Celle
It was with a silent hurry that we made our way to Reven’s manor—to Harlock. Can’t believe I’m finally going back there…I hope the guys have won already by the time we get there. We hardly talked on the way, it was difficult enough to keep up with our pace. Gilder had offered to carry Isabella, but that wasn’t the issue. I was carrying her just fine, but Princess Nevada was having trouble walking as fast as me despite of that. Fragile princess, eh? Fine.
I didn’t need to say anything aloud for her to sense my annoyance.
“It’s really hard to run wearing a dress and heels,” she complained.
“Then take them off,” I replied angrily.
“I’m not going to streak to Lord Reven’s manor!”
“I meant the heels your highness. Your delicate feet will survive the horror of concrete for a little bit.”
“I am—I can’t—”
Before either of us could say anything, Gilder lifted the princess up and tossed her over his shoulder. Such was her shock that she hardly protested, and he said, “I was accused of kidnapping you before, Princess Nevada, so allow me to make good on my crime.”
From here on out our journey was uneventful—strangely so. We expected, if not guards, then for nobles aboard the Arcship to be present in the streets. Yet everywhere seemed strangely empty now, an eerie reminder of our meeting with Johan, when the docks had been empty. No point in worrying. As time went on, this feeling of unease grew stronger, and though none of us spoke of it I was sure that every moment we didn’t see another person made my companions more nervous.
It was almost with relief that we reached our destination. Almost.
Pay attention now! This is relevant to the murder mystery, and you need to remember all of those details to stand a fair chance at solving it.
I told myself that firmly, and studied this area one more time, the one that had never left my dreams since the day of the Emperor’s murder.
Harlock was a special manor, even by Arcship standards. It was connected to the rest of the floating city by a long stone bridge, preceded by a tall stone archway that seemed to signal the entrance to another world. A world where [Skills] didn’t work.
Remember now! [Skills] of any sort did not function inside of Harlock. This was what made it one of the safest places in the world…and yet an Emperor had been murdered in it.
The bridge—as well as the edge of the town—was a solid seventy meters above water. One could likely survive falling into it, but rough waters made it unlikely to sail between the two in a small boat, and at the night of the murder the nights had been particularly rough. Moreover, the castle itself was built with the smoothest of greystones, and appeared to be almost eerie constructed. Such stone could not be easily climbed, especially in rainy nights like that one had been.
Only that single, narrow bridge—perhaps two people could walk side by side without brushing shoulders too often—served as a way to access the manor. No other entrances were viable but that single, usually heavily guarded entrance. Remember that now! I can’t forget that! I have to focus…we have to save Isabella, but also…goddamn it. I talk so much shit about Carr being single minded, but here I am focused on the murder instead of my dying friend in my arms.
Yet today the weather was nice, the weather was calm, and there was a single man across the bridge.
And I bit my lip.
“Master Reven,” Gilder said in a quiet tone. “I…I think you know why we are here.”
“Indeed.” Reven’s voice was almost paternal here, and he looked at us with a warm expression. “Why, do you not intend on introducing me to your friends? Ah, I know Princess Nevada, of course. And I suppose the woman bleeding out can’t speak, but she’s Isabella, is she not? So that leaves us with the last one. What is your name, young lady?”
“My lord, you needn’t waste time pretending,” I said. At this, I handed Isabella over to Gilder so I could step forward toward him. Here, I smiled, some sad irony touching me when I said, “Suppose it makes sense in a way—I can’t believe I never found out. Reven is the most successful merchant in the Empire, after all. I imagine Master Roger helped you a lot with changing your face a lot, didn’t he? I wonder…did you put on that face every day?”
“Celle? What are you talking about?” Gilder asked. “What are you—”
“You and I have a lot more in common than I thought, Gilder,” Celle said slowly. “I thought we were just similar in that we were the only two who weren’t fucking insane. I was wrong. There’s one more thing.”
“What are you—”
“I just realized it now. How the legendary merchant and blacksmith Reven could get so much done without ever being caught by the Imperial guards due to illicit trades. How Johan managed to do so much without being punished by the Imperial guards.”
“Celle, what are you—”
I smiled. Some details started to click in my mind, and Reven’s concerned expression showed I was right. “I give you Reven—or as he was once known, Marco, the chief of Imperial Knights. My old boss. Who fired me when I insisted on looking into the murder case.”
