Re:Zero Kara Hajimeru Isekai Seikatsu (LN) - Volume EX2 - Chapter 1

THE LOVE SONG OF THE SWORD DEVIL

First Stanza

1

A stomach-turning bloody stench hung over the battlefield.

What had once been an open basin several hours before was now spotted with tongues of flame, the pop and crack of burning trees mingling with human cries. The odors of charred wood and flesh filled the air, along with the smell of the layer of gore on the ground that was thick enough to dirty one’s boots. Together, they were enough to clog the nose and overwhelm the senses. The twilight and the flames and the blood underfoot conspired to turn the whole world red.

“Hrr…kk…”

In that crimson arena, a young man fell to his knees, no longer able to drag his quivering feet forward. Blood soaked his knees and shins, but it was much too late to be concerned about that. The boy had long since been covered in so much that he barely noticed the new additions.

This is awful. How could it possibly get any worse?

The young man had taken up the sword of his own volition. He had intended to make his name in battle, to rise from a nameless foot soldier to the heights of glory. Night after night, he had dreamed of the deeds he would do.

How naive. His thinking, his dreams—all of it.

The customs of the battlefield were these: blood, wounds, agony, hatred, violence, and corpses.

The brutality of this, his first battle, was unmatched by any other in the kingdom’s history, even in these years of civil war. The commander had been a young noble who had launched himself against the enemy forces in hopes of buying a little glory, but he had been destroyed, and the battle line had fallen into disarray.

In the blink of an eye, friend and foe were crowded together, and then the young man had been hurled away by a burst of magic and lost consciousness.

After all these unhappy accidents, the young man—Grimm Fauzen—was alone on the field, dragging himself through the nearly palpable cloud of death.

“—”

He opened his mouth voicelessly. He noticed at last how heavy his body was, and the wounds on his feet were asserting themselves more and more painfully.

The explosions had come from overhead, landing just in front of Grimm and flinging him through the air.

He had been lucky to get away with only some burns and the wounds to his feet. How lucky? Everyone else in his squadron had been turned to ash. Their commander, who had been standing next to Grimm, had also been the only actual knight among them.

Their leader’s exhortation before the fight started was fresh in Grimm’s memory. So was the genuine respect he had felt for the man. But even he could easily be lost to the flames of war.

“Hrr…rrrgh…”

Grimm gritted his teeth, trying to forget the image seared into his mind of the knight’s last moments. But that critical instant played against his closed eyelids over and over, fraying his nerves. In a trembling hand, Grimm held his sword, never once swung at a single enemy. The steel blade was so heavy he wanted to drop it. But to abandon his weapon on the field was unthinkable. Even if he knew full well he had no idea how to fight.

To give up one’s sword was to give up one’s life. And he was afraid of death.

“Aaah—!” A gut-wrenching cry came from not far away, and Grimm almost choked as he tried to flee. Was it an ally or an enemy he had heard? He lacked even the nerve to find out.

“Guh…haaah…” Everything he encountered now seemed like an enemy. Not just people. He couldn’t escape the thought that the flames, the blood, even the howl of the wind were out for his life.

He dragged his aching feet into a cloud of smoke. He couldn’t see what was on the other side, but that actually helped to calm his panic. Although he was hardly going out of his way to survive, the smoke would help hide him from any passing enemy soldiers and therefore might buy him just a little more time to live.

“I found someone! A human!”

“E-eyaaagh!”

No sooner was he through the cloud than Grimm found himself face-to-face with an enemy holding a bladed weapon resembling a hatchet. The soldier’s huge body seemed to be all muscle; he was a violet-skinned demi-human who looked like a purple boulder.

The demi-human eyed the wounded Grimm, and a smile came over his horrible face. To Grimm, he seemed sadistic—a hunter who had found easy prey.

By some fluke, Grimm had avoided death the first time. But his good luck couldn’t last forever. It appeared his first battle was going to be his last.

Why, then? Why had he been allowed those extra few moments?

“This is the end for you!”

His destiny was cursed. Grimm fell to his knees as the hatchet came down at his head. Vaguely, he noticed that the weapon was already dark with blood from the other lives it had cut short; his was not likely to be an easy death.

What a ridiculous waste of his last thought.

That was when it happened.

“Gyaaaah!”

There was a piercing shout, and he saw sparks of steel meeting steel. The demi-human grunted as his blow was deflected, and suddenly, a new figure had come between Grimm and his attacker.

The stranger had brown hair so dark it was almost black. Their thin leather armor showed copious amounts of blood, and their excellent blade reflected the flames. Amid the gruesome scene, the crest on the sword blazed before Grimm. It seemed impossible to him.

The moment of admiration, though, was immediately dispelled by what came next.

“Ha!”

The steel described an arc, and the silver gleamed even brighter against the fires. The sharp exhalation of breath and the dancing blade had their own unexpected kind of beauty.

“Huh?”

Did Grimm make the sound of stupefied amazement, or was it the demi-human? The flash of silver sent the enemy’s head flying clean off, and the huge body collapsed to the ground in a spray of blood.

“—” The figure looked down at the corpse, then shook the sword. The blade must have been immensely sharp, because there was hardly any blood on it.

“Th— Y—”

Belatedly, Grimm realized that he had been given back his life. He tried to speak to the newcomer. He was so grateful. He had to offer his thanks.

