7
“…!”
When Julius took in the scene in the room, he knew instantly that this was going to be trouble. Balleroy, one of the military leaders of a country that prized physical prowess above all else, lay bleeding at Reinhard’s feet. Anyone would think the powerful swordsman from another nation had undoubtedly done the deed. Julius would have come to the same conclusion, if the person in question had been anyone but Reinhard. However, Julius believed that man was incapable of doing something so impulsive.
Something had to be wrong here.
“Ferris! Tend to Master Balleroy, now!”
“Right!”
They would figure things out later; Julius set Ferris to caring for the fallen Balleroy. As astonishing as the scene before them was, there were wounded, and Ferris didn’t hesitate. He bounded through the blood to examine the injuries of the people in the room. Even if the wounds were serious, so long as the people weren’t dead, Ferris could—
“What else do they intend to do to the generals?! Stop him!”
“Don’t move, filth!”
The soldiers stopped the cat-boy before he could approach the victims. Snapping out of their horror, they drew their swords and surrounded Julius and Ferris. Several of the guards piled into the room and leveled their blades at Reinhard.
One of the men knelt at Balleroy’s side, shaking his bloodstained shoulders. “General Balleroy, get up! General! Damn! You bastards…!” But there was no response. The imperial soldiers looked more ready than ever to kill their visitors. The room had become a powder keg.
“Julius…!” Ferris said, keenly aware of the gravity of the situation. But Julius, too, was having trouble knowing what to do next. Throw down his weapon and surrender? But given the murder in the men’s eyes, throwing away his weapon might be a very foolish move. He didn’t want this staring contest to go on forever, but—
“My castle rings with the din of the unwashed. What is going on?”
“Hrgh?” Julius strained to catch the clear but totally unexpected voice. Ferris, whose ears were better than his, stood wide-eyed as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The soldiers did the same. The voice was unmistakable; it could be no one else.
It was the emperor, Vincent Volakia, in the flesh.
“…!” There was a great, collective clack of heels as the soldiers opened a path for their ruler. The way had been formed by the automatic loyalty of the men, and the emperor walked leisurely down it. When he saw what was in the room, he arched the eyebrows on his cold, intelligent face.
The chamber full of blood—Balleroy and the other soldiers on the ground—and the emissary of Lugunica standing over them…
“…I see.” He nodded as if all this made sense to him, and he fixed Reinhard with a penetrating gaze. Reinhard straightened and put his hand to his chest. And at last, he spoke:
“By your leave, Your Majesty. Allow me to explain…”
The shouting of a furious soldier cut him off. “Your Majesty! These men are insurgents who didn’t even hesitate to strike down a general in the very halls of the Crystal Palace! This is a declaration of war by the Kingdom of Lugunica against our Volakian Empire!”
Circumstantial evidence certainly supported the allegation. The rage of the imperial guardsmen was easy to understand. But there was one thing that couldn’t be overlooked. Namely, that if all this were true, Lugunica and Volakia would be at war. And that could not be allowed to happen.
It seemed unlikely that Vincent would be as quick to come to conclusions as his subjects, but the possibility couldn’t be ruled out entirely. Not least because of the very real likelihood that he himself had engineered this situation. And if that was so—if this entire thing was a deliberate pretext for war—how much of it could be attributed to the people of the Empire of Volakia, and how much was the brainchild of Emperor Vincent himself?
“Insurgents, indeed. You’re right—if things are as they appear, then these men must be insane. To perpetrate this act of barbarity under our very nose—if they did it in sound mind, then judgment is already rendered.”
“Emperor Vincent…”
Against Julius’s worst imaginings, the emperor exposed the unnaturalness of the situation with an almost bored expression. If nothing else, it reassured the man that His Majesty didn’t intend to make any rash arrests. With Miklotov and Bordeaux both absent, their actions here would prove particularly crucial in preventing open war. The emperor’s attitude at least gave them the leeway to do that.
But then that thin ray of hope was betrayed.
“Your Majesty the Emperor!”
The harsh bellow came from Reinhard, who flew at Vincent. The Sword Saint grabbed the emperor’s arm and, faster than the eye could see, leaped backward into the room. Everyone, including Julius and Ferris, was left in shock.
“ ”
Reinhard held Vincent fast from behind. The emissary of the Kingdom of Lugunica had taken the emperor of Volakia hostage in his own castle; any hope of resolving this peacefully had vanished.
“Damn you, get away from the—” The furious demands of the imperial guards were cut short.
“‘O thou sinful rebel! O vessel of wrath so foul that e’en the moon and stars hide their faces from thee! If thou so ardently desire this my life, then let thy sullied steel drink deep of my blood!’”
“…?!”
They had been interrupted by the emperor, whose declamation rang through the room. He seemed to be provoking his own captor; a wave of fear ran through the ranks of his men. But this was not the true intention of the emperor, and only one person present understood this: Julius.
“ ” Julius did not speak, but the next instant, the ruler of Volakia’s gaze fixed upon the young knight. The emperor had spoken quite peculiarly. It seemed to be a test of some kind.
“…!” Julius ground his teeth as the great burden of an emperor’s expectations suddenly fell on him.
Vincent’s words had come from the old text, The Guillotine of Magrizza, from an episode in which an old king deceived his own treacherous retainer by allowing himself to be captured by an assassin he himself had hired.
The emperor’s aim, the rapidly changing situation, Reinhard’s presence—there could be only one explanation. Julius hesitated for only the space of a breath, and then he decided. “Reinhard, out the window!”
“…” Reinhard didn’t hesitate at all. While still keeping a grip on Vincent’s left arm, he flung himself backward through the window, shattering it with his back as he went through. The soldiers attempted to follow him, but they never had a chance. Reinhard’s move had diverted the swords that had been keeping Julius at bay. This was the moment.
“Alo! Ake!” Julius shouted. A green glow appeared in one of his upturned hands, while a yellow one appeared in the other. In the blink of an eye, the glows intensified, and a surge of mana slammed into the imperial troops. A great wind flung them back against the wall, and they quickly slumped to the floor, where unnatural piles of earth secured them to the ground. The guards could cry out but couldn’t move.
Julius didn’t give them another thought. “Ferris!”
“Huh? Wha—? Wah! Ack, waaaait!”
Ferris, who had been far too shocked by the dizzying series of events to move, found Julius grabbing one of his slim arms and dragging him toward the broken window through which Reinhard had escaped.
“Careful not to bite your tongue!”
“Wait, hold on, hold up, hold anything! Ahhh?!”
But Julius was not interested in Ferris’s suggestions; he swept the young man into his arms and threw himself at the window. With the echoes of Ferris’s drawn-out scream trailing behind them, an astonishing flight began. They had seemingly murdered the military general of another country, kidnapped an emperor, and now they were on the run.
It hardly seemed like things could get any worse.
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