She isn’t doing this for self-gratification. Not to lord it over the others or to show off. She simply knew she would have to push herself to her utmost limits. And the priest across from her, the subject of the unyielding gaze from behind the bandage, is the same. Her beloved friend, someone with whom perhaps she’s never had so much as a serious argument until this moment, is coming for her. If she doesn’t meet her with all her own strength, then what use is friendship? What use are companions? Her soul-shattering prayer certainly reaches the heavens, for the sword and scales begin to glow with the menacing light of the gods. “Show here your pow—” “Libero!!!” There’s a wail of lightning and a rush of wind. The ear-shattering roar is in fact an agonizing silence. Burning wind scorches your skin, and the light blanks out your vision, your eyes feeling as if they’ve been gouged out. You have no idea how long it takes you to get a grasp on the situation. At first, you aren’t even sure if you’re standing or on the ground, but at last you realize you’re pressing your hands against the floor. Your katana—it’s there. Still held fast in your right hand. Good, that’s good. The first thing you hear is your cousin coughing, then complaining: “Argh… I can’t believe you! Using a spell we still don’t fully understand; that’s outrageous!” She may sound mad, but she rushes straight over to Female Bishop. The young woman has been brought to her knees by the overwhelming spell, her breath coming in small gasps. Your cousin takes her hand. It’s the very opposite of that other scene (which one was that, again?), and for some reason the thought brings a smile to your face. Female Bishop says something back to your cousin; you know because you can see her lips move slightly, but her voice doesn’t reach you. That’s not a problem, though. You manage to get unsteadily to your feet. Strangely, it’s now that your sense of smell comes back to you. The scorched air isn’t that bad, but for some reason it threatens to turn your stomach. You look around to find Myrmidon Monk helping the toppled Half-Elf Scout to his feet. They’re both heavily wounded and obviously exhausted, but neither is in danger for his life. Thus assured, you reach out to Female Warrior, who crouches next to you. “……” She looks vacantly from you to your hand and back, then slowly takes your proffered hand. Her own seems so small and is still trembling faintly. “…Thanks.” Don’t even mention it. You grasp her hand firmly, helping her make it to her feet. Female Warrior wobbles unsteadily but finally gets her balance by leaning on her spear. Then her gaze goes to the tip of the weapon—or rather, the space where it used to be—and grins. “Broke, huh?” Well, it happens. You’re looking critically at your own beloved blade, which has survived the intense battle, then you slide it gently back into its sheath. It isn’t the work of any famous master, but it rose to the occasion when its master needed it, and that makes it a good weapon. From that perspective, even Female Warrior’s spear served her to the bitter end—a good weapon, you tell her. “…Mm, you’re right,” she murmurs, in a tone of gentle happiness. Her hand runs along the shaft of the spear as if to comfort it. Her lips move, forming words of deep fondness and emotion: “My older sister…” You decide to pretend you didn’t hear. Your ears are still ringing, after all. “Ugh… We…we lost…” Instead, you turn to the young lady lying spread-eagled on the ground (a most unladylike position): the priest from the other group. Her cheeks are puffed out in a pout, her singed hair splayed wildly about, and her lips pursed in obvious displeasure. “That whole thing seemed pretty unfair, didn’t it?” the priest asks from the ground. “No…it wasn’t,” Female Bishop, finally able to stand with your cousin’s help, says. She adds a teasing laugh. She bears no visible scars, but her exhaustion must be extreme. She doesn’t look like she could walk without assistance. Yet, even so, she summons all her strength to put one foot in front of the other, working her way over to her precious friend. Finally, she smiles and says: “I only did the best I could.” “Are you saying my best wasn’t good enough?” “Oh, I don’t think so.” There’s no trace of disdain in Female Bishop’s voice, only conviction—and it’s accompanied by another giggle. “Hrm,” the priest grunts as if she doesn’t really believe Female Bishop, but then she runs a hand quickly through her own hair. It hardly looks like it could ever have been neat in her life at this point, but she hasn’t lost her cheerfulness and sweetness. “No changing it, I guess… We lost.” The priest gives a great, deep sigh, then calls dispiritedly to her companions: “You guys dead?” “…I’m alive,” comes a boy’s voice, although he sounds awfully put out. It’s the young magic knight, who presses a hand to his forehead and groans from where he’s lying on his back on the ground. The red sword has fallen from his hand; it must have rolled away somewhere, but you don’t see it. The young man seems more worried about the blood that still drips from his wound, frowning and muttering, “…At least, so far.” You say kindly that he won’t die. Foreheads just tend to bleed profusely. “Hrm…I don’t know. I gave him a pretty good whack!” Female Warrior says, but the chuckle with which she accompanies the comment suggests she doesn’t mean much by it. After a moment, to let out his frustration and disappointment, when the magic knight’s next question comes, he sounds resigned: “What about the others…?” You wonder—you look around the chamber and especially at the blackened altar. The wizard in the black hat is seated against one wall, his shoulders shaking. He appears to be laughing with untrammeled joy—in any case, he is obviously alive. You assume the ninjas are dead, but as for the other two party members, they’re probably safe. You check the fallen lord and sand-bandit girl to see if they’re still breathing, thinking back over the fight. You’d made sure your Magic Missile hit somewhere that wasn’t a vital point, and as for the slash with your sword, well, you didn’t hit very hard. “…All good, then.” “That’s right,” the priest says, almost indifferent. “We’re alive… That means there’ll be another chance.” “Another—another chance,” the magic knight murmurs to himself several times before saying, “That’s true.” He nods. “She’s right… We may have lost this time…but next time, we’ll win.” Mm. But it remains that you and your party are the ones who will reach the deepest depths of the dungeon first, you tell him. “Guess so,” the boy says, smiling ruefully. “If you ever make my friend cry, I’ll never forgive you.” ‘Who needs your forgiveness? We won the fight, so I can do what I want to her.’ Female Bishop turns bright red at that, and the priest exclaims, “Why, you—!” Your cousin bursts out, “Dummy!” and is off and angry again, while Female Warrior gives you an especially vicious jab with her elbow. You groan aloud, provoking a chuckle and an “Oops” from Half-Elf Scout. Myrmidon Monk looks as if he’s trying to ignore the whole thing. Argh, that was embarrassing. The magic knight looks genuinely relieved seeing how uncomfortable you are; he lets out a bellow of laughter. Huh—so you didn’t resent one another after all. Strange as the situation may have been, the fight is over now, the outcome clear, and so that’s the end of it. The boy exhales once he stops laughing, wiping at something that moistens the edges of his eyes as he says softly, “Hey, Teacher. Train with us again. And then next time—” “Too bad! I’m afraid your adventure ends here!” The change is dramatic. “Wha—?!” The confused exclamation might come from Female Bishop or perhaps the priest. Or maybe you yourself—you don’t know. But the next one clearly belongs to the young magic knight. “A—agh… Ahh… Agghh?!” His moaning is so hysterical that at first it almost seems ridiculous—until you see first his face, then his torso, then his limbs go limp, then wither away, crumble, and finally turn to ash. When he tries to move, his clothing crumples soundlessly, ash flowing out of the sleeves. Whispering shadows gather in the depths of the room: “Ahh, a mistake, a miscalculation. I never dreamed your level was so high already…” Darkness billows up as if shrouding itself in the miasma of the dungeon. Before you is darkness itself, incarnate in a humanoid shape. Then you see it; you’re sure of it: In the man’s—the black-hatted wizard’s—hand is the red blade, glowing brightly. A blade unnatural. “Teacher! Help me, Teacher! Why…? What did I…? Why…?!” “Hmm, well, let’s see, here. I thought you were a young man with real potential—I never meant to deceive you,” the wizard says, adopting the tone of a teacher who’s made a mistake in class. He scratches his cheek as if embarrassed, as if the whole thing is a simple misunderstanding. That’s when you notice how strange he is—you couldn’t miss it if you wanted to. Even though he was hit full force by Female Bishop’s spell, an attack into which she threw everything she had—he isn’t so much as scratched. “But you see, it’s a real failing not to know your history. Haven’t I been saying so all along? “Never equip a random ring you picked up.” These words are like the key that sets off the chain reaction. First there’s a clattering of armor as the lord’s flesh turns to ash where he lies on the ground. The sand-bandit girl is the next to lose her body and soul. She