Northern Aragasa (2)

“If the horse dies, then it truly can’t be undone. We can’t let the horse die just to save magic. Sir Macdogal, you should water your horse too.”

“V-Very well.”

“Then we should rest here and eat for now.”

Azadine could tell Camilla, Kuntachi, and Bernard were in no shape to keep pushing. They had burned through their stamina fleeing through the fog all night.

And it hadn’t been just one night. The pilgrimage band had been chased by an unseen enemy for days, nerves stretched to the breaking point, fatigue piling up.

The moment Azadine declared a rest, Kuntachi and Bernard practically collapsed where they stood.

Camilla, apparently still full of energy, prowled around, rummaging through corpses and cargo to gather food and anything useful.

But then—

“Hm.”

Arael’s voice informed Azadine of the enemies closing in.

“So it’s taking over the Emperor’s Voice’s role.”

After the Emperor’s Voice had entrusted everything to Azadine and vanished, Arael’s voice began fulfilling what the Emperor’s Voice once did.

It announced the coin-contract, scouted the surroundings, and warned of hostile presence.

Even the ghost mountain goat Azadine rode was something Arael’s voice summoned.

Whether it had been created for that purpose from the start, or whether Arael had crafted an artificial spirit specifically for Azadine and now bound it into service, he could not say.

“Arael really was talented. To create something like this… I should’ve talked with her more.”

But Arael was gone now. Azadine focused and examined the approaching enemies.

Northern Aragasa soldiers were coming—armed with crescent bows, single-horn bows, and swords.

There were no other monsters nearby. Were they here to test skill as fellow Aragasa? Or had they come to talk?

Most likely the latter.

A man who looked like the Northern Aragasa commander prepared a single-horn bow. It was a siege bow used by two people: one lay back and braced the massive bow with their legs while the other drew it, set a throwing-spear onto it, and fired. So that was the source of the spears that had tormented the pilgrimage band in the fog.

—Screee!

They launched a spear.

Even from a distance that should have been out of line-of-sight, the spear flew straight toward Azadine.

Just as Azadine could see them through Arael’s voice, they too were clearly observing Azadine’s group with some method.

“So they can see me, too.”

Azadine planted himself with the prisoner wagon behind him and deflected the incoming spear.

—BOOM!

The spear—coming with force enough to skewer him—bent off-course and slammed into the wagon with a thunderous crash.

“Hiiik?!”

“An… an attack?!”

Kuntachi and Bernard, who had been dead asleep, sprang up.

“Calm down. It’s just a letter.”

Azadine pointed at the letter tied to the spear.

“What kind of lunatic sends a letter like that?!”

Camilla bristled. The spear had been aimed precisely at Azadine. If he hadn’t redirected it, he’d be pinned like meat on a skewer.

And yet Azadine himself was treating it like nothing.

“W-What happened?”

“I won’t know until I read it.”

Azadine untied the letter and read.

“To our kin of Hathir’s branch:
We are of Ahaji’s branch, and though we serve a different master, we still value our kin. Yet those you protect are arrogant zealots of a misguided teaching—lives not worth guarding. It is known you are bound by the emperor’s contract, but you have surely already done your due for the coin you received. If so, could we not find common ground as kin? Even if not, we wish to speak with you. If you permit it, may we approach?”

It felt brazen—after firing a spear and only then saying this.

If a fellow messenger-bloodline had pulled that, Azadine would have crushed them on the spot and made them pay for such shameless preemptive aggression.

But because the opponent was Aragasa of another branch, an odd competitive pride rose up.

If he flew into a rage and complained, they could simply shrug and say, “That counts as an attack? To us, it’s just a greeting,” and then it would be the Emperor’s messengers who looked inferior.

“My pride won’t allow that. I’ll send one back.”

Without anyone saying it aloud, a strange pride duel began.

Azadine immediately wrote a reply, tied it to his own arrow, and drew his bow.

Azadine’s bow was an ordinary crescent bow. It did not match the range of their single-horn siege bow.

So Azadine decided to extend the distance using Aragasa classical archery technique.

A standard classical technique increased arrow speed by wrapping the bow and trading a bit of accuracy for more velocity—sometimes called “hook-shot.”

But even that would not reach as far as the single-horn bow.

So Azadine added something more: a sprint, and a full-bodied “throw” motion.

He ran, swung his whole body as if hurling a spear, and released a hook-shot at the moment of peak acceleration.

It was crude, sacrificing accuracy to an absurd degree—yet Azadine was confident his skill could afford that loss and still deliver the shot.

The accelerated arrow flew into the sky.

