Goblin Slayer - Volume SS2.03 - Chapter 9.1

Step 9 - Youth and Ashes, Side by Side

“Don’t tell me that after all this time, you really believed I was the third son of a destitute noble.”

Facing the young king of the entire nation, you manage to constrain yourself to a chuckle and a you little so-and-so—but only because of your highly cultivated self-control.

You’ve entered the donjon of the fortress city for the first time, and a sturdy, indeed nigh-impregnable building it is. It’s a solid stone construct, ready for any battle—you would never imagine it had been built in the tremendous rush to repel the upwelling Death.

Said to have been built by dwarves, today it is gaily and lushly decorated. That tapestry adorning the wall—does it depict the time the avatar hero retrieved the Elder Scroll from the underworld? Or does it show those who delved the dungeon in hopes of rescuing the ashen wizard who had been trapped by the beast of Chaos?

You and your group stand on a red carpet that has been rolled out for you, looking around nervously. You managed to dress up—somehow—but your outfit is still just a scraped-together mélange of stuff you found in the dungeon.

There’s no way to hide that you are adventurers.

Granted, Female Bishop naturally looks like she belongs here, while your cousin and Myrmidon Monk seem unworried. But as for you, Female Warrior, and Half-Elf Scout—you almost couldn’t say what expression is on your faces, not least because you’re standing in front of someone who—despite the fact that you know him quite well—is the newly ascended king!

To cut right to the chase, the diamond knight sealed up the vile hole in the royal capital and brought peace to the city. The former king fell—lamentably, he succumbed to the evil that welled forth from the hole and died.

Such is the way of things.

As for the Vampire Lord who served the Dungeon Master, he was struck down by the Knight of Diamonds.

That’s well and good. There are some adventures that needn’t be any grander than they already are.

So then—it comes to you.

“Now, my adventurers, if you would be so kind.”

As a fanfare announcing the completion of your duty blares, you and your group step forward and stand before the young monarch. In his hands is a small chest containing shimmering golden plates, which he raises reverently.

“I bestow upon you these Gold-rank tags.” You all bow your heads, and he places the tags around your necks, the chains jingling. “Wear them with pride!”

You respond to him in the affirmative and strictly according to protocol (on which you were carefully briefed before the ceremony). Those assembled cheer and shout their approbation at your every move.

The six great heroes—the All Stars.

That is the nickname your party is given. You are the great adventurers who defeated the one lurking on the lowest level of the Dungeon of the Dead and saved the world.

That’s not to say that anything about the six of you has changed dramatically as a result. Rank tags mean nothing in the fortress city. So what if you’re Gold-ranked? Who will know what that means? And heroes? You’re still you. Just adventurers.

If anything has changed, it’s…

“What’m I gonna do with my fifty thousand gold…?” Half-Elf Scout muses with a sigh immediately after you leave the audience chamber. He’s holding a leather sack emblazoned with the royal crest. It’s as over-the-top as it is heavy.

And well it might be—it’s packed with platinum coins. Even this formidable sum is merely a small portion of what you’ve been given, something modest enough to be handed over ceremonially by the king. When you think of the mountain of gold waiting for you in another room, it’s enough to make you feel faint.

You can wade through the gold up to your waist—you could spend your whole life grinding for coin in the dungeon and never see so much.

“Let’s start with a delicious meal!” says your cousin.

“I could never eat my way through all this. This is the sort of thing you invest—you know, put in the markets or into nice safe savings.”

“Safe savings? Do you think the Trade God would approve of that…?” Female Bishop asks with a tilt of her head—but anyway, there’s no rush to spend the entire sum. They said they’ll keep it for you at the palace. (This seems to be a legend passed down from the time of the Platinum-ranked hero.)

You can take all the time you need to figure out what to do with it.

Suddenly, you avert your gaze. You thought you caught some sort of presence, a sense of something in the hallway Female Warrior is looking down.

A presence—is that all? You laugh quietly to yourself at realizing you can detect such things.

This presence takes the form of a small woman with silver hair. She’s dressed in the outfit of a lady-in-waiting—which is obviously new, obviously stiff and uncomfortable, and obviously not what she’s used to.

