The rays of the end fell upon Zeridheavens. The giant-fort-turned-shining-castle burned, from the ramparts to the ship body to the very tip of its wings. Kaltinas had called Balandialtar an immovable castle that could withstand the ruin of the world. The current Zeridheavens was indeed tough enough to back up that statement—but it wasn’t tough enough. The overwhelming destruction of Sasha’s Ein Aer Naverva burned the ship so thoroughly, half of it was completely destroyed.
“You won’t be able to fly in such a state,” I said, looking down on Zeridheavens. “How much longer are you going to keep lugging around all that weight for? Use Astrastella and come here, Farris. Show the people of Balandias the true wings you can draw.”
“I drenched my brush in blood,” Farris’s voice replied.
Zeridheavens had yet to lose its radiance. Creation magic held the battered hull together as the sky fortress spread the remnants of its wings and mustered its magic to slowly—but steadily—fly up towards the apocalyptic light of Sarjieldenav.
“On my canvas I drew corpse upon corpse.”
Farris’s magic power just barely managed to keep the castle in one piece.
“Even then, I thought I had to protect them, Your Majesty,” he said, as though to encourage himself. “Protect my brothers-in-arms.”
How many battlefields had he lived through since reincarnating?
“The people.”
Just by looking at Zeridheavens, I could imagine how brutal all those wars had been.
“The art of the masters.”
Irrefutably, it had been hell for him. A hell the gentle artist could never escape from.
“Whenever a powerful enemy appeared before me, I only had one means of fighting. My only choice was to either die as an artist or protect them as a warrior, and I chose to dye this ship bloodred.”
He used the rest of his strength to wrap a magic barrier around Zeridheavens.
“It’s too late for me now... At this point, what would I draw? I have no right to pick up a brush after defiling my work with so much blood.”
Zeridheavens slowly rose.
“I transformed Zeridheavens into a weapon. I sullied its soul and sold it to a devil. Even if every person in all the silver seas forgives me, art never will.”
The outspread tattered wings of the ship bravely soared through the apocalyptic light, as if responding to Farris’s emotions.
“Please do not pity me. No matter how unsightly I’ve become, I have not a single regret! I’ve saved people that my paintings could never save! Even if I cannot paint a picture of peace, I can still paint peace. As a warrior, the final hope left for me...”
Even as the ship crumbled apart, it steadily approached the Solar Eclipse of the End, accelerating from its previous speed. Its wings, on the verge of snapping completely, were more powerful than ever.
“...is to use these wings to lead Balandias to victory!”
Voices yelled from the ground—Zaimon, and the other castle lords of Balandias.
“That’s right! You can do it, Farris!”
“You are the wings of Balandias!”
“You are the chosen one of the battlefield, the incarnation of war!”
“No one has ever been as loved by the silver castles as Lord Farris has!”
“Farris Noin is the only Silvercastle Creator of our world! Our strongest warrior!”
“Show Militia’s World the pride of a castle demon! Strike back at them with the impregnable castle that is Zeridheavens!”
Zeridheavens rose further, pushed upwards by their cheers. The battered ship body and bent wings, in a way, reminded me of Farris himself. I cast Fless on the Royal Tiger’s head and cast it aside. Then, I accelerated downwards.
“Lord Farris, our ruler! You are the hope of Balandia—”
With a loud, booming crunch, I snapped off the right wing of Zeridheavens before the castle demons’ eyes.
“Wha...”
“Enough nonsense,” I said. “To all the castle demons and residents of Balandias that know nothing but war, I suggest you shut up, sit down, and watch. What have your Magic Eyes been seeing this whole time?”
I clenched my fist and smashed the outer walls.
“Farris, my freedom-loving subordinate. You’ve done well to survive this hell.”
I then tore all of Zeridheavens’s turrets apart with my bare hands.
“Each and every person who praised you for being a warrior could never live up to your real strength.”
I flew around Zeridheavens, pulverizing the ship until the square castle became round.