turns into a pile of ash as if to hide the blood, leaving behind only clothing and equipment, and your dagger perched in the middle of it all—the old, famous sword and the knife. And lastly, two dull-colored rings. “Teacher…! Tea—” The young magic knight’s voice can no longer form words. Now that the transformation to ash has reached his throat, he probably can’t even breathe. The young man who stood against you, fought you, and might have become friends with you meets his end as a pile of dust. Strangely, there seems nothing dramatic about the way his life concludes. “No! How could you…? Ah—Agghh?!” the priest shouts. Female Bishop, unable to stand it any longer, calls out the priest’s name and reaches out to take her hand—and maybe she would have. But the moment their fingers touch, the priest’s hand falls away, dissolving into ash. “Ah—ahhh—ahhhhh…!” All that remains in Female Bishop’s hand is a fistful of ash, the dust of her former friend. There are ash-filled vestments on the ground and a single lolling ring. That, and the blue cord the priest had worn. As Female Bishop scrambles desperately to gather the dust to herself, the miasma of the dungeon carries it away. Finally, Female Bishop is left on her knees clutching an empty outfit, the cord in her hand. She has to admit it now. Her friend is finally and utterly lost. Your cousin stands beside her, her wizardly gaze surveying the detritus coolly. “This ring… It’s cursed, isn’t it? It’s the kind that drains life energy…” She just manages to grab the ring, which now sits in her delicate hand. It’s a simple gold band, unremarkable, but just for an instant something written on it shines with a dark, reddish light, then vanishes again. “…Was that your plan all along—to steal the life from these children?!” Her voice shakes as she squeezes out the words. Still, she manages to keep a hold on her emotions, her affect mostly flat. The man of darkness—the man in the dark clothing—doesn’t answer. His only response is a voiceless laugh. He seems to be saying there’s nothing left to talk about. Instead, he claps his hands and says: “Ha! Congratulations, brave adventurers!” Bastard… “Now, now, don’t look at me like that. I would’ve thought you’d be a little more pleased…” As he speaks, he sways from side to side like one of the ancient nazgul of legend. He seems almost made of darkness itself, but his smile forms a horrifying red slash across his face. His mouth, like a blood moon on a lightless night, opens and closes in a way that doesn’t look human. “Have you not proven your strength, just as you wished to do?” He speaks as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. The red sword dangles from his hand. “You’ve gotten stronger. Is this not the power you wanted?” Well… You try to speak, but the words won’t come. You defeat enemies, you get stronger. That is what you wanted. But that—it wasn’t the only thing you wanted. “Are you him, you son of a bitch…?” Myrmidon Monk asks, never letting his vigilance lapse for a moment. “Are you the Dungeon Master?” “You think it’s him…?!” Half-Elf Scout sounds shocked; he’s already bringing his butterfly dagger to bear. “…Hrrrraaaaaahhhhhh!!” Female Warrior, summoning all the strength left in her body, dives at the man. She tries to make the iron haft of her spear substitute for the broken tip. In your eyes, the move itself is ravishing, a killing strike imbued with all the fury of her heart. Into it she pours everything she has, everything she is, all her pain, all her feeling. “Wha……?” The man doesn’t dodge the strike. No—it looked like he didn’t dodge it. Instead, he takes a half step. The slightest movement. Enough to evade the blow completely. At the same time, he jabs the hilt of the sword gently into Female Warrior’s solar plexus. “Ah—hrgh?! Hack—!” It’s enough to send her flying like a dead leaf. She skips across the ground with a series of dull thuds until she slams against the far wall of the chamber. It must be a serious shock to her internal organs: She twitches, and blood mixed with spittle dribbles out of her mouth. “H— Hggh… Agh…gh…” She’s alive. You bite your lip as you hear her broken voice. You want to rush over to her, but instead you confront the man. You’re closer to him than any of your party members at this moment. You can’t leave this spot. A single stroke will have to settle—no… That’s not enough to bring him down. You don’t believe you’ll be able to land the blow. The way the man in the black outfit holds himself is simply too perfect. He’s just standing there, not too much weight on either foot, with the red sword in one hand. That’s all. And yet… No matter where or how I strike, I’ll be the one who gets cut down.
Chapter 20
13 min read