for the essential ones. A tree without roots, destined to wither before the others, but no less sacred for that.

"Name?" The official had a heedless, almost annoyed expression as he mechanically proceeded to compile a list that seemed endless. A cog in a rudimentary machine, whose individuality was being sacrificed for a now-lost ideal of efficiency and rigor.

"Brain Unglaus," a simple reply, for a simple inquiry. The swordsman could not even remember the last time he had had to provide such information. Later, it would become a much more frequent occasion.

"Coat of Arms?"

"I'm afraid I have none." No exotic flowers on his shield, no scary creatures on his chain mail. There was only him, and his sword. For many, too little. For him, enough.

"An amateur, then. First time participating in a knightly joust like this? Are you an adventurer, by any chance?"

"I have accomplished monster extermination assignments a few times. But I'm not affiliated with any sub-branch of the guild. As for knightly jousts, this is the first one."

The official raised his eyes from the paper for the first time, looking at it with the same astonishment with which one would look at a clueless fool.

"I can't tell if you are more reckless or stupid. Are you aware that in this competition some... accidents might happen, right? Take it from someone who has seen his fair share of unpleasant situations. It's not worth it."

Brain pulled out a bag from the quiver he was carrying, which he gently, but not without decision, placed on the table. The clinking of coins inside was enough to attract the attention of all the participants who waited, disheveled and impatient, for their turn.

"Are these enough for the inscription?"

In his estimation, that amount of gold was enough to open any door, no matter how well barred. Greed was a universal key, suitable for every lock.

"How did you get them?" In the eyes of the official, avarice was already dawning. Indeed, the calculation to establish the difference he could have cashed in had been extraordinarily quick.

"Does it matter?"

The bag was already tucked neatly under the table. Common sense did not always rhyme with honesty, a flaw that was easy to exploit.

"Don't say I didn't warn you. Red group. You'll be one of the first to show his skills. Put on an exciting show. Or die with all your regrets."

"I will."

First precept: ground.

"Participants, state your name!"

The referee's voice was a mere echo covered by the intensity of the crowd's clamor. Screams and cheers mingled with extraordinary order and precision, each waiting for its moment to intervene, with more force than the one that had preceded it, as if, in the middle of the beaten ground of the arena, there were they, ready to give battle, ready to entertain with their madness and exaltation.

Calm and detachment were forbidden by the rigor of a perfect and pure law that towered over all other rules of men, foolish and incomplete in their imperfection.

In the strength of the masses, resentment found fertile ground on which to germinate, devouring mercy and pity to the fullest, demanding the price to be paid for their enjoyment. A price that would be paid in blood. Blood that was not their own.

"Sir. Pierre Angel Morel, captain-knight of the guard of his highness Lord Boulloupe, bearer of the coat of arms of the blue lily." Voice that made the earth tremble, an imposing body like that of a giant, encased in earthy yellow armor. From the helmet he wore, only a face carved in iron could be distinguished. The shield, tall and large as Brain himself, was decorated with three golden lilies. The sword he carried was undoubtedly the masterpiece of a skilful craftsman.

"Brain Unglaus, warrior."

He bowed slightly, not being reciprocated. The shouts of the crowd grew louder.

"Kill him!"

"Show us blood!"

The sun shone high in the sky, heedless of what was happening below its light. Sir Pierre began to approach, his every step causing a rumble on the ground.

The long swords of both contenders rose, offering an ode to those watching them, waiting for the first of them to make a move.

There was a time and a place for the use of each weapon. The way of the warrior was to be able to spot that infinitesimal fraction of a second.

Pierre was unable to do so. He advanced with his shield, impatient to put an end to what in his heart would have been an unimportant contest. The mountain approached, heedless of the fact that it was already on Brain's field.

From one thing, ten thousand could be discerned.

Brain felt the blow coming, and shifted slightly, letting it barely touch him, almost a caress. The quivering of the crowd stopped, fading away. Pierre, whose expression could not be deciphered covered by his helmet, stiffened. The fruit of the lily knight's training blossomed into a second attack, which knew no rest.

'To have mastery of the long sword is to have mastery of the whole world, so the principle behind strategy is forged by the sword.'

By obtaining this virtue, it was possible for one man to defeat ten men.

By obtaining this virtue, it was possible for one man to defeat one hundred men.

By obtaining this virtue, it was possible for one man to defeat a thousand men.

By obtaining this virtue, it was possible for a man to deflect the blow that was aimed at him.

The flare of metal sang a song that reminded all that everything had an end and a beginning. The space of the arena swallowed Brain in a world that could only be observed from above, in the sky. The same sky that always seemed to be closed to him. The same sky that allowed him to look at things in their entirety.

From his position, Brain's opponent looked small. As small as an infant whose first steps had been cut short at birth. The swords clashed again, this time giving purpose to why they had been conceived and transmuted into this world. To be held by hands too small for them, but too big for anything else.

A sword's task was only one, to cut. And Brain's sword did just that: it cut. It severed the difference of class, the difference of wealth, the difference that only those who did not follow the path could take into consideration.

It was not Brain who moved, but his surroundings. A negligent breath started from his side and went up to his mouth. His opponent's weapon was sliced into two asymmetrical parts; the force of the recoil knocked him to the ground, while Brain's sword returned to its sheath.

"What?"

Brain stood there, motionless, waiting. His challenger, Pierre, unaware of his behavior, rationalized what he did not understand with arrogance, what he could not retort with haughtiness. The shield rose from the soil, covering with its shadow the figure of Brain, who slowly placed his hands in the scabbard. A soft clink could be heard in the silence of the now tense atmosphere. The audience, captivated by the spectacle, dared not interfere with that moment they could never forget in the years to come.

And the great shield came down, with the force of a hurricane! It traced an undulating motion from above, finding in Brain's body the perfect spot to arrest its downfall.

The swordsman's fingers began to move, not looking for speed. The rapidity of the movements was nothing but illusion. The quest for perfection was established in the accuracy and precision of the strokes. For those who succeeded in overcoming this ordeal, time was an infinite space where each move was accurately established; haste was a non-existent idea where calmness allowed each feat to be accomplished at the moment most suited to it.

"『Instantaneous Flash』."

In the way of the warrior, there was a timing for everything. In its prosperity and in its decline, in its harmony and in its discord. Similarly, there was a timing for in the rise of great civilisations and in the decay of mythos, in the new coming of a life and the journey to which death began to accompany it.

Pierre's time came, fateful, when Brain's sword traced its path from his stomach; a perfectly painted line of red gushed from his armor, without smearing. The stroke of the shield came to a halt, leaving Brain time to take just enough steps to escape the trajectory. Then, as if by magic, the shield slumped to the ground along with its master.

The swordsman approached his opponent, who was powerless at that point, and lightly pulled the helmet from his head. His face, in spasms and pain, was shown as a warning to all present.

Brain bowed, and left the arena, as coolly as he could, repeating aloud: "Brain Unglaus, warrior, has won."

Second precept: water.

"Contenders, proclaim your names!"

A couple of days passed, before the time to draw the sword came again. A couple of days passed, but the warrior's body knew no rest in that pause.

"Brain Unglaus, warrior."

Like the first, the second challenge began with a simple gesture.

This turn, however, the respect of the audience was evident. The murmurs of curiosity and anticipation were not a sign of disrespect. There was an honor that only a show of strength could confer.

"Sir Louis de Castelmore, bearer of the purple cross and executor of the royal family. Prepare to meet your end, scoundrel!"

An agile and slender body, armed with a luminescent pike. The royal coat of arms waved over his marquise, while a mocking smile completed that stereotypical gascon image.

The gong had not finished recoiling, which he was already upon him. Brain nimbly dodged the first offensive, leaving himself little room to maneuver, just enough to return to the initial distance. The pike whirled, aiming at his chest, in an out of the ordinary, almost unnatural movement.

'Martial arts.'

This time, the blood began to boil, as his neck barely lowered to keep from being touched. The four directions became a death trap. From the north, deadly crashes were launched; from the east and west, lunges and sweeps straight up to break his bones and tear at his flesh; from the south, blows aimed at his heart.

The experience of fighting, according to some, was akin to a dance. When both contenders mastered that art, a rhythm was created whose notes were only audible to those taking part in it. For Brain, there was no music in those movements, nor grace or other beauty.

It was an obsessive pursuit of speed and power; a honed technique with only one purpose: to kill. Because killing was Louis' purpose, and Brain showed himself to be a suitable target to fulfill that rising ambition.

Maintaining distance, taking advantage of the length of the pike, was key to that assault. In these conditions, remaining in a place foolishly considered safe was synonymous with defeat.

Brain let his sword glide over the enemy weapon, a drop in the ocean, insignificant. Then, he approached, holding fast to his principles. As imperturbable as the sea in the morning, he could sense the presence of his foe only a few meters away. His eyes closed, as his vision was weak.

What he relied on were his other senses. The sound of the pike moving through the air became a warning impossible to ignore, the smell of iron a guide for his sword. The touch that caressed the pommel of his sword, pervaded by a peculiar coolness.

The iron of the blade slid over the steel of the pike and gently made its way towards Louis' chest. The latter saw the blow coming, but did not have the wisdom to dodge it in time. It was a touch, a light touch, that wrenched part of the performer's overhang, but put a halt to his run just inches from his heart.

The beats from Louis' chest were clearly audible to Brain, who returned to his original position, not even giving him a glance.

"You yield?" He asked. His was not arrogance, just boredom. A far greater sin, according to him.

Louis touched the uncovered part of his chest, covering with the shadow of his hand the rays of the sun that vainly tried to infiltrate that weakness. "Don't you dare mock me," was his reply. Predictability did not make it any less vexed. "The art of war is a domain of those who have offered their lives to a higher ideal! Who have studied and accumulated knowledge in nobility and the spirit of sacrifice! You... what has a poor peasant like you offered, to dare stand here today before the king and those who lead us?"

"Nothing of value. Nothing that can compare to what you have offered."

He drew his sword again, for the time for words, as short as the most intense of fires, had come to an end.

Once more, Brain closed his eyes. 『Field』 was activated in the midst of that total absence of noises. The world lost its luster, becoming brighter than it had ever been before.

Louis' actions, this time, became immensely clear. Each of his blows was heralded by a small, almost imperceptible movement. From the grip that tightened before a lunge, to the breath that ended a stifled scream before a sweep. Brain's sword was there, before his pike could even reach its destination, in anticipation of something yet to come.

The swordsman's fingers ran over the hilt, playing the notes of a piano that was different in form; everything remained the same in purpose, moving from controlled and adjusted intensity to simple and harmonious melody to that thunder that rumbled existence, pumping veins, severing arteries.

The spirit of the counterattack was not the parry, or hitting harder, but breaking the enemy's offensive in accord with its intent. And if Louis's intent was to break through the guard, Brain's guard was ready to be broken through; if Louis's intent was to throw off balance, Brain's balance was ready to be thrown out of kilter; if Louis's intent was to kill, Brain showed equally vicious killing bloodlust.

His blows were no stronger. His blows were no more precise. His blows were no faster.

Simply, Brain had reached the future first, had won the fleeting instant in which he proclaimed himself the victor. The exchange that followed was a mere formality, a spectacle for the audience, which once again lacked the enthusiasm that would have been appropriate for such an occasion.

Let it not be thought that there was any ambiguity, let it not be thought that when Louis was exhausted and his neck was severed, there was any ruthless justification for that gesture.

"Brain Unglaus, warrior, has won."

It was just the act that honored that encounter, the only way Brain knew how to give a just end to his opponent's efforts.

He marched back to his seat, with the sunset his only companion. No one would walk with him.

Third precept: fire.

The encounters that followed were devoid of emotion and excitement. Most of his opponents withdrew before they could even begin, too afraid of what might happen to them. Those who remained on the battlefield found themselves having to choose between a life as cowards or a life as losers. The latter, although preferable, proved no less painful.