Referee
Rivals can motivate you like no one else can.
Sure, friends, family and significant others offer unconditional love and support, but there lies the very issue. If, after a tough day, you were to say ‘That’s it! I quit! No more!’ what would they do? Why, they would gently tap you on the shoulder and say they would support you no matter what. They love you not for what you do, but for who you are. Even if you were to quit your goals and resign yourself to a life of mediocrity, they would love you nonetheless, with hardly much—if any—judgement. Sure they might have encouraged your ambitions, but your happiness is what they care about most of all.
Not so the rival.
You stand at the bottom, considering your human limitations, considering whether perhaps it would be a sign of growth and maturity to throw the towel and surrender. Then, you look up and see him—the rival, looking down on you from a hill, arms crossed and chin raised high. Mild disappointment is present in his serious expression. Anger, disappointment, maybe a hint of disgust that you would consider giving up. He does not offer you unconditional love; his love is a ferocious one predicated on a part of you he would not allow you to surrender. Yet he is only mildly angry and only somewhat disappointed—for his serious gaze communicates an implicit question.
Surely, you will stand up, will you not? We are not done yet.
It was because of this that Carr showed the least compassion when Valle walked back to his side of the piste and collapsed. Still, he grabbed ahold of him and refused to let him drop.
“Good job out there,” Carr said frankly. “But you’re a lunatic. Not like we can heal you right now with everyone gone.”
“I’m not going to die,” Valle spat out. “All I need is a place to rest. I can probably keep myself alive for long enough for the others to get back.”
“As you wish, stubborn lunatic.”
“Forgive me—is that coming from you?”
“Yes. Which should go a long way to saying how crazy you are.”
“Suppose so,” Valle grumbled as Carr eased him into a seat. Fedal and Kat hurried to help treat his wounds, some hasty bandages in hand, but the Champion of Cresna held his hand at them to keep away, and he stared Carr in the eye. “I suppose you know what I want to say to you, do you not?”
“Probably. Then I suppose you know what I’ll say in return.”
“Mayhap. But you would not rob me of the chance to say it, surely?”
Carr smiled. “By all means, my friend. Go on.”
At this Valle smiled, and leaned forward. It appeared like a monumental effort given his injuries, but he did not falter. Through that pained grin, blood nearly blinding his left eye, he said, “I earned you a four point lead. Don’t you dare mess it up.”
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“I won’t.”
“You have always, as commoners like to say, talked a lot of shit about not using stats. Now, you’re up against a version of yourself that is every bit as good of a fencer as you are except they can use stats. Beating him should be impossible—yet you appear confident enough. What is your plan?”
Carr looked at his left hand—the one the Executioner himself had injured, and absently opened and closed his fist. Predictably, he felt nothing in that numb arm. “You should know better than anyone that stats aren’t the only way to get stronger,” Carr said. “I have gotten stronger since my memories were stolen. That guy is based off an old version of me. I’m an upgrade.”
“Be that as it may, even if your skills have improved, the Executioner was nearly too powerful for you the first time you fought him. You understand me, yes?”
Words were unnecessary between the two.
Carr nearly died fighting against the Executioner because, despite being as athletic a human as possible, he was still barely even keeping up with the man. Since then, he had six duels. Duartes, Fedal, Johan, the Longswordsman, Katherine, and Max. Out of those, only two of them had stats higher than the Executioner—Fedal and Johan.
Fedal had possessed a glaring weakness and Carr exploited it to defeat him. Johan possessed no such weakness and defeated Carr in close to ten seconds.
Thus, the implicit question hung in the air: how will this match be different?
In every match where Carr could bring the results down to skill, he was the strong favourite to win. Max had enough skill to contest him, but Carr had adjusted his style to counter his, barely managing to come out on top. It had helped that Max wasn’t at the top of his game today, but regardless the two were very close in skill level. However—! The same could not be said about a match where stats ruled.
Carr was only really challenged by stats three times since he came to this world, and only against Fedal did he really manage to obtain an easy win—a feat he was aware wouldn’t be easily repeated, a match between the two would likely be close now. Against the Executioner he had nearly died, and against Johan he had fallen.