She trots up to Female Warrior. “Hey, you did it.”

“Yeah…we did.”

Their fists knock gently together, and they laugh like sisters. In fact…if they originally came from the same orphanage, perhaps they really are sisters; one older, one younger.

Female Warrior looks at the silver-haired lady-in-waiting’s glue-stiffened outfit, then smiles like a cat. “That looks good on you,” she says.

“No, but it’s going to. I’ll make sure. And that’s enough,” the young woman replies. Her cool expression never shifts except for a slight, sullen pursing of her lips. Dealing with the magical pit in the palace, then facing down the army of darkness, couldn’t have been easy, however. If the six of you are heroes, the Knight of Diamonds and his party must surely be as well. Henceforth, he and his group will conduct politics in lieu of the palace’s former advisers, who were all swept away in a stroke. You hear that at least one member of his group withdrew, claiming politics didn’t suit them, but nonetheless…

To quit and still be willing to stay on as a maid… That’s not bad.

“He’d be dead without me. Several times over. Pain in my ass.”

So says the seventh adventurer in the diamond knight’s party with a self-important shrug.

Doesn’t seem likely to get any better.

Among the nobles in attendance at the ceremony, there were several whose faces were so studiously expressionless they might as well have been wearing masks. No doubt they were desperately trying to avoid showing the bile that must have been rising in their throats.

This imbecilic adventuring “pastime” had made a mess of everything.

For someone thinking only of what was convenient for them, it would have to be quite galling.

But it was still better than watching vigilantly for an ambush in the dungeon.

When you say as much, the silver-haired lady-in-waiting replies, “I guess,” and nods.

“So you’re going to be keeping an eye on him?” Female Warrior asks.

“That’s my intention,” the silver-haired woman responds, still unruffled. No doubt she hasn’t forgiven that crack about her outfit, though. She gives a small, cold, yet soft smile as if she’s spied an opening and says, “Best of luck to you, too.”

What kind of face does Female Warrior make at that? You steal a look, and you can only describe it as uncouth.

“…So we hit pay dirt. That’s really all there is to this, right?” Half-Elf Scout says.

Even with all the time you’ve spent in the fortress city, you’ve never seen it as lively as it is now.

Not because peace has prevailed or anything. There’s a celebration, a festival to enjoy, and people are living it up. Among the crowd, you see some new adventurers as well.

Yes, there are still adventurers who come to the fortress city in pursuit of the Dungeon of the Dead.

There can be only one reason.

It has to do with your escape, which warped the dimensions deep within the dungeon, resulting in the discovery of the fifth through eighth floors, thought to be an ancient treasure store.

The man who caused the endless supply of loot using the power of death is no longer in this world. The ancient hoard is limited. Sooner or later, perhaps in the near future, the wealth will dry up, and the dungeon will be left barren.

Until then, however—at least for a little while—this city will remain a mecca for adventurers.

That impression only becomes starker as you approach the tavern. Meanwhile, you nod at your scout and say he’s probably right. You now have more gold than the average adventurer will see in a lifetime. In terms of fame and renown, you can safely be said to have “made it.”

“True that,” Half-Elf Scout says with a serious look. Then he stops abruptly at the sign of the Golden Knight. “Hey, I’ve got a bit of business in here. You folks go on ahead, okay?”

The remaining five of you look at each other. You’ve never seen this expression on his face before. It’s serious but not dire.

‘Something we can help with?’

“Nah,” he replies with a wave of his hand. “Gotta do it myself, or it won’t mean nothing.”

Very well, then. You tell him you understand.

“In that case,” Female Bishop says with a nod, “I’m going to go pay my respects at the temple.”

“Me too,” Female Warrior adds. She’s still hugging her spear, which she refuses to let out of her sight, but she smiles. “I’ve got to tell my sister how it went.” Her smile contains no trace of the darkness or sadness it used to hold. To you, it is a joyous thing to see.

“Hmm, I think I’d like to wander around town a little more. You don’t get a chance like this very often!” your cousin says.