It was therefore to no one's surprise that Brain found himself in the semifinals.

"Brain Unglaus, warrior."

The crowd, that same crowd that had previously mocked him, now exalted his glory. Individuality disappeared, when the group could encompass the number, hiding for the joy of many the embarrassments and betrayals; revealing shadows that were more honest than any light.

The king himself, followed by his family, stood on a platform at the top of the arena. In Brain's eyes that was just a spot that stood out little among the others. The gold of the crown, just meaningless junk; the scepter, a now empty symbol.

Instead, his attention was turned towards his opponent, who this time presented peculiar characteristics compared to her predecessors.

"Gagaran, pleased to make your acquaintance, handsome." With a physique that would have put even the most up-and-coming energetic man to shame, she returned his bow politely, the first shown to him since the tournament began. "Let's make this show fun, don't you agree? When you'll be down, you could at least say it was worth it."

Gorgeous crimson armor protected her, and a giant hammer her hands wielded. There was a certain frankness in the way she posed. Not marked by humility, for indeed she acted as a future champion, but a general respect for him.

Brain smiled in return, with the same cockiness. "Don't think I'll go easy on you just because you're a woman."

"If you did, I would have been incredibly disappointed. That's not what these spectators want, right? Let's make it a fiery confrontation for them, one that will set their spirits on fire! And then, if there's any time left, we can enjoy the two of us alone."

"Humpf, an offer that will go unfulfilled, I'm afraid."

"You don't know what you're missing. But perhaps my hammer will manage to put some salt in your noggin!"

The conversation ended there, as the two began to observe each other in silence.

Gagaran was the first to break that stalemate, launching into a seemingly unstoppable charge. 『Field』 was already active, but the speed with which the war hammer came down upon him left Brain astonished. Nevertheless, his reaction came just as quickly. The sword swung through the air, parrying the blow.

"Not bad." They said in unison. But the woman was already in the process of starting a second offensive. The hammer changed direction and rushed in a follow-up attack, straight at Brain's defenses.

He let the point come close enough to feel it, then deflected his weapon just enough to parry the blow aimed at him once more.

They returned to their starting point, both without having sustained any damage.

Gagaran pointed the hammer upwards again, and began a second descent. But, this time, the target was not her challenger. In fact, even Brain was taken aback when he realized where the woman was aiming.

"Shit."

A shockwave propagated with overwhelming intensity as the giant war hammer hit the ground, momentarily knocking Brain off balance. His feet staggered for a few moments before regaining steadiness, but by then Gagaran was already upon him, ready to smash through his defenses with a battering ram of power.

Brain's sword moved instinctively, but the shape and precision were discordant, and the impact caught him in the side, sending him flying a few meters. Darkness materialized, and a disturbed echo was all his ears heard.

In order to triumph, it was necessary to be aware of one's surroundings. Deceived by the flatness of the arena and its lack of any obstacles, Brain had forgotten that fundamental lesson.

Regret, in any case, was not a luxury he could afford. Blackness was all he could see at that moment, but in his blindness it became extremely clear what his opponent's next move would be. And his.

He rolled, barely dodging the second blow directed at him. A sweep was on the verge of catching him at fault, avoided only by a timely series of somersaults.

When the light manifested again, Gagaran had lost that jovial air, replaced by an ardor that overflowed with the same fiery intensity as that of her armor.

The more they continued, the more the woman stood like an insurmountable wall. The cloak and sword swirled, charting north to south, east to west, in a tenderly lethal exchange. Brain's flanks were the object of increasingly powerful offensives, as the swordsman's sword tried, in vain, to penetrate Gagaran's thick protection.

After a few minutes, the result of which was unsatisfactory on both sides, the reaction that followed was almost natural.

"Ahahahah."

They shared that laugh, without saying anything else to each other. Only the two of them remained in the arena, and those endless dots without substance were only faded images in that moment that was exceptional.

Brain resumed his position, resting his sword in its scabbard. It was an invitation, an invitation that would soon be well accepted. Gagaran turned all her strength towards him, as good manners dictated, this time leaving him even less room to breathe.

In that situation devoid of freedom, Brain's cuts could find a new path. He was placed close to the precipice, so that his spirit could flourish. To blossom, just when it was placed at the end, that was to live.

And so, he let their weapons meet! Let them accompany each other in a gentle flow of violence!

First, forestalling resulted in a fierce embrace. An embrace made of metal and sweat, where the difference in the thickness of the weapons shrank, became small, until it almost disappeared altogether. The war hammer, a weapon of destruction, met Brain's sword, a sword that many predecessors had had, and many successors would see; making its own the firmness of earth, the shape of water and the spirit of fire. That encounter, which was the first and then the second and then the third, became great, became mighty, became disruptive!

Second, came the fleeting moment, when Brain's body became seer, and his cuts oracles of a future that had ceased to conceal its mysteries. Gagaran's hammer was a book, the contents of which had already been written down and revealed to his priest, Brain, who had become inebriated with that prediction; and not satisfied with what he could see, as clearly as he had ever done before, he broke into the woman's defenses with an impetuosity aimed at only one end: breaking. To break the spirit and the effigy by which it was portrayed. Each tilt in the hammer was a new fragment in the soul of his adversary, whose crystal form was increasingly fragile. The sharp glass of the fighting spirit shrank, after every drop of sweat, after every missed breath, into a piece increasingly unrecognizable from the previous one.

It was an animal instinct, ruthless in its ferocity, thirsting for cruelty. But it was so liberating, so penetrating. The clash provided a new universe, entirely for him. The extreme and delirious gesture of an inverted religion, the search for an absurd afterlife, another world, through the god of the sword.

Third and final was the last act, in which this intoxication reached its climax. How much blood remained in his body after that bedlam, Brain could not determine. What he could state with certainty, even shout aloud, not with words, never with words, was one and only one truth: that at that instant, and for that one instant alone, he was alive.

Before fatigue came, before death knocked, it was that unstoppable force known as pleasure that loomed over all that had been created, encompassing in a mad laughter all that the Gods had crafted and loved. That their will had been done, then!

Not even the blow he received on his skull was enough to bring him out of that state of euphoria. His blade, the only guide and the only half of his being, pierced through Gagaran's armor in one great gash, turning to that now so familiar color.

"Crimson was thy armor, and crimson shall now be the virgin soil that shall be bathed in thy blood," he said, slowly drawing his friend from within her who had pushed him to the limit. As a sign of thanks, with a hope of replaying that duel in the not too distant future, he whispered with what little energy remained: "Brain Unglaus, warrior, has won. He pays homage to Gagaran, his opponent!"

The mighty warrior, exhausted but still in her right mind, accepted defeat willingly. Before she lost consciousness, there was an opportunity to make only one promise, which Brain would keep in the years to come.

"Win."

And Brain made good on that promise. He kept it, until only the desert would be witness to that oath.

The crowd erupted in applause as the final began in the swordsman's heart.

Fourth precept: wind.

The humble farmer boy had grown up. Having proved his worth and abilities, Brain had achieved a position that few would envy him. Contempt had become admiration and where there was hissing now there was applause.

The reign of Re-Estize was preparing for the birth of a new champion, a new hero who would fit perfectly into that era of change.

"Challengers, proclaim your names."

"Brain Unglaus, warrior."

Many had been the proposals from the nobles and enriched to have their blazons triumph over what was the new rising star. For them, Brain's sword was endowed with a power absurdly beyond all logic: that of turning everything it touched into gold. Gold were also, evidently, their dreams that would be fulfilled, if only Brain would accept their proposals.

But the path of the sword was one of renunciation and privation. Their empty compliments were promptly ignored and discarded. Everything Brain desired, they could not offer him. Their riches were obstacles for the wandering warrior.

"Erya Uzruth, future champion and divine sword of the Slaine Theocracy."

There was another reason for the growing popularity. His opponent, unlike him, boasted no Re-Estize blood. A foreigner, no matter his lineage, would always be more despised than the poorest of countrymen, at least by the ordinary population.

But for Brain, those were irrelevant, groundless matters. On the battlefield, only one's own hard-cultivated talents acquired value. And, most of all, that was the opportunity to unveil what the darkness of the kingdom's ignorance had kept hidden.

What was the Slaine Theocracy? A country whose past was widely known, but whose present was only shown through a few scattered scraps of information.

It was a caretaker, first and foremost. The custodian of that origin about which philosophers and scholars used to wonder, searching for useless answers to equally useless questions. The cradle of the human race, present when it had uttered its first wailings and who would watch over it until the waning of its splendor. A labyrinth of secrets and mysteries, jealously guarded.

They saw themselves as guides to all that was right and just, the executors of wills that exceeded the interests of the individual.

And, most of all, they were the ones who had shown everyone what men were capable of. In a world of monsters and nightmares, they had prevailed on their own strength, paving the way for their fellow humans to a peaceful future.

And now, there was a chance to see that knowledge accumulated over years of war and triumph at work.

"See that you do not disappoint me."

"I could say the same."

Erya's weapon was long and sharp, curving slightly to the right, in typical southern fashion. Brain recognised it instantly, though he had only heard vague and conflicting rumors of it.

More than anything else, it was the way it was wielded that made him ecstatic. It was a balance between strength and dexterity, acquiring the fury of an earthquake and the readiness of a gust of wind.

The first blow, foretold by『Field』, was a surprise. Erya's movements were different from those typical of the Re-Estize warrior class. The knights of the realm relied on their physical readiness and overwhelming strength. They aimed for the heart and the head, in a display of superiority.

The style of the man of the Theocracy, on the other hand, was insidious. Like a snake, he aimed not where there was vulnerability, but where it was possible to create it. Brain found himself parrying in unusual places, like ears or shoulders, taking full advantage of the advantage his martial art gave him.

It was argued that, in war as in all things, an inch gave an advantage. And Erya used the length of his blade to give himself that inch. It was a waterfall, its water flowing continuously; Brain's body the lake into which it poured. After only a minute, the greeting had been made and it was not difficult to see who had the upper hand.

"Is that all?" Erya strolled around the arena, certain of his coronation. No crown was placed on his long blond hair, but one could have said that his kingship surpassed even that of King Ramposa. If not in wisdom, at least in brilliance. "Where is the demon of the sword that has worked its way through bone and flesh?"

Brain resumed the firmness of his stance, breathing slowly. "Once more."

The way of the sword was one of renunciation. No renunciation had ever weighed on him.

'You will die.'

As if to taunt him, his father's warning came back to him.

It was not death that he feared. It was inevitable. Why attempt to change that? What could be avoided was, the moment the reaper came, to ask himself: 'Between life and death... what have I done?'

Winning didn't matter. Neither did losing. Those were concepts foreign to him. Brain, more than anything, wanted to touch that peak once more; he wanted to touch that starry sky that had been foreclosed.

The overlapping fingers on the hilt became companions of pain, while the firm grip struggled to maintain its position.

Erya's sword was no longer made of metal. It was lightning that ripped through the black clouds and crashed down upon him. Electricity flowed as the synapses awakened. What Brain was fighting against was not a man, but a fury, a fury of the elements made of muscles and nerves only to mock him.

Was Brain the demon? No, he was not. If he had been, his blood would have stopped boiling, his mind would have put a stop to those demands for cessation.

He was a man, just that. The tragedy that drove him to misery was that he could never be more than what he was. But, if those limitations led to regret, at the same time what was before him was made of the same limitations and passions.

The inner side of his sword began to wear. Erya's blade had become flame, the kind of fire that would not stop burning until there was nothing left to consume. Brain pulled it away with a cry of pain, letting the burns feast on his body. His arm, never so sore, struggled to stay in place.

There was no rest in that clash. Nor could any have been expected. A second flare-up, a second clash between what had been forged in untamed fire and the star-burning flames.

"It is over. Give my regards to those who wait for you in hell." Erya's face was ecstatic, the same ecstasy that only slaying could bring. Brain wondered if it was the same expression he too assumed, before ending dreams and hopes.

