Belle was so close to Kir now that Runding’s huge blade was pressed between their bodies. They thrust their swords forward at exactly the same time, and Belle’s left arm was cut to ribbons, while Runding tore through the chest piece of Kir’s armor, crushing it. Miraculously, Belle’s arm was still attached. Kir’s attack hadn’t gone all the way through the bone, but she had lost all sensation below the shoulder.
Her arm was burning. The pain was so intense it felt like her arm was on fire. Everything went white, and within that white world, Kir’s black form alone stood out.
Belle gripped her sword with just her right hand, her bloody left arm hanging limply by her side, her white dress, gloves, and rings all dyed crimson. But despite all that, her consciousness was sharpened to a keen edge, and a singular resolve hardened in Belle’s heart. She waited for the moment in which she could unleash the incredible power contained in Runding—and the moment she did, there was a good chance Belle’s right arm would be blown to bits along with Kir’s sword. Belle was fine with that. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make. There was nothing else she could think to do. She just stood there as a blazing heat swirled through her body.
The crowd cried out in despair, assuming Belle would be slaughtered in the next exchange, with some even giving voice to this nightmare scenario. Sherry had watched the battle in silence thus far, but suddenly she reacted violently.
“Somebody save her!” She shook off the priests holding her back. “Save Belle! Someone, please save her…!”
Kir reacted to the sound of her voice. He suddenly swung his sword in a wide arc, keeping Belle in check, and leaped backward to put some distance between them. Then, shockingly, he turned to Sherry with a furious expression.
“Don’t tarnish this fight!”
As he yelled, Kir took one huge leap toward the stage. The power in his jump was incredible. He soared over the crowd and swung his sword through the air in Sherry’s direction.
Belle leaped after Kir, but she was too late. She wouldn’t make it. And Sherry wasn’t making any attempt to flee. Her face was screwed up in terror, but she stood her ground, opening herself up to Kir’s attack.
Sherry was fully prepared to sacrifice herself to give the priests a chance to cut down Kir. The moment Belle realized this, she moved out of reflex, switching Runding to a backhand grip and hurling it through the air toward Kir.
EEERRREEEHHHWWWOOONNN!
With a mighty howl, Runding closed in on Kir with ferocious speed. Still in midair, Kir swung his sword to block Runding—but the moment he made contact, an explosive power was unleashed in his direction.
Kir’s hooves struck the floor, leaving cracks where he landed. He’d withstood the attack. Propelled backward with incredible force, Kir slid diagonally toward the front of the stage, still holding up his sword as he had to block Runding’s attack. All four of his hooves made a screeching noise against the floor, leaving a trail in their wake, and when he got to the edge, his back hit the stage railing, breaking it. The handrail was carried into the air by Kir’s momentum—and with it, the entire front of the stage collapsed. Kir let out a furious roar devoid of grief as he fell off the ballroom’s second floor along with Runding. And just as Kir was knocked off the stage, Belle landed on it.
“I’m all right, Sherry.” Belle turned around and gave Sherry an encouraging smile, the blood dripping from her wounds clear for the princess to see.
“Oh, Belle… This is awful…” Sherry covered her face with both hands, her eyes peering out between her fingers fixed on Belle’s shredded left hand. The sight of her white dress drenched in red was nearly enough to make Sherry faint on the spot.
This doesn’t really suit me, does it…?
Belle pressed her hand to her cheek, a quirk of Sherry’s. Realizing that she’d done it without thinking, her eyes clouded over for a moment. She held her hand out over the edge of the stage to call Runding—another action she did unconsciously by now.
She had to finish this. That much was clear to Belle, even as her world burned with pain and her thoughts grew hazy.
“Today, when you were singing, you looked like you were really enjoying yourself,” she whispered, and Sherry let out a whistling sort of sob.
The violet priests were saying something. Runding returned to Belle’s hand without anyone touching it. As if following its path, Kir jumped up onto the stage, his entire body covered in wounds.
He leaped over Belle’s head, landing behind her. By now, his cloak was in tatters and his armor smashed. Cuts covered his body, but they didn’t bleed. Instead, something grew out of them, flickering like the God Tree.
