How to Teach a Hero at the Academy

Chapter 195: A Certain Tale of Adventure (2)

"The fall of a nation is as brief as an instant."

Trudge.

Iris took a step forward.

Monica followed behind Iris in silence. The outer garment woven of wool fluttered, buffeted by the winter wind. Aren't you cold. Teeth chattering, Monica thought. Iris, with no sign of cold about her, was simply crossing the wasteland as though out for a stroll.

"No matter how tall a fortress is built, it's of no use. In time it will come down. The same is true of nations. Civilizations are buried in the sand, and peoples are scattered to the winds."

In every direction was wasteland.

Pathless dunes spread in every direction, and on each of the countless pebbles an evening chill had settled.

"And what of land, do you suppose."

It had been different hundreds of years ago, she had heard.

From the outskirts of Cyurio to the eastern border region, the land known as the Masterless Wasteland had once been grassland. Without a guide, one would easily lose one's way, yet vegetation had existed here. Arid land thick with grass alone, without trees. That land had taken hundreds of years to decline into desert.

Too short. Monica thought so. Measured against a human lifespan, hundreds of years was a long stretch, but measured against the lifespan of a land, hundreds of years was a mere moment.

This land had died in an instant.

"Just as a nation one day perishes, the world too tends to decline with the passage of time."

Iris stopped walking.

Having reached the top of a dune.

"For the world is, after all, the corpse of the World God. All corpses slowly rot. Even if it is the corpse of a god, it is no different."

What is she even saying.

Monica climbed the dune after Iris.

Damn it, and. Before long she was groaning. Standing on sand was far too slippery. The armor she had put on beneath her outer garment felt especially heavy.

"Oh dear, how clumsy of you."

Iris reached out.

Firm. She caught Monica's swaying arm.

"Be careful. This land is unkind."

"......Thank you."

Perhaps because the land was so empty,

The night sky seemed wide open too. Compared to the capital's sky, the stars stood out. It had to be because magestones weren't being burned. Thinking that, Monica stood atop the dune.

Pat, pat. Iris brushed the dust off the hem of Monica's clothing. Motes of sand swayed in the moonlight.

"How lovely. Shall we rest here a while?"

Iris whispered with a smile on her lips, and,

'I still can't get used to it.'

Monica nodded once.

Iris René von Orléans, only a few days ago, had been a Duke to her. That is, she had known her as a Duke. Watching someone of Duke rank use honorifics time and again, and sleeping in a shabby tent, made her head spin. It was because she couldn't get used to it.

"For a while, as I was operating under the guise of a guide......"

Iris sat down atop the dune.

And then, gazing into the distance, she whispered.

"I experienced the desert firsthand. I wandered alone, and sometimes I escorted merchant caravans. But this land is no good. It's already dead land."

Look, and.

Murmuring softly, Iris reached out her hand.

She pointed far off and went on.

"This land can never be revived."

"......Pardon me."

Monica sat down beside Iris.

Following the gesture of Iris's hand, she gazed into the distance.

A volcano. At the edge of her field of vision, a volcano was erupting. The volcano, roiling with a riot of red lava, held Monica's gaze. The volcanic ash was dispersed like mist so she couldn't tell for certain, but that spot had to be the former territory of the Vianchiel Kingdom. Land so dead no nation laid claim to it. She had heard stories about that place before.

"But I'm fond of this place."

Iris rummaged in the inner pocket of her coat.

Before long she drew out a cigarette and placed it between her lips.

"There was a time when I lived in the desert. This is more familiar to me than a Duke's dazzling bedchamber. A Duke's bedchamber is too comfortable. What's too comfortable ends up uncomfortable."

"Your Grace......"

"Iris."

"Your Grace Iris......"

"Iris."

"Lady Iris......"

So, um, it's a bit embarrassing to ask this again, but,

You truly are a Saintess, aren't you?

Monica asked, and,

"Of course."

Iris answered, fiddling with the cigarette.

She didn't light it. She wouldn't smoke with a child beside her. It was just that she was feeling the itch. She'd been holding back on smoking for the past several days.

"It must be astonishing. And at the same time confusing."

Ssp.

Iris drew a breath in.

She was drawing in through an unlit cigarette.

"You must be having tremendous difficulty accepting Abel's and my movements."

Just a moment.

Doing this makes me feel like a proper addict.

Murmuring, Iris picked up the cigarette. Fiddling with it, she then crushed it in her grip.

"I like that about you."

"You 'like' it?"

Monica's brow furrowed.

"You like seeing me this way? I'm just confused because I don't know how things are unfolding. If I had to rate myself, I look sluggish to my own eyes, and foolish."

"Really?"

Iris tilted her head.

"I haven't especially thought of you as sluggish or foolish, but I do understand how you feel. Still, I like that about you. Being astonished at all manner of things and confused at all manner of things is the very mark of youngness. I love children dearly."

But why, though?

Why do I love children?

Because they are astonished. Because they are confused.

Is it just that?

Iris asked herself, lips pursed, and,

"I've forgotten all of it."

Smiling softly, she looked at Monica.

For a moment, the sky seemed to cry out. A tremendous roar came from the air. No, that wasn't right. A sound was not ringing out from the sky. The land itself was groaning.

"Enough time to let a person's memory rot. Enough to let a nation decline, enough to kill a land. Hundreds of years......"

──Rumble!

A volcano erupted in the endlessly distant, and,

"Monica, from now on, listen carefully to what I say."