The bitter reality was that, in the same way he had broken aspirations, he now found himself on the other side of the fence. From the beginning, his had been a broken sword, which he had ruefully and pathetically tried to restore to an ancient -maybe never existed- glow.

His voice pleading for a reason for all this resounded in vain within a sealed garden of piles of tender sins and hoards of sweet lies.

'If this is a dream, please don't wake me up.'

The temperature continued to rise as it was evident that the form was about to give way. Brain's hands gave way, letting the fire burn not the only thing he had ever considered a friend. The fall of the sword was followed by a metallic sound, heralding liberation.

The flames were on the verge of engulfing him, and yet, his hands moved in a frenzy, the frenzy of a new beginning. The skin on his palms began to melt as they grasped that primal force. When you chose to burn yourself, it was easy to stand the heat. And the second of astonishment it granted the now swordless swordsman was enough.

A headbutt crashed down upon Erya, who, flabbergasted, drew back in pain. The auspicious occasion had arrived, or rather, had been created.

With a swift game of hands, his companion had returned to its place, the only one that suited it, as if it had never left. The slash that followed caught the essence of the wind, and extinguished the flames that covered Erya's sword.

What they revealed was the same substance the swords were made of. The primordial source from which everything had begun had poured into creation, taking various forms. These had been mastered by the ones who, like Brain, had come to terms with their mortality.

Strangely, gripping the hilt caused no pain. It was, instead, a feeling of relief. It was natural for the sword to take its place in his hands, and this was just the umpteenth proof of that.

"If you think this is enough, you are sorely mistaken."

Enya had wiped his forehead, from which blood was now gushing profusely. He had taken up his sword again, from which lightning and thunderbolts flashed like the worst of storms.

"Come."

Brain thrust his weapon into the ground, assuming the position. In front of him, he saw his opponent about to unleash his fury once more. Behind, all his companions he had renounced in search of an unattainable ideal appeared like a graveyard without gravestones. Each of them, indirectly, was trying to tell him that everything he had done had led him to that moment.

"『God's....』."

Erya's figure faded, the trajectory predictable.『Field』 ran madly over every smallest space, trying to trace the blow that would follow.

'『Instantaneous Flash』'. Brain's hands once more, it would not be the last, tightened on the hilt. '『Instantaneous Flash』'. The stress of his martial arts made the swordsman's heart pump a thousand times. ' 『Instantaneous Flash』'. The clangor of lightning shone in the darkness. ' 『Instantaneous Flash』'. In front of that power, the destiny of men was to yield. '『Instantaneous Flash』'. And yet... and yet... in Brain's eyes that speed appeared as slowness.

What he saw was beyond the veil of common sense. He was a man who had practiced the same stroke, the same toil, every day.

Again.

And again.

Until it preceded breathing.

And again.

Until he forgot hunger.

And again.

And again.

Until only nothing else remained.

And again.

Until nothing else was left behind.

"『...Flash]』."

Erya's body revealed itself in all its weaknesses, in all the places where it would be possible to cut. There were so many of them. So many, that they made it difficult to choose.

In the end, the Theocracy's sword clashed with Brain's. The former, still intact, shattered against the one that was broken, and the true swordsman sliced through part of his challenger's chest. The triumphant fanfare grew louder as Erya collapsed to the ground, defeated.

When Brain proclaimed victory, the only feeling he felt was one of exhaustion.

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

Masakan Desert

Dusk was falling, and with it night was descending. The gates of the city of Musaaid Al-Lodi continued to remain locked, while the icy desert wind began to blow, heedless of everything and everyone.

Aeneas clutched himself in his goatskin cloak, reflecting how unthinkable this would have been only moments before.

"It is cold."

It wasn't aimed at anyone in particular, it was just a reminder, amidst that lull, that they were still there, waiting.

"Will it take much longer?" Puffed Cassandra, also covered from head to toe. "I understand making us wait, but they could at least get us into a more comfortable place. One of their princesses is with us, after all."

Feeling called out, Shaimaaa felt the need to counter-argue. "This climate is not a problem for me. In fact, it is welcomed. Besides, I doubt the citizens of Musaaid feel the same way about my position as you do. I do not blame them for that." Her brown eyes remained fixed on the walls. "No, Prince Hamza wants to show that we are the ones who should pay homage to him. Be patient, and the time will come."

"Besides, it would be idiotic to let the enemy sneak into the heart of their defenses, don't you think, Astrologer?" Quaiesse, as always, had a bluntly pragmatic worldview. "Prince Hamza, in this, proved wise. Or should I say it was his preceptor who showed such foresight?"

The princess turned her gaze towards him, her face numb with a familiar weariness, the same that adorned awakening after an enchanting dream. "You knew, then?" There was a certain... innocence in the tone. Barely perceptible. "How much did the Slaine's Theocracy manage to find out? How far can you infiltrate our weaknesses? Are we perhaps dogs, whose leash waits to be placed on our necks?"

"Melodrama does not suit you. It is not befitting a rare beauty," Quaiesse's smile was of the most insidious kind of poison, the kind you would notice when it had already entered your bloodstream. "We are at war, remember? And you are our prisoner. Honored prisoner, no doubt. But…"

"A cage, however gilded, is still a cage. I understand completely." Shaimaaa retorted. If the eyes had been endowed with the gift of speech, they would have told different tales. "I bear no grudge for that, I can assure you. It's just that my helplessness disgusts me. I keep walking, and I realize that the distance traveled was from the beginning only a paltry part of the palm of your hand."

Aeneas felt compelled to intervene, not for any particular reason. Just... It felt like the right thing to do. And trying to do the right thing was what they were here for, wasn't it?

"Tell me about the prince," they had far too much time on their hands. "I didn't get a chance to inquire, caught up as I was with preparations." Fulgur, the spear at his side, if it could have added anything, would certainly have unraveled those lies. "I only know his name, and that he is too young to rule. What else can you tell me about him?"

So little did the Black Scripture captain know of his enemies, that the thought of delving into what distinguished them had hitherto seemed superfluous. So meticulous had been his study of war tactics, skills and strategies to be employed in conflict; so lacking had been his curiosity about culture and customs.

Aeneas' spear was the spear of the Gods. As such, it had no will of its own, except that which the emissaries of the divine will had bestowed upon him. An instrument had no need to ask itself questions. So it was and so it would always be.

"The last time I saw him he was just a brat whose nose was dripping profusely, and whose hands were too small to grasp anything. His nannies had to keep a constant eye on him, for there were too many times when he used to venture into the most disparate places, driven by the curiosity that only a child can have." Along that avenue of memories, Shaimaaa's face turned a peculiar blush, which made her barely visible cheeks even more vivid. "He lost his parents at an early age. The mother died in childbirth, and his father followed shortly afterwards. Since then the throne has been administered in his name by his tutor, a scholar of renown called Khaldun."

No one yet crossed those doors, which continued to remain closed. The moon would soon make its entrance. Was that what they were waiting for? The asters in the sky held secrets as yet unexplained, secrets that could be deciphered and turned to one's advantage.

"That he was the one who killed the prince's parents?" Aeneas did not know why he asked that very question, which came out of his mouth almost spontaneously. "He would not be the first, nor would he be the last, to have been driven by the lust for power."

"I suppose it is possible," yet, the inflection of the princess's words gave one believe that what Aeneas had said was on a par with a cheap jest. "But I doubt a djinn would be so interested in such ephemeral power."

"A djinn? In such a place?"

It was here that Shaimaaa could not hold back her laughter. For once, she was the one with more knowledge than them. "What are you surprised about? Much of that race was exterminated by the Eight Greed Kings, but the few who survived continued to serve the royal families of these lands. What binds them to their masters are not empty pieces of paper like our contracts made of ink, but sacred oaths whose terms are defined by more arcane eerie secrets."

Roland approached him, murmuring worriedly. "Captain, this could be a problem. The last we heard of such a creature, not even the additional seat had yet been born. The little knowledge we have might prove insufficient."

"Cassandra hadn't been able to sense his presence?"

"No. The royal palace was under extensive surveillance, yet nothing was recorded that could be a danger. Of course, there is no perfection in our means, nevertheless…" The girl gritted her teeth, clucking her tongue in annoyance. If Aeneas had gotten to know her well, she would have ventured that she was now cursing herself for a believed incompetence. Words of comfort were not his strong suit, but finding something reassuring would not have been unwelcome. "The way I see it, there are two hypotheses."

The Black Scripture captain tried to maintain some control, partly to instill confidence in his subordinates. Being a leader meant that too, although many times it was difficult to remember.

"Let's hear them."

"The first is that he used some spells that made it impossible for us to detect him. I would guess... at minimum seventh tier is a necessary requirement. That is the most dangerous hypothesis, but also the most likely."

"What if he used copper?" Quaiesse interjected. The self-control he exercised was extraordinary, and the shadow of certainty he cast could have covered an entire valley. If anyone had thought he was the leader, Aeneas could not have blamed them. "It interferes with spells of divination and espionage, if I'm not mistaken."

Cassandra looked at him doubtfully. "Hum, it could be. But only if our surveillance was limited to just a few glances here and there. Copper has to be present in large quantities to be really effective, and it has a frankly limited range of protection. Unless he had prepared a suitable room and was aware of our every intention, I think we can rule that out."

"What if the entire building was made of copper?"

Cassandra looked at Aeneas as one would look at an idiot. The girl's eye sockets were on the verge of splashing out of the lenses of her glasses.

"Eheh, I can assure you that this is not the case," Shaimaaa added, amused. "That would be most unusual, wouldn't it, captain?"

Aeneas shrugged his shoulders. "It's always good not to rule anything out. What was the second hypothesis? I'm curious now."

Cassandra regained composure, sighing faintly from exhaustion. "We picked it up, but we didn't give him much thought. What I mean is, nothing about him stood out more than an ordinary inhabitant of that city. Considering the strong presence of non-humans there, that wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility. It would be all too convenient, though."

"In short, hope for the best but expect the worst." Aeneas couldn't help but smirk. The troubles were multiplying, so what else to do but accept it? "Princess, do you happen to have anything else you wish to share with us?"

"I'm afraid I can't help you any further." Which meant 'even if I could, why would I do it?' Shaimaaa's good humor, in any case, did not make him particularly frustrated, far from it. "Seeing you finally panic over something was one of the most entertaining spectacles I've witnessed in the past few months. If I still had my wealth at disposal, you would have been richly rewarded."

"Seeing you smile is reward enough."

"Lame. Hitting on women is certainly not the reason that secured your position, captain."

An heedless sigh came out almost instinctively, after that comment that was equal to a stab in the chest. "You always manage to hit the nail on the head, princess. I would be curious to see you try your hand at the art of the bow. Surely there is no target that would be too far away for your aim."

"Or perhaps it is you who are far too predictable and close to my eye, captain." Was he really? It was to be admitted that taking others by surprise was not his best quality. "But such talk is for tawdry and idle parlors. Would it not be better to concentrate on what lies ahead?"

Aeneas took another look at the city before them. The walls continued to be tightly sealed, in a quietness that nothing would be said to disturb. From his position, the captain could only catch a glimpse and an idea of what might lie within. Carpets of damask, of a thousand and one colors and shapes; palaces and mansions that concealed exotic and unknown riches; streets where only peace and harmony were known.

Soon that peace would be disturbed. Ruin awaited it; the outcome of the duel that was about to begin did not matter.

The righteousness of the Six was insatiable, though not driven by gluttonous greed. It was fair, and it was just. It was what was written and what would be professed. As their direct descendant, as the successor to that will, it was his sacred duty to enforce it.

"It is not what you see." Shaimaaa, as if she could have read his mind, approached him. The princess, in Aeneas's eyes, was the only one now living in the same plane of existence that he inhabited.

The other members of the Black Scripture were intent on new plans, tireless. The others in the group were carrying out their tasks to combat an unrelenting boredom.

