novelraw Chapter 153 : Chapter 153
Chapter 153 : Chapter 153
Chapter 153: Blossoms, Bouquets, and a Storm of Flowers (5)
Afternoon, the Farenheit family mansion.
Demian adjusted the knot of his tie. It had been a long time since he last dressed in formal wear. Had his build grown in the meantime? Crossing the corridor, Demian wondered. The formal outfit he had bought last year felt oddly tight.
- Demian Fernando something-or-other, why is your name so long? Your Excellency.
Are you being formal? This is Eleanor Portsmouth.
Sorry about the terrible handwriting. Decode it yourself.
A bouquet clutched in his left hand.
A letter unfolded in his right.
Three cats perched atop his head—Catherine, Christina, and Katherine.
Meow, meooow. Unable to shake off the cats as they cried, Demian walked on like that.
- You should have arrived in the Capital by now, right?
How do you feel? Glad to be out of filthy, miserable Portsmouth? Feeling refreshed and relieved? If I scribble questions like that, it would probably make you furious, right? I know all of that.
So I will apologize. I was just being a little spiteful. I did not know what else to write.
Before returning to CIAR, he had given Eleanor his address. He must have told her to send a letter if anything happened. He had not expected to receive one this quickly. Skimming it roughly, it seemed to be a message checking in on him. Because the handwriting was such a mess, it took effort just to grasp the contents.
- We are safe.
Writing “safe” feels a little strange. We are just doing well.
I think we will keep doing so. Your Teacher said that some man would arrive here soon. He said that if we handled that man well, he would protect our village.
A man?
Demian tilted his head.
He had heard nothing of this. Had Professor Argento mobilized some personal connections? If so, that was reassuring. Portsmouth had no resident Knight, and even if the nest had been destroyed, a small number of Banshees still remained.
It was not like the stories in chivalric literature. Peace was not something that could be won through a single subjugation.
- There is not much time.
I need to hurry and write this letter, then go prepare for the funerals.
You know this too, but there are many dead. Funny, is it not? Just a few days ago, we held a festival together, and now we have to swallow our smiles and savor grief. As if we cannot tell whether we should be happy or sad.
That must be how it was.
There was no way to know whether one ought to rejoice or to grieve.
Stepping onto the spiral staircase, Demian thought. It was not hard to understand Eleanor’s state of mind. He was the same. He still had not fully processed what happened in Portsmouth. For instance, the corpses. The faces of those who had died during the battle with the Banshees remained vivid. And then there was Aura. He still could not quite grasp the reality of his own Aura, manifested as a fortress. The pallor of the dead and the radiance of Aura were clumsily tangled together in his mind.
- I will write something a bit more honest.
When you first arrived here, I thought, what rotten luck. Absolutely rotten luck.
Of course I did. Your Teacher cut down the Banshee horde in a single stroke, while you children just stood there staring blankly. As if danger were nothing.
Just kids, after all. Your face twisting in frustration because you could not kill the village chief was quite a sight. Is that sword just for show? A swordsman who cannot kill people—how ridiculous.
That is what I must have thought.
Demian’s steps came to a halt.
Reaching the lobby, he heard voices.
His father and mother, Gerhard and Beatrice, were arguing. Gerhard’s face, covered in scratches, was overflowing with laughter, while Beatrice’s face, caked in makeup, was tightly drawn.
“Go on, explain yourself.”
Beatrice crossed her arms. Jutting her chin toward Gerhard, she continued.
“You remember, do you not? You said you would just take a brief look around the garden. That was last week. Did you get lost in the garden for an entire week? This is absurd.”
“Do not be so angry. Looking around the garden made me restless. I got the urge to beat up the monsters breeding in the forest. So I went around the nearby villages. As it happens, there was a place that needed help.”
Gerhard’s appearance was a mess.
It seemed he had left the mansion in his nightclothes. The simple pajamas were torn in several places. His only armament was a single dagger carried for self-defense. Had he slaughtered countless monsters with just that? Demian shrugged.
- But I think……
that your kind of naïveté is not so bad.
I know how rare it is. When people are dying one after another, it is difficult to uphold a Knight’s duty. You will continue to struggle from now on, and I think at least one person ought to affirm you.