“But none of that matters anymore. I’ll break all of it for you. I’ll crush the hopes of these demons in front of their own eyes and show them what a true warrior looks like.”
I flew forwards and smashed through the left wing of Zeridheavens, snapping it with a forceful swing. Under the falling rays of the Sun of Destruction, I demolished the castle once considered tougher than Second Balandias itself, smashing it into nothing over and again, and by doing so, smashing the wings of hope they clung to—smashed the unmoving castle they’d used to imprison an artist.
It was a show of thorough destruction, with all of Balandias watching on.
“Tremble in fear, Balandias. This is strength. This is true war.”
Someone had to tell them. Someone had to stop them. But no such person existed in their world; not a single person in Balandias understood art. Not a single person could compare to the artist Farris Noin.
“You call this a weapon? This flimsy thing? This castle is hardly better than a detailed piece of cardboard.”
At the front of the half-broken Zeridheavens was a series of connected magic circles, where the magic power that supplied the ship was located. Drawn there—in the same place where Farris had once painted the Fasima Groves two thousand years ago—was the spell formula for Balandialtar.
Back then, that spot was where he had not allowed a single spell formula to be carved, even when deployed for battle. It was where he’d kept his faith as an artist. Even in the midst of war, he had set aside a tiny canvas on which he could rest his soul, a sacred place that allowed him to remain himself even as he flew through the battlefield. Yet Farris had broken that.
How much conflict did he feel in having to betray his faith? How much agony? Looking at this castle, more ruin than ship, I could sense the endless sorrow he must have endured all this time.
“I’ll free you from this prison.”
A seven-layered spiral of black particles wrapped around me. I clenched my fist and, with all my might, swung at the Balandialtar formula. With a thundering boom, the wall shattered, and the spell formula that Farris had carved there as a warrior was beaten, punched, and destroyed into pieces.
This castle was built as much upon tragedy as it was stones. I would reduce it until there was nothing left.
I punched through the thick inner wall of Zeridheavens to find Farris standing on the bridge. I then descended to the floor.
“Say, Farris. I don’t think a warrior’s life suits you after all.”
“Your Majesty...”
The face of a dauntless warrior stared back at me. But to me, he looked more like a child on the verge of tears.
“The Demon King’s Army has plenty of soldiers who excel in fighting already. But none of them can paint.” I took a step towards him. “You’re not suited for heroics. And being a ruler is out of the question. Is this where you really belong?”
He took a deep breath before answering. “The artist Farris Noin is dead... He has sold his soul to the devil.”
“Sold his soul? To whom? Kaltinas? Don’t be ridiculous,” I said with a laugh. “I bought your soul two thousand years ago. How can you sell something you don’t have?”
Farris’s eyes widened. I continued walking forwards.
“Everyone here keeps saying whatever they please, but I don’t plan on giving it to anyone against your will. Not Kaltinas, not Maytilen, not Balandias.” Once I reached Farris, I leaned in close to whisper to him. “You can wail and cry all you want, but I will shove a brush in your hand and force you to paint, Farris.”
I moved back slightly and stared into his face.
“You are mine,” I declared firmly, then pointed at my chest. “Your soul resides here. The soul of the artist Farris Noin, unchanged, as it has been all this time. A bit of blood could never taint such a noble heart.”
“Your Majesty...”
With a look of utter shock, Farris fell to his knees. He then slumped forwards slightly and hung his head by my feet.
“I wish...” he muttered hoarsely, with tears running endlessly down his face. “If you would still allow me...”
He reached out with his hands and clung to me. Only then did he finally confess what he truly felt.
“Your Majesty, I wish to paint,” he said imploringly, “just like two thousand years ago...by your side...”
“I’ll allow it.”
Even in a world of never-ending war like Balandias, Farris had never stopped searching: for a place to paint, for a place his paintings could be seen—for a place to leave his soul.
“Paint to your heart’s content. From now on I will destroy any injustice that restrains your freedom.”
I held out a hand to Farris. He looked up at me, face red and wet with tears.
“Seems like I’ve kept you waiting quite a while, Farris.”