The loneliness he felt at that moment was not unpleasant. Being able to remain locked in one's own universe was sometimes regenerating. Like the white wing of the albatross on the monotonous breath of the ocean so, wandering to wander, went his soul in the middle of those dunes.

"Here, you will be thirsty." The princess handed him a glass where reddish-coloured wine floated amiably. "Don't make me beg, and accept it. If I wanted to poison you, I would have done so long ago."

Aeneas hesitated, not because he really could believe such nonsense. "The idea didn't even cross my mind." He let the wine graze his lips, the dryness of which only became apparent at that moment. "It's actually very good."

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"I'm glad you appreciate it. Take it as a token of appreciation for the work you have done for me." There was no sarcasm, which made him now certain that he had ended up in a world that worked backwards. He checked that his spear was still clutched in his hands, and not landed on the top of his head. Or somewhere worse. "Your comrades got carried away. They're creating so many fictional situations they could rival a novelist. Seriously, are you guys really a team of assassins or a circus of traveling actors?"

"We are not assassins." The second sip ended up being more bitter than the first. "We're just... soldiers. With a few out of the ordinary assignments, but that's still the gist. And, yeah, they tend to do it. As their leader, it makes me incredibly proud."

Shaimaaa chuckled. It was a particularly acrid sound that matched the taste of the wine perfectly. "Call yourself whatever you like, but that won't change your substance. Is it not for killing a man that you came here today?"

"At this rate, I won't kill anyone." The moon was now shining high and tired in the sky. Patience was the virtue of the strong, but it would not be long before Aeneas would begin to feel weak. "In any case, I do not intend to kill him, if it is possible. Only in case there is no other choice, I will do what must be done."

The princess lay down on the sand, heedless of the grains that might soil her dress. "You are funny. You show no weakness, no wavering. But if others engage in this behavior to conceal their insecurities, you do so in an almost didactic manner."

"Learning to master one's weaknesses and fears is the basis of my duties," Aeneas said. There was no particular reason to give her that answer, yet he did it anyway. "I had to master it... in ways that were not entirely pleasant. Therefore, I will take your insinuations as compliments."

He didn't even dare to give the liquid that was in the glass another try, well aware of the aftertaste it would now acquire.

"Are you afraid right now?" Shaimaaa asked. The way she stared at him almost put him in awe. "Afraid to fight. Afraid to die."

"...I'm always afraid. How could anyone not be in dread of the marvels -and nightmares- this world offers? The opposite would be reckless. But there is always something that drives you on, to endure what would otherwise be unbearable."

"And what do you go on for?"

Aeneas thought about it, but could not find an answer that was satisfactory.

If Shaimaaa had noticed, she did not give it away. "The stars are beautiful, aren't they?" The princess's face was turned towards the sky, towards the stars that shone with untiring devotion. "Wouldn't it be better to stay and watch the stars instead of killing?"

"...Per aspera ad aspera."

"What does that mean? This language is unknown to me."

"The Gods communicated in many ways when they came among us. Not in language, but in writing. Much of what they left us has its meaning lost, but this was one of the few phrases which translations remained. According to our sacred scriptures, this was one of the favorite lines of the God of Light. If I am not mistaken, it is an ancient proverb. One reaches the stars by walking rough paths."

The princess' lips curved into a smile. "Per aspera ad aspera," she repeated slowly, unable to reproduce the correct pronunciation precisely. It was no wonder. It had been difficult for Aeneas, too, when his teachers tried to get him to memorize it. "I like it. It has an almost poetic sound. Your gods were not just exalted ones, it seems."

Aeneas didn't even get angry at the little joke. "The Gods were wise. They knew things that only they could grasp. They made only one mistake, if we want to call it that. They showed us how great they were so we would never forget how small we are."

Shaimaaa wrinkled her eyes, barely holding back a yawn. "I guess so." And nothing else was added further.

A silence fell, filled with embarrassment.

"You said something earlier," Aeneas recalled, just to put an end to the awkwardness. "'It is not what you see.' What did you mean by that?"

Puzzlement could be read on the princess's expression, before the skin of her face was illuminated by the night light, in a timing that was almost divine. "Oh, sure. I meant the way you looked at the city. It was obvious you were imagining who knows what reverie lurked in those streets. It was a mirage, that's all."

"A mirage?"

"But yes, a mirage. Something that was never there but you saw anyway."

"I know what a mirage is." Illusory hope, alluring and deceptive promise, unrealisable dream. Who did not understand the meaning of that word? "But isn't it a phenomenon that occurs with exhaustion of body and spirit? The journey was no cakewalk, but my lucidity was preserved."

Shaimaaa stood up, shaking off the dirt from her dress with a few instinctive gestures. "Yes, all this is absolutely correct. But this is only a rational explanation. Ask ten different people what they imagined, and you'll get just as many answers. This does not mean that there is falsehood or deception in what they proclaim. The Musaaid you saw was what your heart desired to see. The city I see is a deserted ruin, a far cry from the great metropolis that lives in my memories. Is it the same for you?"

Aeneas hesitated, biting his lip. "I cannot claim the same. It looks like an enchanted jewel to me. An oasis where one can find rest from the hard life of these arid lands."

The princess did not flinch, proud of something only she could understand. "That is because the desert wind has conditioned your mind. What you have observed has bent to your fallacious ideas. The exotic has captivated you, leading you to ignore the flaws that are so obvious. This is not a fault," she approached him, and for a moment the captain could hear her breath catching in his. "The world we live in is fortunately limited. A few steps are enough to get out of our room, a few years to get out of our lives... But suppose that in this small space, suddenly dark, we were lost, suddenly becoming blind... Everything would seem enormous to us and our world big, incredibly big, to the point of becoming impossible!...Impossible!...and yet one answer can explain everything. And then you will ask a hundred other questions, there will be a hundred other answers... you will see that the absolute does not exist one way or the other. A mirage is just a way this feeling can take shape."

"Nonsense," why she was rambling, he truly couldn't understand. Nor did he want to. If these were attempts to make him lose his concentration, then they were in vain. "It is you who have been caught in a mirage, princess. Caught in the curse of your rank. But fairy tales are just that - stories. Stories to lose yourself in when reality gets too harsh."

She pulled away, letting him breathe. "And wouldn't it be nice, living in these stories? I would not be a princess, on whom the burden of people rests. And you would not be a warrior... destined to fight until the end of your days."

"I prefer to remain anchored to what is, not what I would like it to be." Were they perhaps drunk? There was no sign of intoxication, no wine so strong as to cause those effects in him. "I will fight to the end, for that is my mission. To have a purpose is already something many cannot claim, and I am proud of what I have been given."

"Isn't a dream perhaps enough?"

"No, it is not. I -the Theocracy- yearn to disguise reality as a dream. I too like to believe in fairy tales, and if there were no such things I would do anything to make them up, but as long as there are answers given with reason I cannot help but accept them."

Shaimaaa stared at him, causing him no small amount of discomfort. Then she turned her head away, as if ashamed. Which, according to Aeneas' experience, would have been highly unlikely. "Once you are done with this mission, what will you do? When you have killed the sword saint, conquered the diarchy, eliminated the Golden King. What are the plans of the Theocracy?"

Finally, there was no need to think. A relief more welcomed than expected.

"I will go and perform my next task."

"And would that be enough for you?"

"It will be enough for me."

"And when will you have eliminated every non-human in this world? Will you then be able to rest?"

"At that time -if it ever comes- I will finally be able to say that my duty has been accomplished."

"And when will it come to slay me? Even then will you be satisfied?"

Aeneas tried to reason with her, but when he tried to touch her, the only thing he felt was too shameful to express. "I do not know what you are talking about. My job is to protect you."

He was prepared to face furious anger, slanderous but true accusations. Instead the captain of the Black Scripture found only inexplicable resolve. And compassion, directed towards him.

"I will do anything to prevent that. I will not let mine be just a stain on your biography. Just promise me one thing, protect what you believe in. Not what has been imposed on you."

With the moon as witness, that pact was sealed. In Aeneas' heart, at least.

"Look. The doors are opening!"

And almost as if they had been waiting for that promise, finally the predestined moment became ripe.

Accompanied by stars that could not restrain their light, and the hopes of countless souls, the saint made his entrance. Without glory, nor honor.

Only two swords were with him.

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

After winning the tournament, Brain's life took an unexpected turn.

Warrior-captain, this was the new position created and granted specifically for him. For he who rose above all, for he who had only a sword with him, what better position?

The solemnity of Ramposa the third was to induce a conviction beyond all reach.

"Turn men into heroes," had been his command. "Create a team that had never before placed its sword in defense of the kingdom. The sacred treasures of Re-Estize are your new effigy, let the red of our banner become the red that paints the sky and bathes the earth."

Razor Edge, the queen of all swords, was placed at his disposal. The handle was covered in gold; the blade in pure, crystalline teal. Was that perhaps the pinnacle he sought? When he held that blade for the first time, for the very first time, he felt an emotion comparable to the one he had felt years and years before. But there was more.

Emptiness.

Of that there was too much…

The court of Re-Estize opened up for him, as it had never done before for a man of such humble origins. Unbridled praise and claims of belonging were his new daily routine. Nobles competed to claim his origin, fabricating stories wrapped in apparent mysticism; planting new roots in genealogies that before would have been called complete; giving his sword a dignity it had never known before.

It was a world made of gold. Golden were the words spoken to him and shining were the favors offered. The life of the camps was so far removed from that opulence that one could have said they belonged to two distant universes that would never meet.

Divine grace had shown itself to him. To him only, by any chance?

"Master, how can I become stronger?"

Climb, the bodyguard of the golden princess. A boy who cultivated an amount of hope for the future equal only to his lack of talent.

Every day, the young man repeated that useless rite, seeking knowledge in Brain that even he could not admit to possessing. He was pathetic in his weakness. Insignificant, in that painful ordinariness.

"Let the sword guide you. Balance your body, strike a proper poise. Make use of what you are, not what you would like to be." Brain's advice was dictated by experience, but lacked pregnancy effectiveness. They could water a plant that had already bloomed, but not make something grow in barren soil. "First, learn as many martial arts as you can. Study as many fighting styles as you can. Your weapon will be your companion in the morning; your pen and reading will accompany you in the evening."

"Will do!" His enthusiasm, however, was overwhelming. It didn't matter how many times he failed, Climb got back up more than any other. Many abandoned Brain's training -considered too ruthless and lacking in insight into his art- but not him.

If it was possible to feel pride for another person, the new warrior-captain felt it for the one who was destined to fail the most.

"How did you become so strong?"

"Training first and foremost. And practice, to the point of exhaustion. Sweat shall become your blood, and calluses your new skin. The shield, your left arm, and your blade the right one. Renounce the life of a man, to embrace that of a warrior. Understand that you will gain nothing but broken blades. To find comfort in the path you have chosen, no matter how hard it is."

And Climb - priceless in his naivety - always asked. "Can I, one day, become as strong as you?"

It was a debt that motivated the young man. Of all curses, the worst. For it condemned him to a misery that was passed off as gratitude.

"There is a legend, from a distant land. A brave and persevering carp managed to ascend the waterfall at the Dragon Gate, along the River of Interregnum, overcoming obstacles and evil spirits. The gods, impressed by such courage, transformed it into a great dragon. A dragon so beautiful and powerful that the others of his race immediately accepted him as a companion. His former self as a fish was erased, and only his might remained."

"What does that mean?"

"That with enough perseverance, even the most humble like us can be acknowledged."

"And you... you succeeded?"

And here, Brain remained quiet…

But his new life was not all about constant training. It was a life at a king's side, as his guard and confidant. In his childhood, the rare times he found himself thinking about the ruler of the Kingdom, Brain imagined an austere and distant personality cloaked in respect and dignity. A sonorous voice, who knew how to impose himself on everything and everyone.

And Ramposa the third was as far removed from that fantasy as one could get. Perennially sickly, bent over like a hunchback. Age had not been kind to him, nor had the crown's weight. His voice was usually low and weak, with coughing fits that became almost an interlude to his speeches. The poison of his pages and servants had spread throughout his body, shaping him more like a ghost than a real man.

