Among these Froggies, one stood out with her supple limbs and viciously matured lily-white sword. It was Mist, a Froggie girl they’d once fought alongside against Tiziano’s dead soldiers in the battle for the catacombs. Her twin brother, Cloud, was nowhere to be seen. Froggie culture usually had women leading the armies, which was why Mist was bravely, single-handedly leading their unit, both giving all the orders and wielding her sword on the front lines.
“No running away now, Guinness! If you do try to run, I’ll chase you down to the ends of the earth and slit you open!”
EVREN
Mist pointed her sword, marked with a spell standing for both courage and cowardice, in Guinness’s direction. But although it looked like she was boasting at first, her swing immediately connected into an attack that ran through one of the top dog Solists. Even from afar, Guinness could see Mist’s brave, defiant smile.
The sword she wielded had once been Guinness’s, but even from a distance he could see Mist had tempered it in a most unusual manner.
“Oh, brother.”
A startled expression covered Guinness’s face. Mist’s rampaging, unrestrained fighting style swiftly broke any order and organization in the top dog vanguards’ ranks.
“I didn’t plan for her to emerge from the rear guard. I mean, she is going after me… I guess that explains why the enemy’s vanguard is so stable.”
“You two are still making these crazy bets of yours?” Benet asked in annoyance as he skillfully wove a barrier to help protect the troops in their vanguard.
“Pretty much. If I lose this fight today, I’ll have to become an underdog tomorrow.”
“Then just make it so if you win, she has to join the top dogs. You have the authority and funds to make that happen.”
“I can’t do that… She has her position as the leader of her clan to consider,” Guinness muttered with a voice lacking confidence. “How did things get to this…? Damn it. I can’t afford to switch sides now…”
It seemed Guinness and Mist had an agreement that whoever lost had to go over to the winner’s side—a bet that very much spat in the face of Park City’s established order. The Pianist priest gave him a dubious look—or rather, a dubious retort, since his face was hidden behind a mask. “You two aren’t colluding with the underdogs, are you?”
But Guinness met the priest’s solemn chiding with a completely sober, serious tone.
“Rest assured, I am not holding back here. She’d kill me if I did.”
He swung his baton, ordering the soldiers in the crumbling front lines to withdraw, silencing the priest who still looked like he had something to say.
As Guinness’s baton whooshed through the air, Benet fired water crystal shots that issued orders for the frontline soldiers to fall back, and in their place the back lines, made up mostly of low-ranking Solists, stepped up to fight with practiced steps. Some of them spoke to Guinness and Benet atop the stemgrasses with friendly voices.
“Conductor, I’m hoping to earn a lot today.”
“Yeah, I’ll try to move the formation to accommodate that.”
“We’re grateful, ya know. It’s thanks to your command that we get to see action.”
“And we’re counting on you, Editor. I’ll be cutting loose today, so I’m counting on your spells to keep me standing.”
“Those guys call themselves Solists? How the hell are they ranked higher than us?”
“Eh, don’t be like that. They probably think they really put on a good show out there.”
“Definitely.”
“And we get to make some denari while we clean up after them.”
“Counting on you, Guinness.”
“We can feel safe with you watching our backs, Benet.”
“Here they come. Let’s go!”
“Aye, sir.”
“Yeah!”
They marched onto the battlefield with the composure of those confident in their prowess but without any negligent carelessness. Benet and Guinness exchanged some friendly jabs and remarks with the low-ranking Solists and watched them talk badly about the vanguard who, although they had been miserably forced to retreat, had at least carried out their duty as high-ranking Solists. Seeing Guinness and Benet approve of the Solists criticizing those outranking them, the priest muttered another word of complaint, but it was ignored.
After all, this well-known pair lent out their blades to give the priests a taste of what battle was really like, knowing that they can’t draw their own swords without direct orders from God. Many priests were fed up having to watch others fight day in and day out and took them up on their offer for a change of pace. This also had the effect of the priests stopping commenting on their conduct.
So while the priests didn’t like the way they ran their mouths, they knew that insisting on making comments would just drag them into the battle instead. And as priests who suppressed their desire for battle, many would end up falling for it even if they knew they were being talked into trouble.
And so the priest standing behind Guinness and Benet on the stemgrass knew better than to say anything thoughtless.
As if to indicate that he knew what the priest was thinking, Guinness ostentatiously raised his voice from atop the stemgrass, replying to the Solists. He leaned in with forced cheerfulness, as if he’d been waiting to respond. This, too, made the priest scowl under his mask, but he held his tongue.
“Sorry, Belle, I’m sure I’ve kept you waiting!”
“Well… Yeah.”
Contrary to her concise response, Belle raced into battle with a ferocious expression. Gripping her massive sword with her unique style, she raced onto the front lines in a way that felt conspicuous, which made the surrounding Solists look at her with expectant eyes. Some spoke to her in friendly, familiar voices, to an extent that baffled Belle a little.