Episode 25

“Uh… thanks. For the help.”

Van had finally calmed down. He had a lot he wanted to ask, but decided gratitude came first and addressed Zeke.

“…”

Zeke gave no reply, studying the man bound within the ice cell.

“Did you… not hear me? I’m Van. Van Freak. …Do you not understand me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous—he was speaking perfectly fine a minute ago.”

The man in the ice had likely reached his limit; he lost consciousness.

“…He’s not dead, right?”

“Probably not. He’ll need at least basic treatment, though.”

“This is it.”

Zeke murmured. Beneath the man’s hood lay a small pendant. It had been faintly glowing—until Zeke picked it up. The light died.

“So that’s the source of the odd feeling… Hmph. A decent little ‘present.’”

He tucked the pendant away and stepped back from the man, interest already gone from his eyes.

“Hey, think it’s okay if I talk to him now?”

“How should I know…? Try it.”

Van and Eris waited for an opening, but Zeke clearly had no intention of humoring them. He turned to leave without so much as a glance.

“Wait! I’ve got things I—”

“I don’t.”

“Just a minute… please?”

Eris, so pushy before, now sounded almost meek. Brushing death will do that to a person.

“I don’t have time for would-be suicides. Beat it.”

“Wh—who said anything about dying!?”

“Didn’t you? You threw away your weapon and rushed in. What else do you call that?”

Van’s sword still stood where he’d spiked it into the ground. In the shade its ruddy blade no longer gleamed, giving it a different, somber air.

“Real swordsmen don’t rely on their swords. That’s my grandpa—my master’s teaching.”

“How trite.”

Zeke snorted, his expression edging toward mockery.

“What’s so funny…?”

“I’m thinking your old man has it rough—must be exhausting to coach a failure.”

The air grew tense. Van’s face sharpened, anger rising.

“And how would you know I’m a failure?”

“Don’t make me laugh. You charged in bare-handed without gauging your opponent, and nearly died for it. What do you call that?”

“Say that again!?”

His master had scolded him plenty over the sword, but being insulted was new—especially by someone his age.

“‘Real swordsmen don’t rely on their swords’? Then you’re worse than a fake: a pathetic brat.”

“…I didn’t lose. I only let my guard down at the end.”

“So, with the girl’s support you ‘didn’t lose,’ huh? A counterfeit whose excuses are first-rate—hilarious.”

He’d never beaten his master, true—but he’d never lost to anyone his age, either. He’d downed grown men, fought deadly monsters. That experience wouldn’t let him nod and accept this.

“What you did was half-bake the target and leave it at that. And this is the result.”

“You didn’t even fight him!”

“I stopped his stupidity and captured him. What did you do? Poked the hornet’s nest and nearly set off an explosion. …Even in a back alley, how many people would’ve died if these houses collapsed?”

Van’s breath caught. He looked around. It was empty of foot traffic, true, but the alley was hemmed in by clustered homes. If they’d blown… Even hot-headed Van understood instantly.

“‘I only let my guard down,’ was it? And what do the people dragged into it get to say?”

“Not my problem.”

Zeke added, and spat the words out. Eris, who had been listening quietly, had gone pale.

“Think whatever you like. It doesn’t change the fact you almost staged a group suicide. If you want to play at swordfights, do it somewhere else.”

Van bowed his head and clenched his fists. Anger and regret tangled until he couldn’t tell one from the other.

“—Take it back. …This isn’t play. I’ve always taken this seriously.”

He strode to his sword, lifted it firmly, and leveled it at Zeke.

“So I won’t lose to anyone. I got strong to protect everyone.”

He aimed that ruddy blade at Zeke—who didn’t so much as blink. Those disinterested eyes didn’t change.

“Hey! What are you planning!?”

“I’ll prove it. I’m no fake. So take it back. …Take it back!”

He lunged—

—or rather, he tried. A dry clink rang on the stones.

“…Huh? Why—”

There was still a sword in Van’s right hand—hilt and guard. But the blade was gone.

“When the wielder’s a counterfeit, a sword is just a stick. …Pitiful.”

The severed blade—the prideful gift from his master—lay on the ground, sheared off cleanly.

“Why… how… I’ve always—”

“I don’t care what you’ve ‘always’ done. That is your reality.”

Van collapsed to his knees. It felt as if everything he was had just been denied.

“Hard to watch, the lot of it.”

Zeke walked away. The alley fell silent, as if the clamor earlier had been a lie.

Only the loser remained.

Eris and Van were left in the back lane. After a spell of shock, Van recovered enough to talk.

“Hey… you okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry I lost it.”

He answered, but his face stayed dark. No wounds—but the damage to his spirit was grave, and the steadiness in his voice was forced.

“I’m sorry. This is all my fault. I dragged you into my mess and—”

“Maybe it’s hindsight, but… this was the best place for it. If he’d blown on the main street…”

Foolhardy pursuit; overconfidence in his strength. He’d nearly died—and nearly endangered scores of citizens. Not something you wave off as “close call.”

Even so, as Van said, catching the man with no casualties was a mercy.

“Even so… your sword—”

“Everything breaks someday. Grandpa said that, too. …But this time, it’s all my lack of skill.”

He forced a thin smile.

“The truth is… I knew. He was right. I just… couldn’t admit it.”

He looked down at the severed blade. Its luster felt gone—like a mirror of his mood.

“He’s abnormal, that’s all… abnormally strong.”