"Do you think I am a bad king?"

And in spite of all this, there was a certain way about him. It was devoid of regality, although he did not lack it on occasions that age made it rarer and rarer, and little inclined to falsehood. It was a constant search for something to lean on, to be able to share and withstand the burden that had been imposed.

"Your majesty is great in his infinite wisdom. As the representative of House Vaiselof on earth, his is the sun that shines in the sky, his are all the riches of the world."

"This is what nobles and commoners say. But what do you really think?"

In their intimacy there was a desperate need for honesty. Was he king or man, that fragile elder? His bones were like Brain's, as were his flesh and skin. The clothes they wore could be different, just as different was the way people called them. But after all, behind costumes and ceremonies, they were not unlike each other.

And that was definitely disappointing.

"Do not ask for what you would not be able to bear, your majesty. I would end up playing the part of the villain, and that's not what I want. You are a good king. If that's the truth, you have nothing to worry about. If it is a lie, you should try to turn it into reality."

That conversation was repeated several times during his stay at the royal palace. Each time, the king was expected to find in Brain's sword that dark desire that had to be satisfied. Each time, the king was let down.

Was his sword perhaps a shrine? Bells did not ring as his slashes cleaved the air, nor did the vastness light up at the call of his fury, which grew inexorable, confined in that palace cut off from the rest of the world.

Was his blade perhaps a whore, ready to be sold to the highest bidder? An object of contention between nobles and riches, between kings and emperors.

"Accept my offer. Follow me."

The Emperor of Baharuth held out his hand, as many had done before him during one of the incessant border battles. The desolation of the plains of Katze seemed to match his soul perfectly that day. The corpses of the imperial knights, the elite of the elite, lay at his feet, as the survivors struggled to defend their lord.

Jircniv Rune Farlord El Nix. The Blood Emperor. The rising star. So many were his names. Nobles tended to collect them, perhaps in a futile attempt to be remembered. It was funny to think how, underneath the perfumes and delights, that unhealthy and putrid desire -to not be forgotten- was at the root of every personality, from the holiest to the most deviant.

"Skills like yours are a waste, in the service of the Vaiselof house. Do you not yearn for something higher? That greatness you want, I can offer you. Priceless magical items, the best training grounds, the most epic battles you can imagine! All you have to do is swear an oath to me."

Brain had never considered himself a complex personality. In fact, he could have called himself anything but that. His was a single primal instinct that drove him, heedless of what the consequences might be. And certain it was that the powerful found solace in their unrealisable promises and pretentious oaths.

If they all knew they were so easy to break, why care so much about repeating them?

"My allegiance lies elsewhere." Not with Re-Estize, nor with the king. Nor with the people, the princes or the priests. It was an upward loyalty that could not be bought, nor perverted. Pure. Beautiful. "You could offer me no more than I could offer you. That is, nothing."

And he walked away, leaving him there. Over the years, he did not regret that choice. Was repentance part of his being? He had chosen, on that lost day, madness. He would live like a fool, fight like a madman and die like a lunatic.

What more could he have asked for?

'Is this my end? To wither away, never to have found that light in which to be born? Is this perhaps the end of every warrior, to ignore life until the longing becomes too strong and then, when peace finally arrives, to find oneself renouncing everything, only to wield the sword one last time?'

His thoughts, expressed in the darkness of his mind, were turned to the highest star in the sky, sister of the sun, supreme inspiration of dreams and mysteries. It seemed that reigning over the empire of silence, of peace, it was more mysterious, more solitary than any other: its icy white light always returned to renew the first impression: it remained in the thought as representing the night itself.

From the window from which he observed the moon that evening, Brain drew a new torment, which, however, was not unpleasant. The endless day in which his existence was trapped was broken, allowing rebirth to take place from the ashes.

He abandoned the treasures of Re-Estize, abandoned the riches he had amassed. He broke the bonds he had built, and severed all forms of brotherhood. Not that it was much, all things considered. But it was still something, however small, however insignificant.

He was already far from the capital when he turned back. Never had he felt so light, and never had his spirit known fullness as in that act of renunciation. Journeys followed one after another, of ever deeper and more distant destinations.

The pleasure of discovery knew no morals. Not out of cynicism, but out of simple curiosity. That, above all, was the force that drove men, that drove them to explore the inner and outer abysses.

One path of blood and violence, another of heroism and compassion, both came together towards a single road. From the places where men had found a permanent home, to the unexplored corners where the influence of his race was only one among many, and the importance of his ancestors became less and less important.

All the way to where the eternal was the present, to that place where dreams went to die, or perhaps only take another form.

Eryuentiu, the forbidden city. The capital of the ancient world. The fortress of heaven.

In reality, Eryuentiu was two in one, an inseparable dualism. The ancient vestige of the empire of the Eight Greed Kings, there, high as far as the eye could see; a fragment of an age that had come to a halt beyond all mortal logic and earthly need, including death. And then there was the desert city, living under the shadow of the superior one. Imitating it and besmirching it with the things that were of mortals. Feeding on the water that flowed from the springs, soiling those crystalline drops with their greed; surrounding themselves with empty tombstones and obscene beliefs.

One could admire or visit the monuments, the forums, the empty skeletons of temples, the framework of buildings; ruins that, while undoubtedly testifying to the greatness of a bygone epoch, remained detached from the city proper and circumscribed by barriers and boundaries.

The metropolis had grown bigger and richer, but remained tied to an elementary and coarse idea of living. Cynical, skeptical, lacking in ideals, material, obtuse, the lower Eryuentiu presented in short the disconcerting spectacle of a capital city whose main, or rather only, aim was to live by the day, or rather to survive, in search of a pale imitation of what was unreachable.

"This will be perfect for you, noble lord."

The art of commerce was the primary source of sustenance of that bedlam. The inhabitants were jealous of their secrets and knowledge, it did not matter how much these were only increasingly on the wane. The ancient and revolutionary methods of production of the world lords were now lost, oppressed by their own magnitude; what remained were only almost inaudible echoes of tremors that had shaken the earth. Yet, in those last glimmers of sapience that still endured stoutly, the power of the conquerors descended from above.

"Is this the famous sword of the south? Katana, I recall you named it. A curious name, elegant and sharp as its point." Brain did not know why he had come all the way there, facing obstacles and hostile natures. He had heard the call of that weapon, and fast had been his race. Or perhaps it was just the games of a bored mind, desperate for something to stimulate it. "I faced a similar one in the past. Though the workmanship was nothing like this one."

"Obviously. The forging method is passed down from family to family among the greatest craftsmen of the Eternal City. The Council of Seven protects our culture from attacks and forgeries. Of course they are not infallible either. But you won't find a better sword than the one you might find here…" The merchant's keratin-covered paws smoothed the hilt, mimicking those gestures of affection that the most expansive parents inflicted on their children. "Except for those guarded in the high citadel. But it is not a question of weapons in this case. What was used by the Eight was not comparable to what mortals can reproduce."

It was always like that in that place. The merchants were proud of their wares and products, but they were just as quick to point out that there was no comparison with what was hidden in the upper citadel. It was an anxious fear of causing offense to beings who were no longer there, and even if they had been, would not have given them consideration.

The Eight Kings of Worship. Were they the summit to be reached? What could they have seen, from their lofty position? How did it change the perspective of those who saw the world in its full; and those who were forced to capture those few pieces of a never entirely and defined whole, as he did?

"I'll take it. Give me more potions and amulets as well, the journey ahead is hard. Something that will allow my body to continue fighting, no matter what state it is reduced to."

"Where are you headed, noble lord?"

"Wherever there is an opportunity."

"I advise you not to go too far into the desert. Rumors are circulating, rumors of war and ruin. A new king has been proclaimed, and golden has defined his reign and title. But it is not a dazzling yellow, the color with which he is building his kingdom."

"I will keep that in mind."

New conflicts meant new ways to test oneself. It was where atrocities thrived that it could be determined with certainty who was the strongest. Brain was used to taking part in spectacles that would revolt anyone with the slightest sense of compassion. A candle was destined to go out, without being able to dispute who it might illuminate. Why take it when it had burned out?

So he continued to fight. Men, demi-humans and monsters alike. Not out of hatred or vengeance, not out of passion or joy. It was just the way it was. A continuous going on, no need to ask why.

"Are you the human mercenary so much talked about?"

Fame was a light that drew every moth towards it. Even those who, like the old woman who appeared before him one day, would have done better to stay away from it.

"Who wants to know?"

It had been a campaign like many others. His sword had been practically sold for a loaf of bread and some water. Just enough so that he could continue to retain some dignity. With others, and with himself.

"How grumpy we are. It's not just because I'm decrepit that I don't deserve a pinch of courtesy. You're gaining a certain celebrity around here, but I can't understand why an old soldier from Re-Estize has stumbled into a dump like this. "

He called her old, in his mind, but soon Brain realized that was not frailty or weakness shining through her. Piercing eyes probed her soul, bent with a sadness that only they thought they knew, masked by a smoky, derelict vitality.

"I see you have done your research. Yet that is not why you are here, is it?"

She pulled down the hood of the robe she wore, releasing the braid of long gray hair that accompanied over her head. Her expression shortened into a smile filled with understanding and... ardor. "And what did I come for?" The woman asked, as she slowly unwrapped the ruby red jewel that held the two ends of the black cloak she wore together. "Couldn't I have been curious to meet my fellow countryman making a name for himself?"

"That one," Brain pointed to the sword she wore at her side. "Had you had other intentions, you would have stowed it in a less visible place. The fact that you came to me, carrying it in plain sight only means one thing…" there was a certain quiver as he unsheathed his weapon. After many years, Brain felt the excitement he slowly was starting to assume was lost. "You want a duel, and I will not back down."

"You won't even offer me something first? Ahhh, my charm has really withered away. There was a time when kings and queens would have done the impossible just to spend a night with me. It's extremely disappointing, but I suppose that's how things go when you get older." Despite her apparent calmness, the woman had already grabbed her companion. At a first inexpert glance, one might have described it as bizarre to see such an age-scarred body wielding that large sword with ease. '"Just don't go easy on me because I look like this. I'd find it disappointing if after all the traveling I've done, I came across a little child who treats the elderly with condescension."

Brain replied in the only way he knew how, hitting her with a long slash that was promptly parried. "Even if I wanted to, I could never do that. Or you could kill me on the spot." It was electrifying, knowing that at any moment his life could be snatched away. To be hanging by a thread that was slowly being severed. "But I must beg you to return the favor."

A couple more blows followed, always with the same result. If Brain towered above her in physical strength and precision, the woman's senses were far more developed, allowing her to counter his assaults with ease. In that moment of study, Brain could not determine a winner with certainty.

They continued for a few minutes in that standoff, with never one able to prevail over the other. Without anyone really showing all their cards. When it seemed that the point had arrived where things would get intense, the woman stopped.

"Not bad. You're just the one I was looking for. And to think that there was someone stronger than me, it makes me want to traverse the world once more, before it's too late."

Brain could not agree with that statement. "If you were serious, I wouldn't still be in this relative coolness." He made his disappointment clear, but it was not received by her. "What did you want to prove with all this?"

She turned away from him, without making a sound. "I am Rigrit." A name that sounded familiar to Brain, but which he could not connect to anything. "Tell me, Brain. Why do you fight? There must be a reason, no? Is it because you are aware that this path could bring you boundless riches beyond your wildest imagination? Are you moved by an unrivaled sense of justice that prevents you from remaining silent in the presence of unspeakable wrongdoing? Or is it being recognised, the thing you aspire to? I have seen so many motivations that I could stand here and list them for days. And if I have discovered one banal truth, it is that they always differ, one from the other. Sometimes imperceptibly, other times clearly."