“Maybe I’ll join you, then,” clacks Myrmidon Monk. You’re very grateful—it would make you a little anxious to know your cousin was walking around out there all by herself. “What about you? Coming with us?” Myrmidon Monk asks.

You murmur something about whether it matters either way to him, and he clacks his mandibles noisily.

Then you say, since you have this moment, there’s somewhere you need to go. Several places, in fact.

Thus you decide to split up here, and no one has any objections. With a few “See you later”s, you go your separate ways.

You’re the last one standing there except for Half-Elf Scout, who glances at you and nods. “If this doesn’t work out, I’m gonna come cry on your shoulder, a’right?” he tells you.

You say you’ll let him; he grins, and with a “Bye,” disappears into the tavern. You watch him go—and then you heave a sigh.

Before moving on to your next destination, you spend a moment watching the Golden Knight and the adventurers as they come and go. You and your party were here every morning and every evening. The stables and economy room were literally where you laid your head, but…

As for where we rested…

It was here.

This is where you consulted, chatted, ate your meals, laughed together, and let the tension drain out when you came home.

Now, though, you probably won’t visit again.

Suddenly you hear a voice: “I’m looking for my older sister.”

You turn around. There’s a boy, tall for his age, walking down the main street with his friends. You see girls about the same age as him, and a tall scout in a black cloak—you suspect they’re adventurers.

“I see. If she came to the fortress city, it’s a safe bet she was looking to become an adventurer.”

“That’s right. The orphanage never had much respect for the likes of magic anyway.”

“Sounds like someone who might be able to make her name in the dungeon.”

“That’s true. And who knows if the world might be in danger again sometime…”

“Hey, why stand around and talk? There’s time for a tipple before we get started!”

You gather that the young man at the group’s heart is a wizard. You find yourself thinking of a pink-haired girl you saw once…

Still chatting, the group goes into the tavern; you see them find a table and call a waitress over to make their orders.

It’s the table your party always sat at.

Hope he finds his sister.

You offer up this heartfelt wish, then turn and walk into the crowds thronging the city.

“Huh! Didn’t think I’d be seein’ you around here again.”

The shop is as gloomy and dank as ever. The armorer stops pounding on his anvil and looks at you.

He adds caustically that this isn’t the kind of shop a hero usually visits, provoking a shrug from you. He could at least take pride in the fact that it was his shop that prepared that hero’s equipment.

“Things don’t change overnight like that.”

No, they don’t. You laugh out loud at this rambling exchange. How’s the economy? Dungeon looking stable? You talk as if you might go back down there tomorrow, but then the man laughs and shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter. There should be money here for me for a while yet. When the customers dry up, maybe I’ll move out to the frontier or something.”

That right?

Eventually, when the wealth of the fortress city withers away, everyone will leave to go to other places. The Golden Knight, this armor shop—all of it will be left behind. You try to imagine the fortress city becoming a ghost town, then stop. That’s years from now. Not so easy to picture.

Even then, after it falls to ruin, you expect this city will still be a place of adventure. That much, you think, is certain. You tap the scabbard at your hip.

‘Want to buy a sword.’

“What, yeh feck up the last one?”

Mm. You nod, then give him the gist of your battle in the dungeon’s deepest depths. The proprietor crosses his arms and listens intently, then finally mumbles “Ahh, I see,” and scrunches up his face. “Frankly, that’s a pretty unbelievable tale—but I guess it wouldn’t do you any good to lie about it.” He points at the swords hanging on the shop wall with a thick finger. “Pick whichever one you like. Tell me what it’s worth to you. You name the price.”

You tell him you’re grateful for that, and he replies brusquely, “Call it a good-bye present. What you’ve done has cost me the food on my table in the long run, so buy somethin’ and get out.”

Talk about raking you over the coals. You share another laugh with him, then glance toward the entrance of the cramped shop. There’s something new there since your last visit—you don’t know if the smith forged them himself or acquired them; several slim katanas, much like the one you wield.

You take one in hand, loosen it slightly from the scabbard to look at the blade, then grasp the hilt to see how it feels.