He’d swung the sword more than anyone. He’d thought and thought about how to get stronger. However hard it got, he never stopped.

“But he’s our age, right? I didn’t even see what he did.”

Same for Eris. By the time she noticed, it was already over.

“I tried and tried. So why is the gap this big?”

Tears brimmed. He clenched his fists and held them back—until he couldn’t.

“What does he have… that I don’t?”

No one answered. Eris could only listen, quietly.

“…Sorry. A guy whining like this…”

“That’s irrelevant. I’ve cried from frustration more times than I can count.”

He managed a small smile.

“Can’t wallow. I’ve got too many goals to chase.”

“So do I! …Such as?”

“Be a swordsman like Grandpa—that’s the endgame. For now… get stronger than that Zeke Lagias.”

Eris blinked at the unexpected name.

“He’s a villain, you know. Why pick him?”

“…A friend of mine once told me about him. Said Zeke was stupid strong—and the first friend who was ever truly kind.”

“Wrong guy?”

Eris ventured.

“Maybe. I’ve never met him. …But I can’t shake the bad image.”

“When you say it out loud, that is odd. Where did it come from—because everyone else says so?”

Neither could answer the question that had suddenly come to them.

“Anyway. The capital’s wild. Him—and that black-haired kid—were both insane.”

“Don’t lump us in with that. I’m from the capital and I’ve never seen anything like that. Abnormal!”

They found themselves fired up talking about Zeke. Rivalry, inferiority, guilt—they felt all that, but not hate. A peer their age with strength beyond understanding—how could you not be excited?
So excited, in fact, they forgot the man in the ice cell—badly injured, still waiting.

“Think he’ll tell the guards? …No, of course he won’t. We still have to return the bag to the owner.”

“Let’s just… report it.”

“Uh, isn’t this… fast for results? I was sure he’d slack off.”

The security heads—knights and mages—had been hastily re-gathered. The pace of developments left several blinking.

“…You could say he’s ‘motivated’ in his own way.”

A black-haired boy had suddenly shown up at Knights HQ and demanded to see Schtrolk. Naturally, they refused to bring an unknown straight to a regimental commander—until the boy’s name and attitude changed the math.

“Oh? You lot use Lagias (me) when it suits you, and now it’s ‘wait at the door’?”

Arrogant tone, black hair, and “Lagias.” Given the recent gossip, it wasn’t hard to peg him as Zeke Lagias.

He flicked a small pendant to a knight.

“Keep it. Do your precious investigation properly.”

He turned to go, ignoring questions.

“Try the back lanes southwest of the capital. You might find the kind of thing you want.”

And that was that.

“They say the pendant carried a perception-obfuscation array.”

After the report, everyone split back to their posts. Yorn and Marcus stayed to debrief.

“Supposedly a strong one… but then how did he perceive the suspect?”

Perception-obfuscation is a staple of scouts—thin your presence enough and eyes slide off you. Handy for recon, ambush, or escape.

“There are many kinds, and none are absolute. It just didn’t work on him.”

Physical contact cancels it; people with natural resistance or sharp instincts are hard to fool. And once someone fully pierces the veil, those around them tend to follow—contradictions give the game away.

“So a trinket that lets the untrained use advanced obfuscation. …If there are several of those?”

“Good thing he was nearby this time. …At this point—”

“It’s confirmed. The man they caught bore the same arrays. The group that moved in Apion is also in the capital.”

The glyphs carved into the men: nothing like them existed in the Diabalet Kingdom.

“And we can’t even extract intel. …Monstrous.”

To block leaks, the men had been inscribed with a death-curse that triggers automatically under magic probes or interrogation. The sigil was obvious on purpose; try to dispel, and the tripwire snaps. Thorough—and infuriatingly hard to counter.

“At this point, pride’s a luxury. Use every tool we have.”

“Bad blood doesn’t fade so easily. I know; I was the same. …The things the Lagias house did won’t be balanced out overnight.”

Marcus could say that only because he’d seen the boy’s heart—and had his life saved. Without that, he would have thought the same as the rest.

“Still, I wish he’d work with us.”

“He’d never agree.”

“Are you a grand herd of incompetent cattle? Go graze elsewhere. Don’t come near me.”

Hardly soothing. It only poured oil on the fire—made the hostile more hostile—and even spurred some to “beat Zeke’s results” out of spite.

“Motivation’s nice. I just hope they realize: the louder they move, the more the enemy tightens up.”

“…Training subordinates is a leader’s job. A job for people like you.”

Yorn shook his head. He joked often, but Marcus never forgot the man was sharp—and dangerous to underestimate.

“Good grief. The moles we slipped in with the adventurers got taken out with the rest. We’re exposed.”

The agents Aktor had salted into the mock bout had been knocked out along with the adventurers Zeke launched.

“Lord Aktor, with respect, the situation has shifted. Devoting resources to Lagias—”

“No. Continue surveillance on Zeke Lagias. He is the hinge.”

A force that had nearly dropped an entire city by curse had entered the capital. Critical, yes—but Aktor remained fixed on Zeke.

(Is he doing it all knowing full well how visible he is?)

“Understood. …And the two who seem to have crossed his path?”

“We could call it coincidence—and for now, we will.”

(That Freak boy from the Trading Company, and a knight’s kin. How does Lagias tie those threads?)

“If this stays a ‘curse scare,’ we’ll be fortunate… but I doubt we’ll be that lucky.”