12
In the three months since the Rite of Imperial Selection had begun, the empire’s civil war had swiftly reached its climax.
A number of the would-be rulers of Volakia had surrounded the most likely successor to the throne, Vincent Abelks, and were tightening the noose. Each had brought a formidable and accomplished personal army, which were currently busy staining High Count Abelks’s land with blood, spreading the stench of death and destruction across the battlefield. The shouts of anger and cries of hatred that flew from both sides made it inescapably clear just how cruel, how brutal this bloody civil war was. Any sane person would want to look away, would be scarred by the tragedy. Except, that is, for a very specific few.
The members of the Volakian Royal Family who sought to be the next emperor of Volakia; the loyal retainers who served as their shields and spears—and the dropouts, the ones who had suppressed their destructive egocentrism and now worked only to achieve their own ends.
These people could be considered chosen in a way; they and they alone watched the tragedy unfold around them, unmoved by the brilliant shining and abrupt fading of the lives on the field. This was a place one could not come to without the uncommon spirit that these people possessed.
In a sense, they were Übermenschen, those who were rulers by nature—or might one day be so.
Deep in the forest, a man and a woman confronted each other, each backed by a small cadre of supporters. Siblings by blood were no exception to the rule here—in fact, that was exactly what made these two its grandest exemplars. For each of them, at this moment, only the other existed. Their very existence would influence the fate of a great many lives and could drastically change the future of the empire. They both knew this and acted accordingly.
They each saw that the path they walked led to the future of their nation…
“Heh!”
The reunion shared by the brother and sister facing each other, Vincent and Prisca, was as violent as a thunderclap. Standing there amid the greenery, they exchanged what amounted to brief pleasantries, and then as if on cue, they both stretched out a hand. Instantly, each of them was grasping a beautiful sword that glowed red.
This world was said to be home to ten magical swords of unparalleled power. The Bright Sword was one of them, and if anyone unworthy touched it, they were burned to a crisp instantaneously. The sword had been passed down in the Volakian royal household for generations, and for the span of the Rite of Imperial Selection, there were as many Bright Swords as there were candidates for the throne. Nobody knew why.
But did the existence of multiple Bright Swords dilute their luster? Absolutely not.
“ ”
The twin blades cut through the gloom of the forest like lancing sunlight. Prisca and Vincent advanced toward each other easily, swords in hand, and offered an exchange of blows as elegant as if they were dancing, bathing the forest in a shower of red-and-white light.
The two opposing flames intertwined, each heightening the heat of their opposite; the scene was beautiful. Fire consumed fire and threatened to consume anyone else who dared touch it or even get close. By all rights, several of these swords should not have existed at the same time; to see them pitted against each other was a vision beyond the wildest of fantasies.
The siblings’ entourages were slow to react; they felt their skin singed by the wave of heat—and it was only then that they comprehended what was happening. Only then did they realize that their masters were already engaged in a life-and-death duel.
“What a grave miscalculation! It turns out I had no time to be staring and wondering!” The hot wind against his skin brought Chisha back to himself and made him lament his mistake. He searched in the folds of his clothes and produced a folding fan—made of iron, turning it into a proper instrument of war. He readied himself to assist his master.
Before he could reach the fighting, however, he was thrown to the side, cast away from the very spot he had been about to use as a springboard to leap into the fray. The blow was as vicious as the bite of a wild animal. Chisha glared at the one who had dealt it to him, and then he smiled with his almond-shaped eyes.
“The princess is busy. I won’t let you interfere.” Arakiya stood with her back to the heated confrontation between Vincent and Prisca. She was a young member of the dogfolk with brown skin, a good deal of it exposed. In her hand was a perfectly ordinary tree branch; she almost seemed to stand at total ease, appearing highly vulnerable. And yet Chisha found himself swallowing hard, his cheeks stiff.
He realized that she was a wild animal, just like Cecils.
“I’m not the kind to do physical labor myself,” he said. “You must be Lady Prisca’s secret sword.”
“ ? I’m Arakiya. For the princess’s sake, I fight.”
Her answer was utterly brief—but that itself spoke to her deeply rooted, immovable loyalty. Chisha sighed deeply. In that case, they weren’t going to get anywhere by talking. He settled into a fighting posture with his iron fan, while behind him, Vincent’s soldiers likewise readied their weapons.
“I myself and these soldiers behind me fight for another, but with the same dedication. I’m afraid I don’t plan on participating in anything so inefficient as a duel. You must forgive me.”
“Um…?”
“To put it succinctly, I intend to overwhelm you with sheer numbers,” Chisha announced, and the soldiers took this as their order to charge, which they did with gusto, screaming and shouting.
Arakiya’s eyes went wide. She glanced behind her at the battling siblings—Prisca wielding the Bright Sword gleefully, Vincent receiving her every blow and responding in kind. Arakiya stepped forward, intent on preventing any interference. “Difficult things, I don’t understand. But this is for the princess. For the princess, I would die.”
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