You do this with several of the swords, when suddenly a small figure enters the shop with an “Excuse me.”

“You again, lass?” The shop owner sounds less than thrilled. He isn’t the only one who recognizes the girl—so do you. She’s of small build, black hair tied back. The sister of the royal guard.

When she sees you, she makes a noise that might be a “Whoa!” or an “Oh!” then fidgets and looks at the ground.

You scratch your cheek, suddenly self-conscious. Everyone calls you a hero now, but you don’t really feel like one; it’s awkward to meet a girl who actually looks up to you.

“I know you want a sword, girl, but I think it’s a little soon for you yet.”

“But—!” The girl glances at you, then continues much more quietly: “I want to start training as soon as I can and get strong.”

You want to get strong?

At her words, your expression turns inscrutable.

To become strong. To take victory. There’s certainly nothing wrong with that, and yet—

Maybe the smith knows what you’re thinking and maybe he doesn’t, but he rests his chin in his hands and says calmly to the girl, “Won’t your big sister get mad at yeh?”

“Well… Well, let her. I don’t care,” the girl says, with all the conviction of the young, the untried, who know nothing of reality, only their dreams. “I want to be an amazing adventurer!”

You heave a sigh.

You don’t know his history, that man who was bent only on victory. No one in this world does. Nothing is left of him.

And you? What about you?

You, who are so sure that you’re different from him.

As the thought crosses your mind, you reach for the sword at your hip as if it’s the most natural thing in the world and take it off. As gently as you can, you hold it out to the young woman.

“Wha…?”

She’s confused. She looks up at you in surprise, then she looks at the sword and goggles. Slowly, she reaches out with both hands, respectfully, and takes the weapon from you, a sound of amazement escaping her at its weight, which causes her to lean to one side.

You chuckle, then crouch down, planting one knee on the shop floor so that you’re eye to eye with the girl. She looks back at you, her eyes wide and round.

You tell her:

This is the sword that struck down the bringer of death and broke his blade.

It is a good sword, one that will not break or bend.

For that reason, you will always triumph.

“…Th-thank you!”

You don’t know how much she really understands of what you said. But her face glows as she hugs the sword to her chest and smiles happily. You run your fingers through her black hair, then stand.

“Dammit, you’re stealin’ my customers.”

The shopkeeper laughs. Then you laugh and shrug. You’re going to buy a sword. He’ll make enough preparing it for the girl, polishing it for her.

“I did say you could name your price.”

Yes, that he did, you point out, and then you draw a sword out of a barrel. It’s a nameless piece, just another blade. It seems best to you—you just need something to hang from your hip.

“The blade that broke the otherworldly sword, eh?” You put some gold on the counter and the shopkeeper casts a quick glance at the weapon the girl is holding.

She draws it from the scabbard with fear and trembling, and with awe: the weapon that you wielded. The girl stares at the modest chip in the blade as if at the mark of a true hero. Will that katana be at the heart of more stories in the future? Will the girl’s name be sung in sagas?

You don’t know, nor does the shopkeeper. It’s too far in the future.

For now, though, the shopkeeper grins ever so slightly and says, “That’ll be no ordinary story of adventure. It’ll be a strange tale from the fortress city.”

You proceed to wander around the city, finally arriving at the temple of the Trade God.

There’s the tall, tall staircase. Above, as ever, looms the windmill, creaking as it turns.

The wind gusts, blowing over the heads of the adventurers mounting the stairs, whirling through town and all about.

It looks the same as it always has. You ascend, one step at a time, your footsteps firm as they carry you toward the temple. For some strange reason, it makes you think of all the times you walked through the dungeon.

On the first floor, you encountered goblins and slimes and the like.

On the second floor, you tangled with the newbie hunters.

On the third floor, you fought the fearsome ninjas, then walked the border between life and death and lived to tell the tale.

On the fourth floor, you had a little dungeon exploration contest and took victory over that other party.

On the ninth floor, you faced down demons from another dimension and destroyed them.

And then—the tenth floor.