Demi-humans were the enemy. Someone who had cut one down must be his friend. He owed his life to this person.

“Hey… Hey, you…,” Grimm called out shakily, and the figure looked back at him suspiciously.

Seeing his savior’s face properly for the first time, Grimm was surprised to realize the swordsman was younger than he expected. His short stature might have been because he wasn’t yet done growing. He was perhaps two or three years younger than Grimm, who had only turned eighteen this year. Fifteen, then, perhaps. Still a boy.

But Grimm couldn’t bring himself to call out again. It wasn’t terror that struck him mute. He had stopped shaking. No, it was because he had seen the boy’s eyes.

“—”

They were empty. Not just as though there was nothing inside him. His gaze held no emotion at all.

It was this realization that kept Grimm from saying thank you or anything else. The boy looked briefly at the silent Grimm, but then his interest—minimal to begin with—waned, and he began walking away.

“Wai—”

Now Grimm found his voice. More than anything, he dreaded being left alone in this empty place. He dashed after the boy, who didn’t look back. He would not be abandoned. Now his sole, desperate wish was to survive.

He followed as closely as he could, through the blood and the smoke, until the boy stopped. Once they were past the smoke, Grimm saw it as the nauseating stench hit him.

“Wh-what in the…?”

A towering pile of demi-human corpses. Each had been killed with the stroke of a sword, and each of their faces was twisted with pain, or horror, or anger. With a shudder, Grimm realized who had killed them.

Then he heard the boy, head lifted toward the sky, comment absently, “…Hm. So this is what battle is like. I didn’t know.”

Grimm followed the boy’s gaze to the sky, and a strained sound came out of his throat.

Red and blue circles floated in the sky, the signal to the whole royal army that victory had been achieved.

“The royal army…won?” Grimm said dimly. The sign of victory seemed utterly unreal to him. His squadron had been annihilated, he had wandered the battlefield barely able to think, and then his life had been saved at the very last moment—he had been pathetic. He had not been victorious.

But surely this young man could claim victory proudly…

“It was so trivial,” the boy said. He paid no heed to what Grimm was feeling and only shook his head in disappointment.

2

It was not until some days later, when honors were being conferred for the battle in which Grimm had lost so much and achieved nothing, that he learned the name of Wilhelm Trias.

He was in the barracks of the royal army after the ceremony was over, when one of the other soldiers said to him, “That guy they said killed two of the enemy captains? Awful young, wasn’t he?”

The speaker was a man with dull, short-cropped golden hair, Tholter Weasily. He and Grimm had become close since joining the ranks, and now they were brothers in arms who had survived their first battle together.

Tholter was blessed with an excellent physique, but he saw himself as having more aptitude for archery, and he didn’t hesitate to regale Grimm with the story of how he had helped support the rearguard. In fact, he had actually carried himself admirably for his first battle.

“Was he?” someone asked. “They stuck us foot soldiers way off in the wings for the ceremony. I couldn’t see a thing.”

“Trust me,” Tholter replied. “I’m an archer. If I didn’t have good eyes, I wouldn’t be able to hit anything. I saw him, and he was young—practically a kid.”

In response to the jeers of his audience, Tholter tapped his own eyebrows proudly. But this only caused the people watching him to look at one another and laugh. It was a natural reaction. Tholter was nineteen, and Grimm eighteen; they were among the youngest of the soldiers. If Tholter considered someone a kid, that meant they might be fifteen or sixteen—old enough to fight for their exhausted nation in a civil war but hardly of an age to achieve great military deeds. Two enemy captains? That was ridiculous.

“What, none of you are gonna believe me?”

“Hey, Tholter, are you really sure you got a good look at that guy?”

“I’m telling you, I did! Don’t tell me even you don’t believe me, Grimm. That hurts. I saw him with my own eyes! I hate to say it, but a great fighter is a great fighter, no matter how young he is.”

Tholter seemed annoyed at the reaction of the crowd. Grimm cast his eyes down and said quietly, “No, I do believe you.”

In his mind’s eye, Grimm was picturing the last thing he had seen on the battlefield several days before—the mountain of dead demi-humans and the boy swordsman who had most likely killed them. War was no place for normal expectations, age included. The memory was enough to send shivers down his spine even now.

The hellfire of his first night at war had consumed any dreams he may have had of doing great deeds. Now all he remembered was that boy.

If it’s true heroes are forged in the flames of combat, Grimm thought, then he must be one of them.

Suddenly the door of the changing room flew open, and a rough voice bellowed, “Men, attention!”

Grimm had fully absorbed the habits of military life. He straightened up, clicked his heels, and turned to face the door, all practically in the blink of an eye. Everyone else in the room did the same.

A man with a well-trimmed beard entered, nodding approvingly at this display of discipline. His face was familiar to them—he was Razaac, a full knight of the royal army. He was thirty years old, give or take, with short green hair over a deeply chiseled face. He was known for his severity even among the ranks of the instructors. Grimm recognized him because he had spent his first several weeks in the army training under this man.

“Ready to react at all times. Good work, men. Never forget it.”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” Grimm and Tholter chorused along with the platoon leader.

It was almost like the exchange of a promise. Their opinion of the instructors had changed completely after their first battle. During their training, worked to the point of vomiting, the new recruits felt nothing but hatred for the old hands, but now that they had survived a battle, there was only gratitude. Everyone here knew what all that punishment had been for.