That will probably be my role.
Thanks to you, our village was saved.
Suddenly, Gerhard fell silent.
Beyond Beatrice, who was sighing, he noticed Demian reading Eleanor’s letter. Beatrice had already told him that Demian had attained Aura, but Gerhard did not particularly care. What caught his eye instead was the scar. He focused on the scar etched along one side of Demian’s eye.
- So I hope you live well.
My Knight, Demian Fernando von Farenheit.
If you do not write back, I will kill you.
Demian neatly folded the letter. He slipped it into the inner pocket of his formal wear, and—
“Welcome back, Demian.”
When he raised his head, he saw Gerhard’s face.
Some would feel overwhelmed just by meeting his gaze. Gerhard’s scarred visage was truly ferocious. The shadow cast by his heavily muscled frame engulfed Demian, and Demian offered a calm bow, observing proper etiquette.
“Did you uphold your duty?”
At Gerhard’s question—
“I……”
Demian hesitated, chewing on his words, then—
“……I could do nothing but uphold my duty.”
He answered in a small voice.
“I see.”
I could do nothing but uphold my duty.
The meaning of Demian’s words was not hard to grasp. A Knight’s duty could never become truth. In terms of value, it was trivial. It could be dismissed as vanity. And yet, that was precisely why it was upheld. In a Knight’s life, where nothing could truly be preserved intact, the only thing one could cling to was, at best, mere duty.
“……Well done.”
With that, Gerhard reached out. As he ruffled Demian’s hair, he whispered,
“A fine scar.”
For a Knight’s body, destined to be covered in wounds, preserving even a hollow duty was the best one could do.
***
“Oh my, you all look quite flustered.”
Christophe Jean-Jacques Saint-Sharma.
The head of the Sharma family wore a sly smile.
“You seem to wonder why I have graced this place with my presence. Truly a foolish question. Still, I shall indulge you. Today is a day worthy of celebration.”
Ernst rested his chin on his hand and surveyed the room.
The banquet hall of Tresckow Castle. Members of the family were staring at him. The shock in their eyes was delectable. It was easy enough to guess what they were thinking.
Ernst von Tresckow. Why is that brat seated at the seat of honor, appearing alongside the Duke of Sharma? They must all be wondering that.
“The reason I stand here today is……”
Nothing other than—, he said, deliberately pausing. And then—
“I will explain instead.”
Clap.
With a clap of his hands, Ernst spoke.
“You have all been busy, I imagine. The will of my late grandmother, Brunhilde von Tresckow, went missing. Things became rather chaotic because of it, did they not? You seemed to have quarreled over the position of family head. That is precisely why.”
I, Ernst von Tresckow, cannot overlook your disorder. Even we require a sense of dignity.
“And so, the Duke of Sharma has agreed to assist me. Since it would be difficult for someone not yet of age to inherit the position of family head, he has graciously offered to become my guardian.”
This was the moment when someone might well have shouted.
Yet no one opened their mouth. With the head of the Sharma family standing firmly beside Ernst, raising one’s voice required immense resolve. They could only collectively wonder. What had Ernst von Tresckow used to secure the Duke of Sharma’s backing?
“Do not cling to the will.”
He had no intention of presenting it. It was better for his grandmother’s will to remain missing.
Ernst chose to turn the absence of the will into an opportunity. To overwhelm the family members, it was better to seize the position of family head without it.
“No matter whose name was written there…….”
This family belongs to me.
Ernst murmured, and—
“──How long do you intend to remain silent!”
Christophe shouted.
THUD, as he struck the floor with his cane.
“What is the orchestra doing? This is a banquet, and yet there is no music. I am bored enough to yawn.”
A melody filled the hall.
An absurdly cheerful sound. Startled by Christophe’s command, the orchestra began to play. The family members remained stiff, but the lively tones swept through the banquet hall as if forcing them to dance.
“Are you satisfied?”
Christophe bent down. He whispered into Ernst’s ear.
“Do not forget our deal, Ernst. You belong to me now.”
“I am aware, Your Grace.”
I will give you anything. As long as I can claim the position of family head.
Ernst had already said as much. To put Christophe forward, he had resolved to give up everything he had. His past held no value. Instead, he offered the future he would achieve as Count of Tresckow as the price.