Now, he was up against someone who possessed higher stats than the Executioner did when they duelled, albeit not by much. At a total of 1434, this man was higher than the Executioner’s old stats, before his new sword, where he barely totalled 916.
Could Carr really pull off a miracle against a man whose reflexes were so much faster than his own?
“He’s right,” Fedal said, entering the conversation as he forcibly pulled Valle’s arm to the side and started a surprisingly competent bandaging job. Kat and her sister said nothing and took the Champion’s other side. Valle made a sound of complaint, but Fedal glared at him. You can have your little rival talk later, you’re kind of dying right now, Fedal thought, somewhat annoyedly. “That’s gonna be tough, isn’t it?”
There was a silence.
Then—“It’s gonna be tough,” Carr admitted. “But you two got me the lead. I’ll make it work.”
“He—he’s always known he’s not real, huh?” Kat asked. Her voice was low and there was a haunted quality to it. Then, she flashed a particular kind of smile at the group—the kind one shows when finding humor in tragedy.
Likely there would have been questions about this, but they were never to be. Focus shifted when the Executioner appeared before them. Instantly, they reached for their blades, but upon realizing the man hadn’t done the same, they stopped.
Carr and the Executioner locked eyes for a moment, an understanding seemingly sparking between the two, and the Swordsman of Zero stepped aside.
The Executioner looked at Valle now, and this scene had an odd quality to it.
Valle, seated down, chin raised and a sort of arrogant look about him that seemed to say, ‘What do you want, dear loser?’ while his friends took care of his injuries, had an almost sort of regal look about him now, a king seated upon his throne. Valder, standing up and looking at the man in the eye, a visitor pleading his case to the crown—or waiting for the king to pass down his judgement on him. Yet, he feared no such event.
“You declared war against the Lusobritanio Empire,” Valder said calmly. He looked around the stadium, then chuckled as he returned his eyes to the Champion. “This means you are on enemy territory right now.”
“That troubles me not. Why, does my lord seek to bring my head to the crown? Very well, I shall grant thee a rematch!” Valle spoke theatrically once more, his voice booming. “Fedal, fetch me my sword.”
“I am no friend of the crown,” Valder replied. He paused and drew a deep breath. “I fought for them to ensure the safety of my city—of my sister. But I see this was never the plan from the start, was it?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Now that you have declared for Cresna’s independence, it shouldn’t be long until other territories of the Terra Inglesa join you. You know they were watching this duel be broadcast through Roger’s new invention, yes? Surely you understand what is to follow.”
Valle’s lips said nothing, but his smile said a lot.
The Executioner’s town—the one that had dubbed him the Sun Wolf, the beautiful coastal town of Portna, would likely join Valle’s rebellion now. They had already rebelled against the crown once, and only rejoined the Empire because their leader, Valder, was effectively a hostage in the Emperor’s castle. With proper leadership it wouldn’t take much for Portna to rebel once more, and once both it and Cresna had raised their flags in rebellion the other minor cities would likely join in as well.
I wonder if some territories in Inglaterra would join in as well, I wondered.
Inglaterra was compromised mostly of parts of the Terra Inglesa as well and was culturally very similar to Cresna. They had been defeated by the Empire in the last war, but their attempts at invading Cresna were notable for two reasons: Valle had not allowed the city to fall, and he did so without cruelty. His valiant, almost storybook dramatic quality about him had inspired much respect in the enemy army, twice so when he released prisoners of war without ransom.
This particular tale was one I needed not use my Rule to know about, for many traveling bards had sang about the meeting between the two generals.
“Your men will die if they aren’t fed and cared for,” Valle had said. “We have no such resources, supplies are too important right now. Take them and leave.”
“Will the Emperor not object to this? After such a battle, ransom or execution—”
“Look at the horizon,” Valle said, gesturing absently. “What do you see?”
The Inglês general is said to have narrowed his eyes, then admitted, “Not much, my lord.”
“Correct. The Emperor’s gaze does not reach this land—he cannot expect his word to, either.”
This and many other acts of irreverence from Valle away from the Emperor’s eyes eventually reached his ears. Valle had refused a call to arms to the capital, instead opting to stay in Cresna for defense of the borderline. “My men will not die for some Emperor they have never met,” Valle is known to have said. “They will stay here and we will defend our homeland.”