“Very good. I don’t suppose you want to see a knight’s face while you’re trying to get your chores done. Something came up that needed taking care of.”

“What is it, sir? Our unit was just recently reorganized, and we’re anxious to do anything we can.”

“No worries, soldier. I know you’ve only just been thrown together, and this might not be the best time, but I want to add one more person to the squadron. All the paperwork is done; I’m just dropping him off.”

“Yes, sir. If I may ask, sir, is he a decent fighter? I respectfully request we not be burdened with anyone who can’t pull their own weight.”

“Calm down. He’s a bit young, but he’s capable. That last engagement was his first battle, but he killed a couple of the enemy captains—they even singled him out for honors.”

Grimm, along with the rest of the unit, gulped at this. It had to be the person they had just been talking about. Razaac, detecting the change in the mood, nodded and said, “I can see you’ve already got the details.”

Then he turned to the door and called, “Come in. This is your new unit.” The door opened.

A boy with chestnut hair and a hard countenance stood there. The standard-issue soldier’s uniform somehow didn’t look quite right on him, but his posture and deportment showed none of the softness of a new recruit. There was no mistake. He was the one.

“This is Wilhelm Trias,” Razaac said. “He’s fifteen, learned to fight on his own. But I think he’s got a bright future. Everybody play nice.”

Wilhelm stood at attention, silently bearing the gazes of the other soldiers. The introduction finished, Razaac surveyed the nervous locker room, then nodded in satisfaction. The troops’ focus had slackened just a moment before, but they were now rapt. Perhaps that had been his goal. A new soldier was new even after his first battle. In the eyes of a full knight, they were still just chicks.

This meeting would have a more far-reaching influence on the nation than anything Razaac might have planned. But at that moment, even the two people at the heart of it had no idea.

3

Two years earlier, a civil war, the so-called Demi-human War, had broken out in the Dragonfriend Kingdom of Lugunica.

For more than four hundred years, there had been a lingering prejudice against demi-humans, inspired by a “witch” all those centuries before. Lugunica was no exception; relations between humans and demi-humans were cool, the status quo maintained by a tacit understanding that they would have little to do with each other.

That fragile peace was shattered by the collision of a demi-human merchant caravan and human border guards.

The story went that the merchant caravan, headed for the Empire of Volakia to the south, was suspected of crossing the border for the purpose of espionage, but the facts were not clear. What was clear was that when the caravan clashed with the border guards, the civilians were annihilated. These traders had been well regarded by demi-humans throughout the country, and their deaths at human hands inspired an armed revolt among their compatriots. Thus, the quagmire of the civil war began.

The fruitless conflict had dragged on for two years now, and citizens and soldiers alike were tiring of it.

“Then again, it’s thanks to that war that we get to be soldiers. I’m not gonna say I love fighting or anything, but we get to eat every day.” Tholter drained his glass in a single gulp and slammed it back onto the counter as he laughed with a little foam still stuck around his mouth.

Grimm sat next to the slightly drunk Tholter, taking little sips of his alcohol and nodding. “I guess we’ve got that in common, Tholter. If not for the civil war, I would never have thought I could be a soldier. Even if I’d wanted to, I bet they would’ve turned me away at the gate.”

“There used to be some little skirmishes with Volakia, but things were mostly peaceful. I guess a demon beast might cause trouble every once in a while. But guys like you and me? If we ever want to be more than just peasants, war’s the name of the game. A man proves himself by doing great deeds in battle.”

As his companion eagerly ordered another mug of ale, Grimm murmured, “Great deeds in battle, huh?”

Tholter noticed the downcast expression of the young man beside him and gave a friendly shake of his head. “You just survived your first battle, and you still aren’t happy? Isn’t it about time you started enjoying yourself? What, you feel bad for our fallen comrades or something?”

“That’s not it. Call me heartless, but as far as I’m concerned, that battle never happened. I’m just…sorry that I can’t dream like I used to.”

“Dream?”

“Like you were just talking about, Tholter. Doing great deeds, showing my bravery…becoming a hero. I used to think I could do that. Nice and easy. But now…” Grimm let go of his glass and looked down at his hand. It trembled ever so slightly. White burn scars remained on his palm and wrist. That first battle had marked him. Not only his flesh, but his heart and mind, too, and he would never escape it. “You can’t survive on a dream,” Grimm said. “Everything I thought was in my future is…gone.”

“So…what?” Tholter asked. “You’re gonna quit the army? You’re going to give up just because you’ll never be a hero?”

“Unfortunately, facing reality doesn’t fill your stomach. If anything, when you can’t dream anymore, all you have left to think about is how hungry you are. So no, I’m not quitting. I’m going to keep at it.” Grimm smiled at Tholter, trying to hide the trembling of his hand holding the glass. Studying Grimm with wide eyes, Tholter started scratching vigorously at his head.

“…Hrmph. Somehow, all that sounds just like you. Okay, you do that. Leave the hero stuff to me. You just follow along—you can be the hero’s assistant.”

“But, Tholter, you’re an archer. I’m the one who’s up front with a sword.”

“I know you’re embarrassed, but just nod along.”

Tholter took the new mug that had been brought to him and held it up to Grimm. Taking his cue, Grimm raised his mug as well, and there was a clink of pottery as they tapped their vessels together.