“Huh? Is he insane?”

The Aragasa squad leader had been watching Azadine’s group through farsight magic.

After deflecting the spear and reading the letter, the messenger-bloodline began writing—so the squad leader sneered inwardly. With a mere crescent bow, there was no possible way he could send an arrow this far.

And yet the messenger suddenly sprinted—then used Aragasa classical technique, doing nearly everything possible to increase range—and fired back.

“Like that’ll even reach us. And even if it does, it’ll fly off somewhere useless.”

But then—

—Screee!

An arrow came flying straight at the squad leader’s head.

“This guy really is insane!”

The squad leader caught the arrow with his hand, startled.

The arrow had lost most of its force after traveling such a ridiculous distance… but the momentum left within it was anything but trivial.

“A-Amazing!”

He admitted it, honestly impressed. To fire back with a technique that absurd—and with this accuracy—what kind of master archer was this?

Even among the Aragasa, famous for great archers, he would be exceptional.

“Huh?”

“He shot back?!”

“That’s impressive—this guy!”

“What rank of messenger is he?”

“Quiet.”

The squad leader hushed them and unfolded the letter.

“This is Azadine, the 108th messenger.
I do not know your reason, but your slaughter of innocent peasants and unarmed folk, and your alliance with Mezerry’s apostles, is far too shameful to call you kin. Still, it is natural for uneducated children to commit errors. If you would consider me an adult and seek my instruction, I am willing to regard you as kin and guide you to the proper path.”

After reading it, the squad leader burst out laughing.

“Not bad.”

“Boss, what’d he write?”

“Can I read it too?”

“Wow, his handwriting is awful.”

They read it and snorted, laughing.

“But if he’s the 108th, isn’t that bottom-rank?”

“Still—he shot back. Not bad.”

“Is that Flowers, Birds, Wind, Moon? I heard those bound by the Contract of Servitude inherit the emperor’s magic book by bloodline.”

“If he used magic, that range makes sense.”

“If it’s magic, then it’s nothing special.”

They all said that, but the squad leader stayed silent.

He had watched Azadine’s return shot through farsight. Azadine had not enchanted the arrow—he had fired it purely with archery skill.

But there was no need to dampen the mood by saying that.

“Everyone, quiet.”

The squad leader silenced them.

“We’ll meet him.”

Azadine sat upright in the middle of the road, eyes closed.

Even with his eyes shut, he could see the surroundings. Soon, the Northern Aragasa approaching revealed themselves.

Even if he tried not to look, Arael’s voice kept watch and would naturally inform him whenever something warranted it.

“Impressive, Emperor’s messenger. Shall we talk for a moment?”

The Northern Aragasa squad leader’s voice rang out. He was still a hundred paces away, yet it sounded as though he were whispering right beside Azadine’s ear.

“Ah!”

The remnants of the pilgrimage band flinched at the voice echoing in their ears. It carried the same “distance” as the voice that had bewitched and mocked them before.

“So that was the technique. With no fog, it’s obvious.”

“But, sis… there’s a lot of them.”

Kuntachi’s point was accurate: ten Aragasa were approaching.

Aside from the man at the front, they were all mid-teen boys and girls—which made them all the more terrifying.

Those youths were the ones who had attacked and ravaged the pilgrimage band.

To have such demonic skill at that age…

“Stop there. That distance is enough to talk, isn’t it?”

Azadine halted their approach.

“Sure. Then I’ll come alone.”

The squad leader stopped his subordinates and walked forward alone.

The distance at which Aragasa duels began was a hundred paces. The squad leader strode inside that boundary and halted.

“You said you’re the 108th messenger, Azadine?”

“That’s right.”

“…The 108th?”

The others listening were confused.

Azadine had clearly introduced himself to them as the 1st messenger—yet these people were calling him the 108th.

In truth, Azadine was both the 1st and the 108th. Since no other Emperor’s messengers remained, what did rank even matter?

But the reason he had introduced himself as the 108th to the Northern Aragasa was the subtle pride between them.

One way or another, Azadine was still of the messenger bloodline. He could not bear the Northern Aragasa looking down on the Emperor’s messengers.

“I didn’t know I’d care about something like this.”

With a bitter smile, Azadine looked at the Northern Aragasa squad leader who had come to draw him in. The man—around Azadine’s age—asked:

“First, I heard the Emperor’s messengers were completely shattered in Vthuma—mutual destruction with a traitor named Arael. And yet you claim you’re truly an Emperor’s messenger, Azadine?”

“I am, without question, an Emperor’s messenger. Now I’ll ask you: why are you targeting these people?”