"Even if I knew, would it affect who I am? A reason, how pathetic. To be the strongest, is that not enough? Why do I keep walking, knowing that there is no destination waiting for me? I may look back, and see nothing. I could turn my gaze to the horizon, and arrive at the end of a precipice."

Rigrit laughed loudly. It was a deeply melancholic laugh, sharpened, however, by a vein distinctly full of zest. "Yes, perhaps you are right. It's only old fossils like me who give importance to such nonsense. Tell me, what would you do to fulfill this aspiration of yours? How far would you be willing to go?"

"I would gladly see the world burn if it would serve my purpose. I would bring down civilisations and dynasties, if it could increase the likelihood of getting as far as I want by even one measly amount." In the desert, only now it was possible to be certain, the words were filled with meaning. It was hard to tell whether it was caused by a simple change of perspective, or was there really something mystical about that lack of... everything. "If you knew the atrocities I was guilty of, your kind heart would not be able to bear it. Ah, do you perhaps want to judge me for that?"

But the woman did not flinch. In truth, she seemed particularly amused. "Ahahahah. Believe me, you cannot even imagine the number of corpses behind me. Tell me, Brain, do you know the Theocracy of Slaine? Silly me, everyone knows it."

The swordsman had not thought of that nation since that fateful final, where he almost lost his life. "What has that got to do with me? Do you perhaps want to recruit me for a crusade against non-humans? If so, I am ready to stop it in the bud. No beast would be able to bring satisfaction to my creed."

Of monsters, he had faced plenty. Where brute force could not reach, technique and cunning made up for innate disadvantages. Had it been a fight without refinement that he yearned for, such opponents would have been perfect.

"Don't worry. I'm not a priest looking for acolytes." Rigrit replied, for the first time showing a certain rush of disappointment. As if the mere idea had turned her inside out. "No. You should know that the Theocracy is at war with a small kingdom northwest of here. A good friend of mine was specifically looking for a hero who could help them in such a desperate predicament."

It was obvious who the needle of that conflict was leaning towards.

"And I am that hero?"

The woman's brow furrowed, without her losing her good humor. "That's the irony. You need desperate times to make heroes. Instead of useless bloodshed, a single dispute can save hundreds of lives on both sides. What I'm proposing is not a good deal. Quite frankly, the chances of you winning are... almost non-existent."

He had known her for only a few hours, yet that lack of confidence made him boil with anger. It was as if he was desperate for that woman's approval, though Brain couldn't explain why.

"I have already overpowered one of the Theocracy's champions in a duel. What would be different this time?" Because there was something different. The news of the tournament finalists was sure to be part of Rigrit's baggage of information. "I am not afraid of death. What frightens me is facing the afterlife without first getting what I seek."

"You defeated a man, yes. But I offer you better. I offer you the chance to make a god bleed. You would be the first to accomplish such a feat. But if you are not interested…"

And with that she got his attention.

"You rave, old woman. Why should I listen to your lies? Gods never existed, vain hopes of fools disappointed by their own circumstances. And even if their tales were true, they left this world eons ago." Words could be deceptive, but the body did not always share this ability. And Brain's, despite himself, could not reconcile this failure of intention.

Rigrit noticed, for he handed him a letter, which he promptly threw out of a pocket of her cloak. "Take it to the lord of the city of Musaaid, he will understand everything." He felt her breath close to his again, but without combative intent, it had a whole other connotation. A sweet, honey-like taste, though not quite the same. "You want to admire it, don't you? The peak, I mean."

Brain accepted that piece of paper, trying not to show hesitation. "What's in it for you?" Because no one ever did anything out of altruism. Nobody. "Did it not occur to you that I might be defeated?"

And, unexpectedly, Rigrit's voice became harsh. Hard as a piece of granite. "If someone has to die, it might as well be one of those who already lie with death." Then, all of a sudden, it returned to that genuine good-naturedness, which now sounded so contrived. "And, I hope, by watching you fight, the Theocracy will disclose their secrets to me. There are many things I do not know, and the time of ignorance must now end."

"How do I know I can believe what you claim?" Trusting was good, not trusting was better. His hand brushed against the katana, the steely iron of the blade was cold to the touch. So cold, it was warming. "And more importantly, what's in it for me to meddle in all this?"

Rigrit had already disappeared, immersed in the sandstorms that were beginning to blow out of the location where they stood. "Ask about the treasure," was the echo of a voice Brain could hear, before nothing else remained of her. A faint murmur, which towered above all other noises. "Sometimes, what we seek is not what we really need."

One day, he would ask her again what those last words meant. One day, he would find comfort in hearing them spoken once more. But if that day ever arrived, it could not be said.

Brain resumed his wanderings, a landless stranger in remote places until he reached Musaaid, the place of the missive.

At first, asking for an audience was not easy. Distrust was a natural occurrence with foreigners, and even more so during a war. They subjected him to long and tortuous interrogations, to unpleasant and invasive magical practices, which he faced firmly, never letting them disturb him.

Eventually, the guards were convinced by his earnestness, and he was allowed to meet the prince of the city. Or maybe, it was just disperation that moved them. Difficult to say.

The first thing Brain noticed, once he entered the throne room, was the stark contrast to the Re-Estize court he was used to. Few ornamental objects decorated the room, but those few furnishings visible to the eyes were finely crafted in gold and silver, with a skill and technique which had as a wonder the only possible consequence. They represented obscure events unknown to him, but were evidently well engraved in the history of that kingdom.

Books, the quantity of which exceeded all expectations. The small, overflowing bookshelves outnumbered the dignitaries gathered around the throne.

On these, sat a child. He would have called himself human -something that, in that place, was not so obvious- had it not been for the only, large eye that looked at Brain with a mixture of curiosity and fear. The child was constantly opening and closing the gigantic eyelid, the bronze crown he wore on his head that was too big for his head was adjusted with every movement by hands too small to steer.

He opened his mouth, on the verge of saying something, but was stopped by the one who sat at his side. It was impossible to determine what that presence was whispering. For such it was. A heap of smoke that changed shape in no particular order. Close to its ruler, it was small and undefinable, ethereal in its abstract conformation.

And then it approached Brain, acquiring concrete contours and a majesty equal to that of a titan. "Speak," he thundered. It was as if lightning had struck indoors, the first sign of a terrible rain that was to come. "Are you the one whom she who whispers to the dead spoke of?"

It was evident that he was talking about Rigrit.

On the ceiling, small chandeliers gave life to soft lights, which mingled with the shadows on the walls, replicating distorted versions of the images reproduced on the mosaics woven with ancient textures.

"They told me that here I will find what I seek," the misty shape increasingly took on a human guise, to the point of recalling that of a man in his forties, whose dogmatic expression commanded respect and adoration. Whether that was his true appearance, or just Brain's way of processing the truth of his being, was difficult to determine. "Are you looking for someone who can fight for you, and can die for your cowardice? Fortune has smiled upon the people of this palace, for I am the fool for you. If what I have been promised is fulfilled, my blade will be placed at your service."

He then handed the letter to the councilor, who accepted it imperishable. The prince, meanwhile, had roused himself from his position and approached Brain, staring at him with an intensity that made one uneasy.

"Are you perhaps, sir, the one we have been waiting for?" He finally spoke. It betrayed insecurity, the way he did so. Typical of a child who was forced to act like an adult. "Khaldun," the prince said, turning to his minister, "is he the one? Is this how a hero is made?"

Once again, that word was used to define him, improperly. Brain sighed, resignedly accepting what he was not, what he had never been.

Khaldun, that was the name of the being who was first a dream now a man, replied softly to his young prince: "That we will only find out when we know who he really is. And I ask, Brain Unglaus, who are you really? What do you seek in this place?"

Brain answered as he had done before, when that same question had been imposed on him. "I was told a treasure was waiting for me here."

"I can give you what you wish. The treasure of Musaaid is without a doubt the most exceptional sword in the world. No blade can compare with it. But, tell me, are you ready to accept it? It may be different from what you really desire."

"Let me see it," he replied. "I will be the one to judge."

"Very well," Khadul took the little prince in his arms and, accompanied by a handful of guards, led the way to Brain, until he led him into a secluded little room, where nothing was there except for a small wooden case. "Take it," he told him, handing him the case. "Open it."

Brain hesitated, feeling a swirl of emotions take hold of him. Was that the climax of the play? It would turn out whether his existence had been a farce, or something more.

He opened the case and observed what was inside it.

"This is…"

"Yes. The sword of life. And it is yours to wield. The only thing to determine is: 'do you feel ready for it?'"

Brain took it in his hands, finally free of all doubt. "Now I understand. I will... Ah. So stupid."

Khadul did not react, but his expression was answer enough. The child was the only one to utter a word. "Now you are no longer a man. You are mine, forever. Brain Unglaus has been reborn. What I see is what you see. And what I wish for is what you will accomplish."

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

Fifth precept: void.

Aeneas watched his opponent before him. Brain wore a beautiful chainmail, completely identical to that which the knights of the Baharuth Empire used to wear, except for the ring links, which were slightly shorter. The style of the vambraces followed the same pattern.

The armor went down to the middle of the thigh, a piece of silk was attached circularly at its end, going down to the calf. He wore no helmet, leaving uncovered a long row of blue curls, from which black roots emerged.

"Are you my opponent?" His voice was deep, rich with bloodlust, but at the same time one could perceive a certain peace in it. A sense of acceptance, which was rare to find in such circumstances.

Aeneas stepped forward, moving away from the princess and the other members of the Black Scriptures. "Yes, it's me."

Only now could he notice that Brain Unglaus was not alone. Behind him came a handful of soldiers clad in the same armor he wore, led by a man with feline features.

The demi-human approached them, pulled out a stone tablet, and said: "In accordance with the pact sealed by the first preceptor Khalud, regent of the sacred city of Musaaid on behalf of and in the name of the House El-Said, under order of the will of Prince Hazma the Second, with General Bulgari of the Theocracy of Slaine, representative of the will of the Six Cardinals and the Pontifex Maximus, we are here to put an end to the conflict that has ravaged our nations. Rather than continuing with unnecessary bloodshed, we entrust destiny to those gathered here. Negotiations will be opened by winners and losers depending on the outcome of what happens today. Warriors, do you accept these terms on behalf of your lords?"

"We accept!"

"Very well," the feline cast a glance at the Theocracy group. "As per agreement, Princess Shaimaaa El-Aziz is here with us, and her condition appears optimal." He raised his voice so that she could hear him. "If it is alright with you, we can begin."

Shaimaaa sent her handmaiden to express her approval. It took a few more minutes before Aeneas and Brain could be completely alone. At that juncture, the captain aimed all his concentration at the weapons the other carried at his waist. Covered as they were by the scabbard in which they were kept, it was difficult to judge their correct shape. What was certain was that Brain relied heavily on them, given his total lack of agitation.

"Brain Unglaus, blade of Hazma, winner of the Re-Estize's royal tournament. He who never knew defeat. Challenger, state your name."

He drew his first sword. A long, single-edged blade. Its length was at least sixty centimeters. Aeneas recognised it as a model that had also been in vogue in the Theocracy in the past, but whose users were no longer as frequent as they once were.

"Odysseus, I have no title to flaunt or claim." He used one of the aliases he often employed when on a mission. "May ours be an honorable duel."

From Brain's dark eyes glittered a spark, as the sword was already in place. There was not the slightest sign of life at that moment. It was the silence that enclosed everything, and that did not let even the slightest noise escape.

Aeneas admired Brain's figure, still and motionless but full of a dynamism that left one breathless. It was like taking a drop and pouring it on a flat surface of water, being surprised when the latter did not make any reaction, and merely absorbed that offering in its natural state.

Aeneas felt Fulgur, the spear he wielded, tremble. Or rather, it was his fingers that mimicked that sensation. There was no hesitation. He had slaughtered many men during his missions. This time, it would be no different. It was not faltering, no. It was a disappointment at having to put an end to something that shone so beautifully.