Grimm came from a village called Fleur, somewhere outside the capital. It was a small outpost on one of the major byways and had gained some renown as a stopover on the way to the capital. But a small town with its small ways didn’t suit Grimm, and at fifteen he left his home and went to the capital.

He spent the following several years doing menial work at shops and taverns, until six months ago, when he happened to hear that the army wanted more soldiers for the ever-expanding civil war.

Grimm joined up, but not out of patriotism. He wanted to be a hero. He had fled his village out of boredom, and now he joined the army for no reason other than a wish for glory. He had learned soldiering under Razaac’s stern tutelage, then survived the even harsher lesson of his first battle, and now he was here.

Tholter had a similar history, or so Grimm had heard. Born as the second son of a shopkeeper, he had joined the army seeking freedom and a future, and that was where the two had met.

“So you go through combat and decide you’ve found reality,” Tholter said. “And I go through it and still have my heart set on being a hero. It’s like night and day. What about that new guy? I wonder what he thought…”

“You mean Wilhelm?”

Tholter didn’t seem to notice the jolt of anxiety that went through Grimm when he brought up the young swordsman. It was Wilhelm, above all else, who had caused Grimm to give up his dream of heroism.

“I believe he’s good, even if he’s just a kid,” Tholter said. “I mean, they don’t hand out military honors for nothing. I bet we’ll see him on the parade ground as a full knight before long.”

“I heard he didn’t even have to do the drills they make all the new guys go through,” Grimm said. “Instructor Razaac himself said it wasn’t necessary. A lot of people won’t believe he’s fifteen.”

It was the truth. So much lay ahead of a boy his age, and the thought of what he might yet become was enough to unsettle anyone. Hero. That was what they would call him as he cut down enemy after enemy and led his nation to victory. Grimm couldn’t forget what he had seen in the boy’s eyes. Were those the eyes of someone who should be hailed as a hero? The suspicion dogged Grimm that he might become something far more terrible.

“I definitely get the worry,” Tholter said. “He’s, like, the least-friendly fifteen-year-old you ever met.”

“Wait, what?”

“No, it’s true. I invite him along every time we go for a meal, every time we go for a drink, but he never comes. If he has one minute of spare time, he’s doing sword practice. Morning, noon, and night. I swear, it’s gonna make him sick. Or maybe he already is!”

“Huh. You might actually be right.” Tholter had probably overstated the issue, but Grimm found himself agreeing with him.

“Ain’t I always?” Tholter said, completely oblivious to the dark undertones in Grimm’s remark.

“But do you think he might be onto something?” Grimm went on. “Using his free time to train instead of drink?”

“Aw, don’t start. Anyway, whoever has the most fun is the winner at life! Even the first Sword Saint, Reid, didn’t spend all his time waving his sword around. He liked his wine and his women, too! Heroes have more fun than anyone. Enjoying ourselves like this just shows that we have what it takes to be legends!”

As Tholter’s logic grew louder and louder, he collected a few shouts of “Yeah! That’s right!” from the surrounding drinkers. As the mood spread throughout the room, Tholter stood nimbly on a chair and raised his mug.

“My friends! My brothers in arms! Here’s to all the future heroes sitting in this tavern right now! Cheers!”

“Cheers!” All the men raised their mugs together with a chorus of raucous laughter. Splashing alcohol and the sound of clinking mugs filled the air. Tholter gestured insistently at Grimm with his mug. The young man finally raised his own cup, and they pressed the drinking vessels together, smiling and basking in the atmosphere.

All the while, Grimm was thinking that the drinks didn’t seem to be going down so well today, but he didn’t know why.

4

Grimm left Tholter in the tavern and headed out into the cold, breezy night. He turned toward the barracks. He felt bad leaving Tholter, who had wanted to drink the night away in honor of their day off tomorrow, but Grimm couldn’t bring himself to enjoy the alcohol just then, and he wandered through the moonlit night, his ale-warmed body rapidly cooling.

“What a gorgeous crescent moon… It looks like a sword.”

The military really had gotten to him. One had to have a certain lack of refinement to notice not the beauty but the sharpness of the moon. But then, in times of war, indulgence and luxury were stripped away from human hearts.

This inability to enjoy drink—that, too, had been a new problem for Grimm ever since his first battle.

“Tholter’s certainly brave. Maybe he really can be a hero.”

Almost every night, Tholter would make for the tavern, sharing drinks with a crowd of strangers. Grimm tried to tell him to stop this behavior, but in truth, he was envious. At least Tholter didn’t freeze up every time he thought of that initial engagement.

And what about Grimm himself? Would the next experience of combat make him any happier than the last one? The question tormented him. When he closed his eyes, he saw the flames; when he fell asleep, he saw his comrades who had been reduced to ash; when it was quiet, he could hear their final, agonized screams.

“And yet I can’t bring myself to quit the army. If I did, I wouldn’t have anything left. Maybe that’s what scares me.”

He had left his family and his home behind to come to the capital. Sick of the daily routine, he had joined the army, but now that he knew the fear of death, he wanted to run away from this, too.

He hadn’t changed. He was still weak. He had clung to a childish dream in the hope that he would find a place where he might be acknowledged, but then he had hardly been willing to work for it. That, he was sure, defined who he was now.

“—?”

But then, on his way back to the barracks, absorbed in self-hatred, Grimm stopped.

The reason was a noise. He thought he’d heard a faint sound from around the back of the soldiers’ quarters.