“One thing I must ask,”
Christophe whispered.
“I see no desire in you. You could not have cared less about the Count’s seat. Why squander your future like this?”
“I have no particular intention.”
Ernst smiled. Narrowing his eyes, he stared ahead.
The seat of honor was too high. The wide tables spread out before him, the family members reduced to tiny dots. It felt like looking down at an old Tactical Controller. Like identifying the symbols marked upon it.
“This, too, was my grandmother’s seat.”
I simply—, he whispered softly.
“Sitting here makes me restless, my knees ache a little, it is revolting and suffocating, and I want to leave for somewhere far away, but…….”
I want to protect it. The place where my grandmother once sat.
***
“Hm, hmm, hm.”
Roberta hummed to herself.
She was in the middle of binding flower stems into a bouquet. She was going to visit Fleur’s grave together with Monika, Ernst, and Demian.
The air in the basement of the tavern “The Wounded Gunshot” in the Capital, Naflansee, was stale. Even so, it could not compare to the conditions in Portsmouth. The faint smell of mold almost felt like a refreshing breeze by comparison.
“I am curious.”
Meanwhile, Joshua spoke up.
A book titled “If war has a face, it is that of the dead: Lady Alexievich’s Expedition into the Mirror War” was covering his face.
“Miss Sinclair, why will you not tell us? About what you experienced in Portsmouth.”
“Professor Argento said I must not.”
“Oh dear. My curiosity is unbearable. My instincts as a journalist are about to explode.”
“I will absolutely not tell you.”
Roberta understood Abel’s intentions well enough.
Some truths inevitably sank beneath the surface. What happened in Portsmouth was one such case. Human sacrifice, monster worship—such matters could not be disclosed to the outside. That was how Roberta understood it. The aftertaste was bitter, but she chose to follow Abel’s wishes.
“Would money loosen your tongue?”
“No.”
“Must I at least show you my face?”
“I am not curious about Senior Joshua’s face.”
“That is impossible. My looks are among the finest in all of Epezeria.”
“What are you even saying?”
Unbelievable.
Muttering that, Roberta stuck out her lips, and—
“Senior, do not bully Roberta.”
At some point, Marco was standing beside her.
Damn it. Joshua muttered softly and averted his gaze. Still a suspicious-looking face. Grumbling like that, he ground his teeth. Marco, who led “The Wounded Gunshot,” a secret society of boys and girls who espoused anti-war and egalitarian ideals, had an utterly ordinary appearance—but Joshua alone thought otherwise.
“I am glad you came back safely, Roberta.”
“Yeah! Thank you, Marco.”
Marco smiled at Roberta. Then he sat down beside her as she worked on the flowers.
“By the way, Roberta. There is something I am curious about too.”
“What is it?”
“It is not about Portsmouth.”
Just—, he said. Marco half-closed his eyes and whispered.
“There are things I want to know about Professor Abel Argento.”
“Hey, Monster.”
THUD.
Joshua stamped on the floor.
“I am the one investigating him. He is my story. So do not get any ideas.”
“Sorry, Senior, but I have no intention of investigating Professor Argento. I am just curious about a few things.”
“Do not put on airs. It makes me sick.”
“Why do you find me so suspicious? I cannot understand.”
I am ordinary, he muttered, and—
“Hmm……”
Roberta fell into thought.
She had been told not to speak of what happened in Portsmouth. But she did not recall being told to avoid speaking about Abel himself. She could talk to Marco or Joshua as much as she liked. To begin with, Roberta did not know much about Abel.
So she posed a different question.
“Why are both of you so curious?”
About Professor Argento, I mean. As Roberta asked—
“That should be obvious,”
Joshua answered flatly.
“He must become a Hero.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Roberta tilted her head.
“I do not get it. What about you, Marco?”
“Ah, me……”
Marco smiled.
It almost looked as if his eyes were open just a sliver. With his narrow eye shape, it was hard to be sure, but Roberta thought his eyes looked impossibly deep and dark.
“……There is no particular reason.”
Because I might be able to receive help from him. Or because I might be able to help him.
After whispering that, Marco added lightly, as if reciting a rumor,
“Or else…….”
“Someday, we might become enemies.”