At first the Emperor had meant to call for his execution, but his advisors made him see reason. The Sun Wolf had just rebelled against the Empire, and the Terra Inglesa was the least loyal and most volatile part of the Empire, to give them further reason to rebel was foolish.
It was here that Johan had distinguished himself as a war hero, defending the capital from Inglaterra’s fleet while outnumbered and while the Emperor himself was—reportedly—making plans to leave the city. Arcadia sent messages to every army asking for reinforcements against the surprise attack, but only Johan’s army made it in time, and to everyone’s surprise, it had been enough, even against Inglaterra’s new weaponry coming from Razil.
Without permission or reprimand, Johan conducted his army in a victorious parade march through the city’s streets and his popularity skyrocketed—especially at the capital, where he freed them from that dangerous siege. To improve his sinking popularity, the Emperor was quick to reward him with land and a title, measures that had never been given to commoners before. It was a double-edged sword: the public allowed the Emperor some goodwill, but Johan’s popularity grew alarmingly high.
“In my land,” Johan said to the Emperor, “you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”
This was not public knowledge, but there was no hiding this from me and my Rule.
“I would not be so foolish as to execute the bastard,” the Emperor grunted in response. This was, of course, a lie—his immediate reaction had been to call for Valle's execution, and it was only his advisors that managed to stop such a call. Still, the man would never admit it. “I mean only to have him punished—a flogging or some days in jail. His preference.”
To say the Emperor had lacked fondness for Valle of Cresna was an understatement—which made his current engagement to his only daughter a rather ironic affair.
“Why make an enemy when you can have a puppet?” Johan had said.
There started Cresna’s rise. Valle’s heroic status mirrored Johan’s, albeit on a smaller scale, and the man had thought he could use the Champion because of it. For a short amount of time, this had worked.
Of course, things had gotten more complicated since Carr arrived, eventually resulting in Valle’s rebellion.
And so, the Executioner now stands before him. What is your next move, Sun Wolf?
“My sister,” Valder said slowly. “Is she aware of your plans?”
“Our plans,” came Valle’s response. He smiled. “More her plan than mine, quite frankly—though we had no disagreements in that regard.”
“I wanted to keep her safe,” the Executioner said quietly. “From the start, we had nobody else but each other. I just wanted to keep her safe in Portna. Johan told me that if I helped him in this match, he would pardon my crimes and allow us both a quiet banishment to the city.”
“Nevada does not want a quiet life,” said Valle. “She wants to be Empress.”
“So she does.”
The realization was clear here, yet the Executioner kept sadness out of his voice. Nevada had planned for things to turn out this way, for Valder to have no choice. Portna would rebel now—with or without him. There was no chance of a peaceful, quiet life allowing Johan to live out his madness away from them anymore. Does Nevada think this is what’s best for her brother, I wondered, or is this her using him for the sake of her goals?
“At my last rebellion I stopped,” Valder said slowly. “Do you know why, Champion of Cresna?”
“I know not, but I guess why.”
“Your father,” Valder replied. “He is a generous man. The man was called back to the capital during the war as some sort of punishment—it’s why you ended up having command of Cresna during the whole bloody war to begin with. Do you know why?”
Valle did, but he said nothing.
“Valente of Cresna was given an order—to march into Portna and execute all traitors. Your father refused. It was a secret order, so he couldn’t very well be executed for it but he was called to Arcadia during the war for the sake of punishment being considered. The man knew he could have died for it, yet he refused to massacre my people. I knew I could trust him then.”
It had been here that Cresna’s powers started rising slightly, as Portna’s fealty made it more powerful, though not officially a major city yet—province status was given just a short while after when Valle and Johan’s respective war heroics occurred, giving the Terra Inglesa better representation in the Empire.
“Your father is a good man,” the Executioner said slowly. “I do not know if this applies to you yet. But my sister is with you, for better or worse. Yet…my role appears clear.”
To everyone but Valle’s surprise, the Executioner fell on one knee and placed his longsword at his feet. “From this day until my last—I pledge myself to you. Portna shall stand with you on this rebellion, King Valle of the Terra Inglesa.”