He could hardly imagine anyone being stupid enough to try to break into the barracks of the national army, but this was a time of war. A demi-human on a secret infiltration mission, perhaps? No, that was overthinking it. But he had to be sure.

Grimm touched the scabbard of the sword he carried and, as silently as he could, made his way to the back of the building. He peeked out from the shadows, attempting to find the source of the ongoing sound.

There, late at night behind the barracks, Grimm saw a young man single-mindedly swinging his sword.

“…Wilhelm?”

The blade flashed silver as it danced through the night air. By the moonlight, Grimm could see how astonishingly clean Wilhelm’s technique was. At the sound of Grimm’s voice, Wilhelm looked up. Grimm caught his breath as the sharp eyes fixed on him.

“Um…”

“Oh, Grimm, it’s you,” Wilhelm said with disinterest. “Don’t bother me.”

After a while, Grimm spoke hesitatingly. “You…know my name?”

“Why shouldn’t I? We’re in the same squadron. You know my name, don’t you? Or did you think I’m one of those idiots who can’t remember a name?”

“N-no, I… I mean, I thought maybe you didn’t care about anyone else…”

“I don’t remember people’s names because I care. I do it because it’s necessary. If I don’t remember the names of at least the people in my squadron, it’ll cause me problems later. Have I explained myself thoroughly enough for you?”

He was right, but Grimm found himself agape at having Wilhelm tell him all this. He had never so much as had a complete conversation with him before. The boy didn’t engage in small talk; he seemed to say the absolute minimum required to communicate. In fact, Grimm wondered sometimes if the boy was even really human.

“So you do think like a normal person sometimes…”

“Say what?”

“Erk, sorry! I didn’t mean it the way it sounded…” He searched for a better way to explain himself but found none. Instead, he said, “Er, or maybe I did…”

Wilhelm shot Grimm a dubious look, but he quickly appeared to lose interest. He raised his sword and began swinging it again.

“Have you been doing that ever since training ended?”

“Yeah. Don’t talk to me. It disrupts my concentration.”

“We went out to get a drink after training. I think Tholter is still there.”

“Oh yeah? I thought I smelled alcohol. Don’t talk to me.”

As he gave his curt answers, Wilhelm began swinging the sword faster and faster as if to lose himself in the act. Grimm found he could hardly follow the blade as it whipped high and low. So instead, he slumped against the side of the barracks and stared distantly.

“Why are you so into sword fighting? Isn’t there anything you do for fun?”

“Maybe there would be, if we weren’t at war. But we are. Practicing with the sword is a lot more likely to keep you alive than getting drunk or having sex.”

“So you’re training yourself because you want to survive?”

“No. Frankly, you guys don’t make any sense to me. Why would you waste your time on booze and women instead of working on your swordsmanship? You think anything I’m saying is wrong?”

Frighteningly, Wilhelm’s blade made no sound as it sliced through the night. It was as if the sword was so sharp the air itself didn’t realize it had been cut. Only his short breaths and the sound of his shoes sliding across the earth indicated the movements of his sword.

“No…I don’t think you’re wrong. But not everyone is as gifted with the blade as you are. Not everyone can devote themselves to it like you do. Sometimes you turn to wine or sex just for a little comfort.”

Wilhelm met Grimm’s defeated words with a harsh reply. “I’ll tell you one thing you’re all better at than I am. Making excuses.”

Grimm himself didn’t know why he was asking these questions. Maybe he had always wanted to ask these things of Wilhelm, the boy who had looked at that mountain of corpses as though it were unremarkable.

“If you keep everyone else at a distance,” Grimm said, “you’ll find yourself alone on the battlefield someday. And what can you do when you’re all by yourself?”

“Use my sword. One swing, one dead enemy. Two swings, two dead. That’s all it takes, one slash after another. To me, you just sound like you’re trying to protect yourself.”

“—”

“That look in your eyes… I remember it. We saw each other on the battlefield, didn’t we, Grimm?” Wilhelm let his sword rest, straightened, and stared at Grimm.

He felt his throat tightening. To think Wilhelm would have remembered him. Remembered him like that.

“So you weren’t just full of it when you talked about being alone on the battlefield. But you should know better than anyone. I was alone, too. And yet I killed enough of the enemy to earn distinction. That’s all there is to it. Ridiculous.”

“I… I…” Grimm’s voice was trembling.

Wilhelm grimaced, pointing at the other boy with his sword. “If you want to run away, don’t try to cover your ass by pretending it’s logical. You want your friends because you’re scared? Then I guess I misjudged you. You weaklings should stick together. Or do you have proof that I’m wrong about you?”

Grimm understood Wilhelm was telling him to draw his blade. To take the sword at his hip and show what he was made of.

“—”

“You can’t even draw your sword? Coward.”

No, he couldn’t draw his sword. He couldn’t even stand up, much less reach for his scabbard.

Wilhelm looked almost disappointed as he turned his back to Grimm and resumed his practice. Realizing that Wilhelm was no longer paying attention to him, Grimm let out a long sigh, forced himself to his trembling feet, and left the place behind as if he were fleeing.

He entered the barracks, returned to his own room, and dived onto his narrow cot. He pulled the blanket up over his head, shivering violently as if with cold, gritting his teeth. Was he angry? Sad? He had no idea. All he knew was that he despised himself for being weak. At that moment, more than anything in the world, he wanted the strength that boy had.