You and your party have had many other adventures, as well: all of them, you’re sure, because you came to this town and met these companions. So if the Trade God is the patron of meetings and partings…

“Finally made it, did we?”

The nun stands with her hands on her hips, looking down at you and obviously not pleased. Yes, you think, it’s all thanks to her.

You reply by way of explanation—or excuse—that you’ve been going here and there, and then you follow her into the temple. It’s not like you had an appointment. You just had this feeling that if you came to the temple, she would be waiting for you.

“Your friends all came by earlier. They’ve gone home already.”

Maybe the nun had the same feeling. She guides you along without looking back, deep into a deserted part of the temple.

The city is still celebrating. There won’t be too many people rushing in looking for healings or burials, not for now.

“Let me guess… You want to put a seal on the path to that awful altar on the fourth floor.”

Yeah.

So that was the favor that Female Bishop was asking for. It is her friends’ resting place, and anyway, you can’t let evil things use that place for their own ends.

People who want to destroy the altar may still appear, and the seal will not protect against anything and everything. But it’s better than nothing.

What is your adventure but an accumulation of such requests?

“So?” she asks, turning to you in the silence of the temple. “What do you want here?”

Her expression is cold, even sarcastic. There’s a flash of something in her eyes, just a hint that disappears as quickly as it came.

You let out a slow breath, then tell her that it’s nothing at all—you simply want to say thanks.

In an instant, that cold countenance melts into a blossoming smile. “You’re going to give alms! Yes, of course, we welcome donations!”

Mm. You nod, toss a pouch of coins on the altar, and say:

‘Never did pay for that information.’

“ ”

The nun freezes in place. Her sharp gaze pierces you; you endure and return it.

You can hear the temple windmill creaking overhead, the wind blowing.

“Ahhh…” After a very long moment, the nun lets out a deep sigh and removes her wimple, letting her silver hair down in a mess. “I really thought I was careful enough that you wouldn’t notice. I can’t stand the perceptive ones.”

Her tone has none of its usual stuffiness; she’s giving you a compliment, although she’s doing it in her own inimitable way. In your mind’s eye, you can see the teasing smile, half hidden by a cloak, and you venture a question.

‘Wonder which one was the real you.’

“I would never disguise myself before my god.”

Whatever you expected her to say, that wasn’t it.

The nun snorts and looks at you with a touch of mockery. “I get my handouts, and I pass the information along when I find the right adventurer. That’s my duty.”

The gods—the gods in heaven—would never interfere with the free will of the Pray-ers in the Four-Cornered World. But those people need information to guide their actions and decisions, and there’s plenty of information out there that no one could possibly just know. With the world in danger, one god or another must have felt it would be wrong not to communicate that information somehow. A very Trade God-esque calculation—flexible and open-minded.

“Still…” The nun shrugs. “I meant it when I trusted in you six. Maybe I got a little too involved. I’ll know better next time.” When she smiles, she looks like a girl her age. Then she bows deeply to you, sending ripples through her hair. “Thank you very much,” she says. “For saving the world.”

You respond that it was nothing. You only did what you wanted to do, what you needed to do.

“You’d be surprised how few people are capable of that,” the nun says, and then she looks up. The light pouring through the chapel’s stained glass window drenches her in a dizzying panoply of colors.

You had the blessing of the holy virgin of the Trade God. How, you realize now, could you have ever been defeated?

She makes an exasperated sound at that. “By the way,” she adds. “For my future reference, when did you figure it out?”

Mm. You nod.

It was because her chest, when you saw it during the Resurrection rite, was so beautiful and left such an impression on you.

There’s no way you could mistake it.

“ ”

The nun looks at you with absolute disbelief.

The next second, her pale white cheeks flush, and for the first time, you see her stumble with embarrassment.

“Why…why, you! Get out of here this instant! You apostate!”

You duck the censer that comes swinging at you, trailing ashes, and set off running. You burst out of the chapel, then out of the temple, then down the stairs. The sky is blue and the wind is blowing. Behind you, as you run, you can hear clear laughter.

“We’ll meet again someday—and I’m going to charge you for the look!”