Iris wore a smile.

Then she rummaged in the inner pocket of her coat. A journal decorated with ornate patterns. Drawing it out and showing it to Monica, she opened her mouth.

"I will tell you, without a single word of deceit."

We are from another world.

Iris whispered.

"Abel and I are......"

From a very, very far-off place.

We are ones who have come from another world.

***

'Abel Argento.'

Abel recalled Iris's words.

'You truly are clumsy in your handling of matters.'

Creeak, creeak.

The monster seized in Abel's grip groaned.

Sand Worm. A monster commonly sighted in deserts. Its larval form was no larger than the palm of a hand, but after repeated molting it would grow into an adult large enough to swallow a camel. Abel had been tearing apart a Sand Worm nest.

'To think Monica still doesn't know herself. It's beyond lamentable.'

I have made my efforts.

Abel thought as he looked at the Sand Worm.

The Sand Worm had its mouth opened into a round shape and was snarling. The layered teeth sprouting from inside gleamed with a yellowish polish.

'I'm sure that upon meeting you, you said something like, let's save the world together, and out of the blue, in truth you are the Hero — recited it all in a manner that wouldn't inspire the slightest trust.'

Keep the business brief.

Speak my sincere intent without concealment.

Abel did not sense the problem lay with himself. He simply thought that Monica needed time to understand. Disciples he'd met in other worlds had come to believe before long.

Of course, there had been cases of accepting it in an instant. The disciple he had met before arriving in Epezeria had been one such case.

'When conveying sincere intent, a serious atmosphere is needed. I'll take charge of Monica.'

Abel tilted his head.

What difference was there between him and Iris.

Wondering that, he put force into his grip, and,

'You go exterminate the monsters in the vicinity.'

──Crack!

The thrashing Sand Worm twisted its body.

It curled up round as it expired. Inside its translucent outer carapace, the Sand Worm's core, which had been glowing red, also went still. Just like that, Abel flung the Sand Worm away.

Thud. The Sand Worm's carcass tumbling onto the sand. Around the carcass were countless other carcasses. He had just finished upending the Sand Worm nest.

'Will this do.'

Fwoo.

Abel let out a breath.

Sand Worm secretions had spattered across his formal attire. Abel roughly brushed off the hem and took a step forward.

The Sand Worm's nest. Facing the mound formed of piled-up pebbles, he stopped.

'Thirty-three nests dismantled.'

Whirl.

As Abel swept his cherished sword through the air,

'This land is already dead.'

Whoosh.

The fortress of pebbles crumbled into powder and scattered.

The Sand Worm's nest was swept away by the wind.

The towering pebble mound was disassembled by a single stroke, and only the dune that had cooled in the chill stood obstinate before Abel's eyes.

'Shall I rest a while.'

Abel sat down on the sand.

He squandered time, seated however he pleased.

And so silence flowed. Abel did not move,

Silence flowed again. Abel did not move this time either,

And yet again silence flowed. Just as Abel was gazing blankly straight ahead,

"What are you doing here?"

Monica's voice came to him.

Along with the sound of footsteps padding over.

"If anyone saw, they'd think you were a stone statue."

Monica came to a stop beside Abel.

Abel looked up at her once, then shifted his gaze away and murmured softly.

"What has Iris been doing?"

"She said she would look around the vicinity a little."

Monica crouched down beside Abel.

Whooooh. The winter wind blew weakly. Clumps of flying sand were thick in the air.

Before long, Abel scratched the back of his neck and opened his mouth.

"How much did you hear?"

"How would I know. Whether I heard all of it or only part of it......"

"I suppose."

Abel nodded once.

An uneasy silence settled.

"I don't really understand it."

At all, truly, and.

Brushing her hair back, Monica murmured.

"Duke of Orléans's......"

"Iris."

"Duke Iris's......"

"Iris."

"Lady Iris's story — it's not that I disbelieve it. She must be trustworthy. But believing and feeling-as-real are different layers of problem, wouldn't you say? Believing something and feeling it as real aren't the same."

A person who can no longer eat,

A person who can no longer sleep,

A person who came from another world — I can believe in the existence of such people, but,

Feeling them as real is very hard.

Monica murmured, and,

"Most likely so."

Abel murmured as he rummaged in his coat's inner pocket.

"I wanted you to think for yourself, and come to accept it on your own one day. Because no matter how much I might recite the truth with my own mouth, it would be of no use. I thought I could make you believe, but I couldn't make you feel it."

Even now, I am of the same mind.

Abel murmured.

"Will you read it?"

A pitifully worn journal.

As he held it out toward Monica.

"As I said, I have no more story left to write."

I merely keep the journal on me in order not to forget.

Not my story, but yours.

"What is written inside it is a certain tale of adventure."

A tale of adventure that cannot become a fairy tale.

Because its ending was unhappy. A tale of adventure that can also not become a prophecy.

Because it is already being altered. So let me ask.

"Will you read it?"

Will you read the tale of your own adventure.

Abel asked so, and Monica gave no reply.

She merely reached out her hand. After receiving Abel's journal, she hesitated for a moment, then gripped the paper fluttering in the wind and glared at it quietly.

Nothing at all was written in the journal, but,

"Access Monica Lohengrin's record."

Abel quietly intoned, and before long an oracle began to inscribe itself.

Monica stared at the phrases being carved into the journal.

『──I, the God of Oblivion 'Fichte,' gazing upon the world,』

『Thou shalt come to touch the waters beneath memory.』