Kir stood with his back to the real God Tree. This massive tree pulsed with spells that seemed to constantly multiply and repeat, and the ceiling above the throne was open, exposing it to the sky. This was where the Meteoric Symphonists performed to the heavens, similar to the Celestial Graveyard in the Catacombs.
Countless shapeless thoughts swirled through Belle’s mind.
What was the God Tree trying to say? It had no flowers to spread its words. Only swords for its flowers and the bodies of Solists as its seedbeds to make cancerous swords go through uncontrolled growth.
The God Tree perpetually continued to grow and wilt, containing within it a God that ruled over all through His invisible will. The king was permitted to live inside it, and it consumed the bodies of the finest Solists in the country.
Is that God? Is something like that really this country’s God?
Weren’t Nidhoggs flowers that conveyed the word of the God Tree? In which case, did they try to eat away at the God Tree because it could only convey its message to itself?
Belle thought she could hear the voice of the Guidance in the gaps between her thoughts, but right now all she could think about was the battle with Kir. These vague thoughts simply filled Belle’s heart with a great sorrow. But from those thoughts, a singular conviction rose up, stirring Belle to perform her final piece of Schwertmusik.
Even now, the God Tree isn’t looking at me.
It doesn’t look at anyone.
Only itself…
Kir let out one final howl. He charged at Belle, holding his black sword aloft. Having lost one of his legs, his body tilted precariously to the right. Belle charged as well, flowing across the ground as she raced forward. She was also listing to the right, owing to burning pain in her left arm.
Sherry screamed. The priests murmured. The crowd held its breath.
Belle’s and Kir’s paths crossed atop the stage for just a moment, the Schwertmusik of their clashing swords ringing all the way to the heavens, before they slipped past each other.
As the echoes of their clash lingered, time froze. Belle and Kir stood still, their backs to each other and their swords outstretched. Surrounded by a silence like sinking to the bottom of the deep sea, Belle looked up at the God Tree. She stood there, sword raised, looking like she’d just cut through the tree.
And then, everything was washed over with red. She heard a snap as the hair clips on either side of her head split in two and fell to the ground, undoing her arranged hair. Blood flowed from her forehead over her eyelids, and crimson droplets bounced off her eyelashes.
Runding made a dull thud against the floor, still gripped in Belle’s hand. She’d collapsed, falling to one knee. Sherry let out a feeble scream and started to rush over to Belle, only to stop in her tracks.
Belle heard Kir’s voice.
“…You’re strong.”
Still on one knee, Belle sluggishly looked over her shoulder. She saw the hard lines of Kir’s back as he stood there emanating a sense of pride.
Suddenly, silently, Kir’s right arm separated from his body. The spell carved into the black blade shone crimson, then emitted what sounded like a dying scream as it shattered to pieces and fell to the floor.
“Don’t have any regrets,” Kir said, his back still turned.
Pride filled his voice. Perhaps Kir had taken up this sword knowing he was fated to become a Nidhogg. He looked over the hall, the light already gone from his eyes. Kir’s upper half slowly slid off his body, falling to the floor. His lower, equine half still stood on the stage, balanced on three legs.
Belle had cut his body in half, sword, right arm, and all. Kir’s upper half hit the floor with a wet thud, and his tattered cloak fluttered down, covering his remains beneath the red lining.
“Belle…”
Sherry timidly approached her. The moment she got to Belle, Sherry screamed out urgently ordering for a priest to come and treat her wounds, her face filled with fury and sorrow reflected in Belle’s eyes. Still sobbing, she apologized in a voice that was nearly inaudible.
“I’m sorry, Belle… Look at you… I’m so sorry…”
Sherry pled with Belle as a princess, as a priestess of God, and as a woman, and Belle replied by mustering what little strength she had remaining to smile. Her vision became blurry, but before everything went dark, she caught a glimpse of Kir’s body.
As the darkness settled over her mind, Belle continued to stare at Kir’s corpse, the top half of his body so neatly severed, as if trying to take him with her into her dreams.
The act of cutting someone down felt terribly lonely. Terribly cold.