5

Despite the events of the night before, when morning came, Grimm returned to his duties with an outward facade of calm. This was, perhaps, an unfortunate talent of his. He was perfectly able to look Wilhelm in the eye during chores and training. Nothing about his manner had changed. Wilhelm, for his part, also acted as though he had forgotten everything from the previous night, annoying the squadron by keeping to himself as usual.

Hence, the squadron was home to two armed bombs, one visible, one invisible. And the proof that they weren’t duds came with a sudden, major clash with the demi-humans. Grimm’s squadron was thrust into it, along with the rest of the royal army.

The fuse of this decisive moment was lit as the sun went down. When the battle began on the plain, the royal army appeared to have the upper hand. They leveraged their numerical superiority to smash the demi-humans’ coalition forces and push back the front.

Grimm and the others, assigned to the tip of the spear, were swept up in their allies’ joy at their success and pressed forward, slaying one demi-human after another.

“I don’t know what the problem was last time,” Tholter said giddily, shooting an enemy with his arrow and then drawing another one. “But this is easy!”

Grimm heard Tholter behind him. He kept his sword and shield up, carried along by the momentum of the attack.

Morale was high. The retreating enemy could barely resist them. The royal army had every advantage, yet Grimm couldn’t bring himself to move as he desired.

“Damn it… Then why am I even here…?” In a tiny whisper, Grimm cursed the weakness of his own spirit. His only salvation was his friends’ success; he himself had yet to kill a single enemy. He only used his shield, desperately fending off the foe’s attacks. True, this did his forces some good, but it was cold comfort to him.

“Wh-what the hell?!”

Cries of shock rose up from the ranks. Everyone looked to see what was going on.

Someone dashed across the battlefield, cutting off demi-human heads as quick as the wind. It was like an explosion of blood and limbs, echoing with the sounds of steel cleaving flesh and dying cries.

“Ruuuuahhhhh!” The cause of all this was the dark figure of a young boy flying across the field like an arrow. He leaped into the enemy ranks, his stance low. His sword worked tirelessly, stabbing and mowing down demi-humans in an ever-increasing pile of lifeless corpses. Friend and foe alike watched him in amazement.

“Wilhelm…”

The squad leader didn’t order them to advance behind this murderous dervish, as he should have done when momentum was on their side. He, like everyone else, feared that anyone who got too close to Wilhelm would be cut to ribbons, enemy or not.

As everyone else stood transfixed by Wilhelm’s display, Tholter gave an excited shout. “Commander! We’ve crushed them here—let’s get a move on!” That brought the squad leader back to himself, and he ordered everyone to advance into the breach Wilhelm had carved.

Tholter could be heard laughing wildly. “We might not show up Wilhelm, but we can do our part!”

But their clear advantage failed to excite Grimm. He only felt a chill running down his spine.

“Doesn’t this feel wrong to you?” he asked.

“Huh? How can it feel wrong? We’re kicking ass!”

“Think how they decimated us last time! Why is it so easy now?”

“Maybe we’ve learned how to handle them. Or maybe our commander last time didn’t know strategy from a hole in the ground. But it got them killed, and now we’ve got someone who knows better.” Tholter accompanied this casual disrespect with a continued hail of arrows. Grimm, still holding his shield at the ready, watched out of the corner of his eye. He still couldn’t shake the anxiety.

A moment later, a cheer rose in front of him as Wilhelm cut down an especially large demi-human. Another commander, perhaps. Another commendation.

“Way to go, Wilhelm!” Although everyone continued to keep their distance, Tholter cheered with his customary enthusiasm. Wilhelm, covered in the blood of his enemies, didn’t react to this acclaim but suddenly looked up and said, “…Something stinks.”

“Well, yeah. You’re dripping with blood!”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. Squad Leader, I have a bad feeling about this. They’re planning something…”

He had turned back, about to offer his advice, when the earth shook. It was so powerful it made Grimm’s vision blur; he lost his balance and fell down. Several of the other soldiers collapsed, too. Only Wilhelm and a few others remained on their feet.

“What…? What just—?”

They never got to happened. A second after the impact, a hot wind rushed at Grimm and the others. It carried dust that got in their eyes and mouths; coughing and choking, they tried to stand, only to be met by a chorus of agitated shouting.

“Fall back! Fall back! Fall baaaaack! It’s a trap! Demi-human ambush! They’ve got magic circles on the ground! We’re going to be destroyed!”

“Valga is here! Valga Cromwell! Bring me his h— No, retreat!”

“Fire! Fire is coming! My—my feet! No, wait for meeeee!”

The awful screams came from everywhere at once. The soldiers, blinded by dust and now in a panic, started shoving one another in the scramble to retreat. Grimm found himself in danger of being trampled.

“Grimm!”

Tholter grabbed his arm, pulling him to safety in the nick of time. But the chaos was worsening by the moment. The mood of victory was shattered.

“A—a trap?! How can we be surrounded? When did that happen?!”

“I can’t see anything! Damn it! Squad Leader! What do we do?!”

Out of the cacophony, Grimm’s ears picked up the most dangerous words, and his teeth chattered as his terror built. Tholter looked grim, too, as they turned to their leader for their next instructions.

The terrified squad leader answered Tholter’s shout with a tremulous cry. “R-retreat! We fall back, and link up with the other units…!”