Brain's slightly bent torso had reached an angle that bordered on immutable perfection; his slightly parted legs were ready to charge the weight that would first start in his arms and then go off like an electric shock through his whole body, until that slash would go through everything that stood in the way of his prey.

Little was the distance that separated them at that moment, and yet Aeneas felt the abyss between them. It was a chasm made of experience and wisdom accumulated in ruthless training and even crueler feats. The temptation for the younger man was, bewitching and misplaced, to let it all go and lose himself in the stories he could share with him.

But...

"『God's...』."

When Aeneas took the first step, Brain's eyes opened, illuminated by a light that seemed to have checkered the darkness of blindness for the first time. What did that gaze behold? Was he seeing what Aeneas was now observing? Martial arts were the warrior's magics; miracles of transmutation in which substance departed from logic and made madness its high priestess.

The blessing of the stars, with the remnants of their dust high in the night, reflected in their bodies -the only thing a warrior could truly trust- the contemplation of that atavistic formula. Their weaknesses were corrected, by a mystery whose real meaning even they did not fully comprehend, strengthening the flesh and sharpening the senses.

"『...Flash』."

The blade departed, and with it Brain leapt, moved by a force that was beyond belief. The air itself shuddered with that invocation, reproducing the thunderous noise that glass made when it shattered into a thousand pieces. The force of a hundred earthquakes and the disaster of as many storms had melted into that tiny point, which one could hardly keep in focus, as the iron roared over that space that had become an anvil, shouting steel-like screams into the void.

It was a breathtaking spectacle, capable of restoring the faith of one who had lost it. An immanent infinity that unfolded in its grandeur, and that, too timid to be observed, conveyed the impatience of a condition never accepted.

There was the beauty in that blow. And there was also the pathetic.

Aeneas raised his arm, letting the sword make contact with the cuirass. Brain's body sagged, the aftershock of the impact spinning his world, now letting that drop make a deafening flop.

There was a crack, when Brain's katana spinning found itself stripped of some of its sharpness. Tiny fragments already eaten by the desert sand, which would never be found again.

Dismayed, but not surprised, Aeneas sighed weakly. "Give up," he found himself saying. "I see no reason to persist in pursuing a foregone conclusion. We may continue, but I already understand how far you can go."

Brain regained control and pulled a second, swift slash. The blade, not even noticing the missing pieces, headed towards Aeneas' neck with uncontrollable force. The head of the Black Scripture captain was severed with a clean cut, leaving a trail of blood behind.

Or, at least, that should have been the case. At the contact of the sword with his bare skin, Aeneas was pervaded by a feeling of coldness; the muscles of his neck contracted and stiffened but continued to repel with even more violence what was a merciless attempt on his life, but which from his point of view was more comparable to a stupid game between children.

Brain grimaced in pain, letting the proud warrior expression be replaced by a ridiculous display of effort. The muscles of his face bent in a distorted manner, contracting and relaxing irregularly, while the pressure exerted by his whole body, his whole essence, was concentrated in a single, disreputable purpose.

"So this is how you want to continue…" Aeneas breathed deeply, relaxing his muscles without particular apprehension. The chilling sensation was already gone; now in its place he felt an annoying tingling feeling that dried him out deeply. "Don't complain that I didn't warn you."

The grip on Fulgur became firmer; while an emotion he was not used to showing was becoming more and more evident. It was anger, but not directed at Brain.

The lance thrust out in a slow, single attack. First it mimicked the speed Brain's sword showed, to give the swordsman time to sense the danger, but before he could even think of counterattacking or running away, Aeneas infused even more impetus than normal into his weapon, bringing it down like a thunderbolt on the man in front of him.

There was a sharp sound, and the desert sand rose on impact, releasing a gigantic wave that swept over them both. Despite the grains that had annoyingly seeped into the joints, both remained at their point of origin.

Brain's sword dangled at his side, barely held off the ground. Aeneas's spear had, on the other hand, lodged in his thigh, from which red liquid began to gush out.

"It is over," murmured Aeneas. "With one leg out of commission you could not continue fighting." That alone had been enough to put the so-called Sword Saint out of action. That was the most that ordinary men could aspire to... and it was so damn small. 'What did you say, princess?' He thought, as he looked at the man before him blankly. 'That my mission might end one day? Observe, how wrong your beliefs are.'

Brain's face was a mask of sorrow, increasingly resembling a grotesque depiction of deep human emotions, as used to be exaggerated in the most extreme theatrical performances. His breathing became slow and awkward, while his eyes struggled to hold his gaze.

How he still remained conscious was a miracle, an affront to reason.

"Ahh...Ah...Ahhh... Why...?" Each word was a titanic effort, which must have caused immense torment. Brain's free hand moved slowly, to grasp the hilt of Aeneas' spear, with small hesitations that would have made the wandering of a blind man in a dark cave seem safe in comparison. "Why... don't you give me the coup de grace?"

Aeneas did not flinch; unchanged was his expression. "It would only be a waste to kill a man of your worth for so little. You will soon collapse to the ground, and I will be declared the winner."

"...A waste…" Brain's fingers grasped Fulgur and began to pull. The teeth in his mouth clenched and showed all their whiteness as blood flowed to his eyes. Aeneas remained still. "That old woman... she wasn't lying, then. Ahh, you... You have reached the summit... haven't you? Is that what we men are capable of? Or are you something more?" The spear ascended slowly, ripping through flesh, shattering the bones that stood in its way.

Brain's face became even more contorted with rags of euphoria. "You have touched the summit," he said -he shouted-. "Tell me, I implore you! What do you see from up there?"

"A dead man."

He pretended not to hear him, or perhaps truly that comment was lost. "Show me," Brain regained control, his hands still stained with blood pulled back his hair, which had now taken on an unhealthy shade. A few drops of the scarlet liquid still ran down his forehead, flowing to his lips. Around his neck, under the shirt, he wore a chain to which a small vial was tied. He opened it, sipping its contents in one gulp. "Show me more! Show me how far I can reach! Heavens, bear witness, this is the destiny of men being fulfilled!"

From the second sheath, he drew the other sword. It was... broken. Or so one might have assumed at first glance. The hilt was of the purest gold, glittering more than any other precious metal, and gems of various colors competed for the most precious on the hilt. But the blade... it was incomplete, lacking the sharp part almost completely. Even the material it was made of was unremarkable; if not for the greenish streaks, it would have been called ordinary steel.

"A disappointment, isn't it?" As if he were reading his thoughts directly, Brain observed the stumpy sword, illuminated by the moonlight, which had now reached its highest point in the sky. "I believed the same thing the first time I saw it. But that too had been foreseen, as was my clash with you. Root, they call it around here. But I think you may also know it as the sword of life."

Aeneas winced, recognising it. "One of the four sacred swords," he recalled, feeling for the first time since that confrontation had begun a sensation close to uneasiness. "I didn't think it was in such a place."

The only one they had attained the certain location of in that fantastic lot was Safarlisia, in the possession of the grand master of the paladins of the Holy Kingdom. Finding such a rarity, in a place like that, was untold.

Before he could determine how to proceed, Aeneas noticed that Brain had stabbed his sword into the ground, letting a light of indistinguishable color shine through. There was no time to blink, that the scenery around him started to change.

The arid desert began to come to life, flowers of every type and size bloomed in the middle of nowhere, filling the air with pollen. But it was not only that which caused astonishment. Roots began to sprout from the ground, heading towards him.

"Damn…"

Aeneas stepped back swiftly, noticing the landscape continuing to change faster and faster. Had he not been in the throes of battle, he would have wasted a moment considering the beauty of that environment, which was now astounding in its sheer diversity.

It was this time Brain threw himself at him, both swords held, as the growing nature obeyed his every command. At that moment, the enemies had multiplied by leaps and bounds, attacking Aeneas from all directions. Immense trees enclosed them both in a dome of wood and darkness. Branches and roots covered with thorns were not in time to be severed, that they were supplanted by a doubled quantity.

Brain's slashes did not grow faster, but were as if moved by a primal instinct, as if the very heart of that forest that was being born had found in him a guide into that unknown existence. The swordsman attempted two lunges, one after the other, as a tangle of roots clung to Aeneas's legs, and a strand of wood started at his sides to hold him in place. The stress he was subjecting his body to was evident. Nerves and veins were trying to leak from their ligaments. How many Martial Arts was he using, just for the tiny hope of keeping up?

The Black Scripture captain cashed in the two blows, not even feeling them. The abyss had not yet been bridged, despite the certainly impressive sight. Being bitten by a mosquito might have been annoying, but it certainly wouldn't have changed the outcome of something that had come to an end.

Aeneas' nostrils flared as her body exploded in a show of strength. He did not even need to use Fulgur to sever those constraints, the power of his muscles being sufficient.

Brain, who kept that wicked grin, must have been aware of it, because he tried to hit him right in his most vulnerable part -his right eye- before there was a chance to react. The problem, if it could be called such, was that Brain could only count on estimating reflex speeds equal to - or at most slightly greater than - those he was capable of.

Aeneas' right hand intercepted the sword, clutching it with such energy that it broke it. Not even the splinters managed to penetrate the most superficial layer of his skin. But Brain's dexterity was worthy of the highest praise, for he was already on a collision course with Root towards another of the points he - foolishly - considered sensitive: his right ear. This time it was Fulgur who deflected the attack. The material forged by the gods collided with the unknown metal, demonstrating the superiority of the divine over that divine was not.

There was a hushed sound, partly covered by the swordsman's panting. The sword of life shone again as it was thrown into the air. Its bearer managed to catch it before it crashed, but not before the end came.

A kick to the side followed, sending Brain flying for hundreds of meters, knocking down everything in his way. The forest rose in defense of its master, and began with even greater violence to hurl itself at the Black Scripture captain.

"『Flame tornado』."

The tip of the spear was infused with crackling heat, extreme and vicious. Orange flames dispersed with Thunderbolt's spin, beginning to voraciously consume everything they could. Aeneas became a spiral of fire, in which everything was sucked into its vortex. Smaller parts of matter replaced larger ones, in a race in which what was created struggled to keep up with what was destroyed, in an endless sequence of infinite divisions.

When he was finished, Aeneas was surrounded by burning flames, as such one would have said that the whole world was made of that element alone. The desert was returning to its original form, were it not for the ash that now fell down like corrupted snow on the earth. Smoke had covered the sky, and that lush spectacle from just now had quickly passed through the cycle of life, stopping at its final stage, that of decay. The few escaped plants were inexorably withering away, painting a scene of death and desolation.

Aeneas looked at the fruit of his labor and the only thing he could contemplate was a feeling of defeat. 'It doesn't even compare to what she could have done.'

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Brain, crawling towards him. He had dropped his armor and, fumbling and falling, was futilely trying to cover the distance.

"There shouldn't be a single healthy bone left in your body," Aeneas said. "Twice I have spared you. There won't be a third."

"The sword of life gives what it takes," Brain's lips twitched, foolishing getting up once again. "All this is nothing compared to the strength now bestowed upon me." His face was a mask of red, much of the skin had been flayed off, revealing blood vessels and filaments. The parts without scars were an anomaly in that torn body. And yet, in that sorry state, only one thing was motivating him. "If I were to defeat you, would I become the strongest?"

"I'm afraid not," Aeneas answered truthfully.

"...I understand." Brain had abandoned the katana, returning to the position he had assumed at the start of the fight with Root alone. "I tremble. Is this the fear? You are frightening… I thought I was strong, that I had reached my limit, but now I realize I hadn't even come close. I couldn't even catch a tiny glimpse of it." His mouth was caked with blood, which he promptly licked. Drops of it descended on the burnt soil. "I offer all that I am, all that I have left, just for this instant."

In that fragility, there was all the beauty of men who know no surrender. "It is not late yet. You could save yourself if you wish." Aeneas received no sign.

"『God...』."

God. There was nothing transcendent about that technique. It would end like the first time, so why the obstinacy? Aeneas couldn't understand it, or perhaps he did all too well and couldn't admit it.