“No!” Wilhelm bellowed. “Don’t! Advance!”

“—?!”

Wilhelm grit his teeth and snarled at the squad leader, as well as all his subordinates attempting to withdraw. He raised his blood-soaked sword and pointed it at what had been the vanguard a moment before. “Retreating is exactly what the enemy wants us to do! Why can’t you see that?! Our only hope is to move forward!”

“Are you insane?! If all you want is to kill the enemy, then shut up and leave us out of it!”

“The enemy laid a trap for us using magic circles! They only pretended to fall back so they could draw out and destroy our army! They would obviously count on a fear-crazed, ambushed enemy making a retreat!”

The squad leader shut his mouth, not expecting such a thoughtful response. Wilhelm pressed closer to the mute commander, his bloodied face twisted as a demon’s.

“Go forward!” he howled. “The only way out is through! Fall back, and you’ll be surrounded and die! We have to break through before the net gets any tighter—it’s our only hope!”

But the squad leader lurched and exclaimed, “Th-that’s impossible! Retreat! There’s no help ahead! Marching into the enemy territory alone is suicide!”

Wilhelm bit his lip fiercely, and with blood pouring from the edge of his mouth, he began striding away. He readied the sword in his hand, turning his back to the squad leader.

“Stop, Wilhelm! You can’t just—!”

But Wilhelm wasn’t listening. “If you want to run, then run. Run and run, and when you’re finished with that, just die. As for me, I’m going to fight. I’ll fight and fight, and when I’m done, I’m going to live. You insufferable cowards.”

This tirade left everyone in the unit speechless. Grimm alone felt differently from the others, because he was the only one not hearing it for the first time.

“Wilhelm!”

The boy didn’t stop at the sound of his name but dived forward. He was going to attack the enemy alone, in defiance of the squad leader’s orders—an indefensible choice, surely.

As soon as Grimm realized what was happening, he demanded his shaking feet to move, to take one step after another, and ran after Wilhelm.

“Grimm! You too?!”

“I’m bringing him back! I’m going to bring Wilhelm back! He can’t die on us yet! This army still needs him!”

His feet pushed into the dirt. His body felt heavy as he struggled to stay upright and advance. A hand reached out to stop him, but the fingertips only brushed him and fell short.

“Grimm! Don’t you die! You damned idiot!” Tholter’s condemnation was also a bold encouragement.

“You think I’d die? I’m just a coward!” Even Grimm barely understood what this meant, but his friend’s shout gave him strength. A warm emotion filled his heart as he chased after Wilhelm.

“—”

Breathing hard, dust in his eyes, stepping over the bodies of his fallen comrades, Grimm immediately began to regret his decision. He always did. Whether he had run after Wilhelm or not, he was sure he would have regretted the choice. But now, for once, he put it aside and kept running.

He had his shield up but realized he had lost his sword somewhere. Most likely, it had been when he’d fallen after that first impact. It didn’t matter. Who needed a sword when the boy ahead of him was ten times the swordsman he would ever be?

A fresh geyser of blood, a death rattle. Grimm had lost sight of Wilhelm, but he was easy enough to find—just follow the noises of battle. Grimm crested a hill, jumped over a rift in the earth, wove around corpses he couldn’t even identify as friend or foe. Finally, swallowing hard, he caught sight of a faint gleam.

In front of him, the ground gave off a dull glow. The shimmering lines formed a geometric pattern.

“Is this what a magic circle looks like…?” Grimm wasn’t one for the mystic arts himself, nor was he familiar with the glow of mana.

Even in the capital, magical devices like crystal lights weren’t universal, and rare was the individual with the talent for such techniques. The demi-humans as a race were more magically inclined than humanity, and one result of that disparity was the trap the humans had fallen into in this battle—or anyway, so the bits and pieces he had heard suggested.

At the sight of the faint glow from the magic circle, Grimm experienced a wave of the greatest fear he had yet felt.

“Err— Gh— What…? What is this feeling? I hate it! Go away! Go away!” He rubbed the back of his own head vigorously, hoping to banish the terror. It was a habit he had developed ever since that first battle had taught him to fear. But he hated doing that, too, and began kicking at the magic circle with his feet in an attempt to erase part of it.

Almost immediately, the glow faded until the shape was just a scribble on the ground.

“Huh? Is that all it takes…?”

“Hey, Grimm.”

The voice came from behind. He looked back, his heart in his throat. Wilhelm stood there. He was covered in a fresh layer of blood. He looked Grimm up and down, his mouth twisted into a frown.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought the squad made for the rear.”

“Y-you just went off on your own, and I came to stop you! Come on, let’s go back! We can’t just stand here alone, no matter how good you are…”

“I don’t need you to worry about me…but you do have the strength to survive. As only a coward does.”

It was the same charge he had leveled that night. Grimm found he could say nothing. Wilhelm, however, looked at the other boy’s feet with a puzzled expression.

“Grimm, what happened to that magic circle?”

“…It was glowing, and it gave me a bad feeling. So I kicked at it until it stopped. Was it supposed to be a trap?”

“Yeah, it was. Maybe it still is. You doused it while it was still in the preparation stages. Which means…”

Wilhelm’s gaze hardened, and a second later, Grimm’s eyes were wide, his intuition of terror back in full force. A red tracer was streaking toward them from the right, trailing a cloud of dust.

“Get down!”