A pale imitation, doomed to never reach the original. Such was the fate of mankind.

"『Thunder-Dragon...』."

Thunderbolt began to be covered in electric shocks. The tension increased, until the thunder forming at the tip of the spear assumed, albeit illusorily, the form of a golden dragon.

Aeneas threw himself forward.

"『...Flash]』."

"『...Thrust』."

There was no sound, no explosion or impact. There was only the lance that pierced Brain's chest, narrowly avoiding his heart.

In the end, only silence kept them company.

Whenever he killed a man, Aeneas told himself that next time it would be easier. Each time, Aeneas found herself admitting that it was not, hoping that there wouldn't be a next. He would clean the blood from his weapons and his body, to make it invisible to all but him. Forever stained by that sin.

"At the end of the waterfall, the carp did not become a dragon." Every second Brain had left was a gift to be preserved. "...How unfortunate. But the climb was compensation enough."

"You lied." Aeneas whispered. The vegetation around was now scattered, turned back to dust. "Root did not create anything. Only illusions that acquired concreteness, at the cost of your life. Everything has a price."

Meaningless madness.

"The most precious sword of all is not made to cut. A worthless piece of junk, that could give life just for so little."

"Why?"

The fading moonlight was all that illuminated them.

"How I hate that question." Brain's eyes began to close. "Whether they were born as such or have become so, dragons don't have the luxury of being able to die forgotten, remember that." His voice grew fainter and fainter. "Is it time to wake up? Is the dream over?"

"Another call will come." Aeneas could still feel his heart beating as the spear was withdrawn. "It will be up to you to decide if the slumber will continue, or if, for the first time, waking up will be preferable."

But Brain could not listen to him, for he was already dead.

Aeneas took Root, whom Brain's hands still gripped gently and firmly. He felt a tiny part of his energy leave him as the flower bed came to life. He slowly laid Brain's corpse on it.

Shaimaaa approached him. Like the others, she had been intent on observing the clash. What was she now thinking of him? "Captain... The flowers are already dying…"

"Now it was you who fell victim to a mirage." He said. "Don't you see? These flowers are beautiful."

"...You are right." She said. "I was wrong. They are indeed stunning."

"Now, let's be quiet. The vigil is long, and the hero rests. The rich night cradles his dreams, may these flowers keep him company when he wakes."

Interlude: tender is the flesh

The royal palace at Crescent Lake had no prisons. Or rather, it had some cells in the depths of its structure but their use had been scarce over the centuries.

The previous king -Decem Hougan- was prone to punishment -very much so, some would have add- but capital sentence was by far his favorite imposition of justice. A gesture of charity, he called it.

So now the prisons of the royal palace were filthy and disused, having never known any inhabitants within them. In the corridors rats and insects had made their home, and ghostly presences could be felt at every corner.

Figuratively speaking, of course. But also literally. Now that the king was no more, a new generation of priests and spellcasters skilled in divine magic had to be trained to deal with creatures that previously remained hidden in the shadows.

It was with these thoughts that Logem strolled boredly through the dungeons of the royal palace. With him were one of the new ministers of the reborn kingdom of Evasha and a couple of young guards.

"We are happy that you have agreed to come to our aid," said the minister. His name was Avoca and he was fair-skinned even for a wood elf. "We did not know how to proceed. Disturbing the Queen on her journey would have been inappropriate. But fortunately for us, one of the heroes who ended the Nameless King's era of terror arrived here at the right time."

Nameless King. That was how Decem Hougan was referred to among his former subjects. Damnatio memoriae, a practice aimed at totally eliminating all traces of a recent time, which was to be kept as far away from the present as possible.

Logem suspected that it was not only the desire to start afresh that motivated that choice, but also a still dormant fear that was unlikely - or perhaps ever - to disappear. Not that he felt like condemning them for that. Deep in his heart, he knew he felt the same.

"No need to thank me." Logem reassured him, noticing his agitation. He never had time to think about it, but did his presence truly cause so much awe in others? "I only fulfill the role of external counselor. I had some business to attend to here, before heading to our beloved Queen."

"I hope you have not noticed any anomalies." Avoca's gaze was blank, and he turned around continuously, as if he was terrified that someone was following them. "There is much work to be done, and our resources are... limited. Some people from the Theocracy came to our aid in the beginning but there were many accidents -nothing serious, fortunately- and we were forced to practice more... isolationist policies."

If it had been the other way round, that would have been a surprise! Logem preferred to avoid the subject in any case, so as not to bring up old grudges.

"Nothing to report. I had asked for a small courtesy from the prime minister and was delighted to see that everything was going well." If Avoca had inspected his traveling bag, the list with the current location of every surviving child of the king and the agents arranged for their supervision would have been the first thing to jump out at him. "I also took the opportunity to give some greetings to Ruri, my half-sister. We had a lot to talk about."

"Good, I'm very glad." The young minister was all a bundle of nerves. If he had smelt anything strange, he would have pointed it out at that hour. Instead, he kept fiddling with his hands, now slick with sweat. "So you're on your way to see the Queen. I'd love to see her too but there's a lot going on here." There followed the most false laughter Logem had ever heard in all his life. "How is our beloved monarch? Do you have any news on the matter?"

"She is doing well. I have been maintaining a close correspondence with our sister, her lady-in-waiting. I believe... They are enjoying themselves." Or at least that was the idea he had formed.

"Evasha's kingdom, really a big family. In every sense of the word." There was a hint of sarcasm, but Logem ignored it.

"I guess so. Listen, is it much further?"

They had been walking for a good few minutes at that point. The spaces were growing darker and more oppressive; had it not been for a couple of lamps on either side of the walls that shared a dim light, they would have been completely engulfed in darkness.

"No... We have arrived."

The small group stopped in front of a small cell. The first thing Logem noticed was a screeching sound, like nails flaying on hard stone. Nothing else was discernible, for nothing could be seen inside, completely shrouded in darkness. Not even a small window had been placed inside, to let a minimum of air circulate.

Logem was on the verge of activating one of his skills to get a fuller picture of the situation when one of the guards lit a small oil lamp he was carrying. The second one slowly opened the cell door. The bars had not been oiled in a long time, for they produced an extremely unpleasant sound.

"Do not approach," warned Avoca. "It could be dangerous."

Logem took just a step forward, before realizing what was in front of him. "What the hell?"

A dark-skinned elf sat kneeling before the right wall of the dungeon. He was scratching the walls in euphoria, heedless of the pitiful state his fingers were reduced to. He was very thin, to the point that one could distinguish the bones of his body with precision, and in his gaze there was the same ecstasy that only the worst drunks knew, with a streak of equal amounts of insanity.

He was whispering something. "The Five Fingers. Fear them. The Five Fingers. Love them. The Five Fingers. Adore them. The Five Fingers are the verb. The Five Fingers are the truth."

He kept repeating that litany, without giving any sign of stopping.

"His name is Blueberry Egnia and he was one of the most notorious archers in a village of dark elves, far away from the capital." Avoca could not even stare at his captive, as disgust coloured the minister's face. "After the king's death we combed the entire forest of Evasha, to spread the good news and make contact with all its inhabitants. The age of isolation was over, we thought."

"And this is how you found him?"

Avoca nodded. "The whole village was in this state. By the time we arrived, most had died of starvation. The survivors perished soon after. He is the only one who continues to hold out. For how long, we cannot say."

"And you did nothing to help him?"

Avoca shook his head. "We tried, but there was no way. He refuses food, and can't stand the sunlight for long." The elf bit his lip, hesitant. "That was not the only oddity. We found other weird things in his village."

"Like what?" Logem pressed him, noting his reticence to speak.

"A baby born without skin. Elders who had cut out their tongues. Children who were devouring animal corpses... The pharmacist had destroyed all his work and painted in his shop five lines, each of a different color."

"Five Fingers…" Reflected Logem aloud. "What else?"

Avoca hesitated. Just talking about it must have been very difficult for him. "Undead. Some of the citizens had become zombies or other non-living beings. But what was out of the ordinary was that no one seemed to give them much thought. They went on with their daily routine, as if nothing had happened. They were... celebrating something when we found them. Engaging in orgiastic dancing and singing. I was leading the expedition." He paused for a moment, as if the memory was still vivid and haunting. "After the fall of the king we had seen exuberant feasting, of all kinds. But none like this. It was... wrong."

Logem listened very carefully to these last words. "Undead…" His mind went back to an encounter he had tried hard to forget, but which had been pulling at his nightmares for months. And a different kind of dream too, as much as he struggled to admit it. "There was an abnormal presence of them in the last period of the king's reign. But I thought we got rid of them completely. Does the Queen know about this?"

Avoca shook his head. "We preferred not to warn her. Did we make a mistake?"

Logem sighed. "No matter." Here were the consequences of years and years of terror. Decem Hougan had left a scar on Evasha's people deeper than the one that furrowed his face. "I will see to it as soon as possible. Just let me talk to the prisoner."

The elf began to calm down. The agitation was not gone, but at least it was less visible now. "Of course, but be careful."

One of the guards forcefully lifted Blueberry, who offered no resistance. He continued to be in a trance, repeating those words. "Five Fingers."

Except everything changed when he saw Logem. "You…" He regained lucidity little by little, but whether this was a good thing was not easy to determine. "You... You... you... were with her. You were with Lady Death. You were with Lady Death. Oh, yeah. Y-Yes. Yep. Yes. Yep. Death. You look like her. You look like her! Lady Death. Ohhh, Lady Death. Gird your legs on my lap. I implore you. Smother me, until you take my breath away. I beg you. Kiss my soul when it will leave this tender flesh. Evasha has made its offer. Was the blood of the elves not enough? How much more will you claim?" The dark elf kept licking his lips in a disgusting way, sticking his tongue completely out.

"Lady Death? Of whom are you speaking?"

But Blueberry did not give him much thought, as if he had not even been in the same place. "Oh, Lady Death. You who slaughtered the Immortal King. I want you, I desire you, I love you. I want you to be mine."

"Is that Antilene you're talking about? Is that the way to address your Queen?" There was something deeply wrong with all that. Logem began to grow impatient, and the temptation to scratch his scar returned after months of being dormant, but he desisted from that impulse. He had to do it. "What do you know? Speak!"

That Blueberry had perhaps observed the massacre his sister had made? Had that been what had reduced him to that state? But how to reconcile it with the other anomalies they had recorded? Questions, questions. Too many without explanation.

"The Five Fingers are coming." Blueberry attempted to touch an area of his body... unseemly. One of the guards kicked him, which caused the dark elf to roll a few inches. "Ehehe." His only reaction was a soft laugh.

Now that the agitation of that situation was beginning to cool, Logem could pay attention to a pestilential stench. Of feces... and more. He was thankful that the darkness prevented him from distinguishing what was on the floor of the cell.

"That's all we'll get from him. Have your interrogations produced any other results? Anything I should know?"

"Nothing we have not reported to you," Avoca was quick to reply. Maybe it was guilt that took control of him now. "All he does is talk about these Five Fingers. Sometimes he also refers to Queen Antilene with terms... that her brother would be better off not listening to."

"What a mess…"

He did not have time to think about it too much, that one of the guards shrieked. "Hey, where are you going?" Blueberry had shrugged off his tormentors and, with extraordinary and unexpected strength, headed towards Logem, pointing the knife he was carrying. In the dark elf's eyes was the same hunger that motivates a beast to catch its prey.

Taken by surprise, Logem reacted with a punch in the face, sending him flying to the far end of the small room. Blueberry's head slammed violently into the side and the dark elf scrambled to the floor, still conscious. He immediately got up again, heedless of the wound.

"What are you doing?"

Blueberry grabbed a sharp stone from the ground, and began carving into his chest, until it ripped through his robe and flesh. "Lady Death, this is for you. May our tender flesh and blood become one! Five Fingers! Five Fingers! Save me… From them…"

When they tried to stop him, he already bled to death.

The carcass fell, making no sound.

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