Grimm was shoved to the ground and landed on his backside. Wilhelm was in front of him, his sword at the ready. He deflected the bullet and dived in the direction the light had come from. He swung his sword in a sidelong motion, cutting into the dust cloud.

A green-skinned demi-human emerged from the haze. Covered from head to toe in a robe, he had a long tongue and a reptilian appearance.

The small demi-human jumped backward, targeting Wilhelm with more tracer rounds from three-fingered hands. But if they hadn’t worked with the element of surprise, they certainly wouldn’t be any use in a frontal assault. Wilhelm wove from side to side, dodging each round by a hair. In the space of a breath, he had closed distance with the demi-human, and with a swipe of his sword, he sent its head flying.

“Wilhelm! That demi-human was—!”

“He was probably the one controlling this circle. With him dead, the trap is disarmed. Now we have a marker to judge by—let’s push through to the other side!”

Wilhelm kicked away the enemy’s body, shook the blood off his sword, and faced forward once again—away from the retreating squad. Grimm grabbed his shoulder.

“Just wait, will you?! If we’ve disarmed it, then let’s go call everyone up!”

“Don’t be an idiot! If we backtrack, we’ll just get caught up in another trap. They planned on the royal army retreating. That’s how this is set up. We can’t save them. You and I would just be two more useless corpses. Do you understand?!”

He tore Grimm’s hand away and turned the point of his sword to the withdrawing boy’s throat. Grimm was seized with fear as Wilhelm’s unparalleled swordsmanship turned on him.

“If you want to die, then go back alone! If you want to live, you have to struggle and fight for every breath!”

With that, Wilhelm set off running again.

Watching him disappear into the distance for the second time, Grimm had only a moment to make one of the most important decisions of his life. If he went back, it might be possible to link up with his squadron. But he might also fall into a demi-human trap, as Wilhelm had said. But his squadron would have rejoined with the bulk of the army; they would certainly have the advantage of numbers. There was also the chance that Wilhelm was wrong, and the enemy was waiting up ahead. Splitting up could only make it harder to survive. He had tried his best to persuade Wilhelm to come back. If he didn’t listen, whatever happened to him now was his own fault.

Then the choice was between life and death. Did he want to live? Or did he want to not die?

“Ahhhhhhhhhh!”

Bellowing inarticulately, Grimm dashed forward. Away from where Tholter and his other friends had fallen back. Toward where Wilhelm inexorably advanced.

He didn’t know what had led him to his decision. He had simply followed his instinct. At that moment, Grimm was not thinking of friendship or orders or patriotism or loyalty. All he knew was that when he considered going back and of going forward, pressing onward held less fear for him.

He ran through the faded magic circle, ran wild and shouting across the battlefield. It was foolish and made him conspicuous, but luckily, he was just one sound in a cacophonous roar.

Finally, he emerged from the cloud of dust, miraculously not having encountered any enemies. He crested a hill.

“Shhaaaaaaa!”

He heard a terrible screech and saw a demi-human sliced in two. Wilhelm met one attacker after another, cutting them down in a fountain of blood that covered him; he raised his strained voice as the dead piled up.

Grimm could see Wilhelm’s face as he howled, bathed in the blood of his enemies. He appeared to be smiling. It gave Grimm his worst chill yet. He thought he knew an appropriate word.

“Devil…”

A devil. That was what he was. A devil with a sword. A demon who laughed as he cut down his enemies. A death-dealing monster who loved the blade.

A sword devil.

“Come! Face me, all of you! Come and be destroyed that I may live!” With each shout, the sword devil’s weapon flashed and took the life of another demi-human.

The awful scene inspired Grimm to turn slowly around and survey the hill he’d come up. Smoke rose over the battlefield, pierced only by the faint light of magic circles. He couldn’t have counted them all if he had used both hands and all his toes. The field was brimming with power beyond human understanding, and it would soon destroy a royal army that had foolishly let itself be enveloped.

A scorching wind, the rumbling of the earth, and the dying voices that rose up into the red sky—

“Is this…what came of my choice?”

Behind him, the sword devil was creating mountains of corpses and rivers of blood. In front of him, the screams and wails of the friends he had abandoned sounded like curses. Grimm found that he had fallen to his knees with both hands over his face and was weeping piteously.

“I’m s-sor— Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…!”

The battle ended, the royal army well and truly shattered. Until a friendly force came to collect them. Grimm sobbed and apologized, and the sword devil fought and howled with joy.

Grimm’s squadron, including Tholter Weasily, didn’t come back.

6

At the Battle of Castour Field, the royal forces began with the advantage, but their vanguard was undone by a nefarious demi-human trap. When they attempted to retreat, their foes besieged them using magic circles, and the army was routed. It was a notable defeat even in the lengthy annals of this civil war.

Unconfirmed reports stated that the great demi-human strategist Valga Cromwell was present at the battle, and that his canny use of personnel contributed to the human defeat.

Casualties were immense; it was not possible to retrieve the bodies of most of those who were killed in action. It was suggested that these heroes should immediately be granted distinction for their loyalty and patriotism.

Further, one name was mentioned on both the human and demi-human sides for its owner’s tremendous record in this battle: a fifteen-year-old boy called Wilhelm Trias, the Sword Devil.

This battle marked something else as well. It was the very beginning of the end of the Demi-human War, the civil conflict the kingdom had been fighting for so long.