Chapter 196 : Chapter 196
Chapter 196: A Certain Tale of Adventure (3)
『 Table of Contents for 'Monica Lohengrin' 』
─ Values
─ Traits
─ Secret Arts
─ Story
Monica narrowed her eyes.
She glared at the letters being inscribed inside Abel's journal. A whole table of contents — for Monica Lohengrin, no less. It was rather absurd. Was there worth enough for that? Did my life have worth enough to be split into chapters? Monica thought she really didn't know.
"Story."
Abel murmured in an indifferent tone.
At that, the table of contents inscribed in the journal vanished, and,
『 The Story of 'Monica Lohengrin' 』
Age 18:
─ I wish I had been a graveyard.
I often thought that. That instead of one human being made of blood and flesh, I would rather have been some graveyard formed out of earth and stone.
Life doesn't suit me. It would have been better to be a dead space than a living being. Whenever I'm lonely I try to touch the right arm I've lost, but my hand can't reach it, so I keep reaching for memory instead. The people I've lost along with my right arm should be buried somewhere, and since there's no graveyard for them I should bury them in memory, but because I keep on living, I keep on digging them up.
Before long, the story was being written.
Monica read the story without opening her mouth.
She had heard it from Iris already. That her own world, Epezeria, had once perished. That Monica had once died as well. So this is not my story. And at the same time, it is most certainly my story. Thinking that, Monica let out a sigh. The Monica who was alive was reading the story of the Monica who had already died.
"It is an oracle."
Abel explained in a quiet tone.
"Information shared from the Pantheon is what gets written into the journal. People like myself and Iris all carry journals. We use them to observe the state of the world and to predict the movements of the children we are each to watch over."
That man came from another world.
Monica thought as she looked at Abel.
She had naturally assumed he was no ordinary person. To begin with he was a Sword Saint, and just looking at his swordsmanship, he seemed to have transcended human limits long ago. His head wasn't quite right either, it seemed.
"I look through my journal often as well, but......"
I do not enjoy reading the stories of my disciples.
Because their endings are predetermined. Because they are stories of failure.
Abel murmured, and,
"How many is it."
Monica scratched the back of her neck and asked.
"For you, Professor, what number does this world make?"
"This is the 97th."
"That's ridiculous. I never dreamed there could be as many as 97 worlds."
"Far more than that. The Main Gods would not make only one world. If they have learned how, they would make them again as many times as needed. The way humans churn out countless tools."
Abel's words were correct.
For the Main Gods, worlds had to be like tools.
That did not, however, lower the dignity of a world. Humans cannot eat without dishes, and so produce dishes in great number. For the Main Gods, worlds were like dishes. Just as humans need dishes, the Main Gods needed worlds, and so they had churned out countless worlds up to now. Put that way, it was something one could understand.
It was only that Monica's imagination was struggling to keep up.
"You've been reborn......, 97 times?"
"I have."
"So all of it was true. What you said back at 'The Tomb of All Heroes.' I'd thought you were lying to win the prize, but......"
"I am not good at lying."
"......Of course you aren't."
It's because you're not good at it that it sounds far-fetched.
You speak your sincere intent so casually, after all.
Monica murmured.
"Sincere intent is hard to bring out, and especially with stories like these......"
He cannot eat. He cannot sleep.
He is born. He dies. And then he is born again.
Repeating death and birth and death again, he traverses every kind of world. And so Abel had lost the vital force a human ought rightly to have. His soul had been worn down too far. The reason he could no longer eat, the reason he could no longer sleep — it was precisely because of that. Recalling Iris's explanation, Monica let out a sigh.
"Did the thought never come to you that it would be all right to die?"
This is enough.
Let me rest. Let me close my eyes already.
I'm tired. Let it end here.
Did such thoughts never come to you?
Monica asked, and,
"Not at all."
Abel answered briefly.
"As long as the Demon King exists, my adventure does not end."
"A madman. A real madman. Doing it like that......"
It's far too painful, and.
Murmuring softly, Monica looked at the journal.
『 The Story of 'Monica Lohengrin' 』
Age 23:
─ Why did the Holy Sword choose me.
No, why did the World God choose me.
I had nothing to give. No matter how I rummaged in my pockets, no coin came to my fingers. Without a single coin to throw down beside the divine images, without so much as a fitting line of prayer to summon, I took hold of the Holy Sword.
The Saintess, Noel, says.
He did not choose what you have.
He chose what you do not have.
The mage, Lizer, says.
You needn't ask any longer who you are.
Because everyone but you knows.
The strategist, Kroni, says.
There's no guarantee we'll succeed.
I'm scared. But let's try believing in the odds.
The inspector, Isaac, says.
It is time to set out, Hero.
Look. At the ominous staircase laid between sky and earth.
Noel, Lizer, Kroni, Isaac......
So the scenes I saw in dreams were also real. Monica accepted it with her mouth pressed shut. Did Senior Lizer already know all this? He must have. From what they had said about the Mother God's Right Hand and the Mother God's Left Hand, Lizer must have approached Monica already knowing what he himself was.
'And after all this......'
Monica gently closed her eyes.
'......I went and failed.'
Maybe it was a natural enough outcome, she thought.
Of course it would have failed. Without Abel's help she would never have had the chance to learn swordsmanship, much less to be admitted into CIAR. What did the Monica Lohengrin recorded in this journal possess. What did she possess that the Holy Sword, the World God, would have chosen her for. Monica thought she really didn't know.
"It is not the most outstanding who is chosen."
Abel suddenly murmured.
Monica's gaze tilted toward him.
"Nor is it the strongest, nor the noblest who is chosen by the Holy Sword. It was so even with me. In my world there were countless people far more outstanding, stronger, and nobler than I."
It must have chosen because there was reason enough to choose, then.
Abel whispered.
"I would probably still have been working as a sweeper, you know?"
"God does not weigh occupations."
"And I wouldn't have my right arm. This prosthetic was bought by you, Professor."
"God does not weigh bodies."
"Then what on earth was it that He paid attention to."
"I don't know."
I don't know either, and.
Abel said with a shrug.
『 The Story of 'Monica Lohengrin' 』
Age 27:
─ Let me write this last.
My journey has failed. This world will perish.
Blood stains the land and screams echo in the empty air.
So I can say it. I think I can say it now.
The world didn't matter. The people roaming the lands didn't matter, the animals gathering in the valleys didn't matter, and I couldn't love so much as a single tuft of grass swaying in the wind. Maybe that was the very first reason I failed.
But I wanted to protect it. I wanted to protect this world.
Because this world is......
Fwoo.
Monica drew a long breath.
The line of writing that had flowed without pause was suddenly cut off. To herself, to the self that had failed, what meaning did this world hold? In the end, she could not know. Even the Main Gods could not know. The reason the journal's contents broke off so abruptly had to be that.
"Just......, let me ask one more time."
Monica looked at Abel.
She gently closed the worn journal and held it out. Watching the hand that took it from her,
"Am I the Hero?"
Monica asked, on purpose.
I would have failed, surely. I would not have been able to save the world. Can a Hero who failed still be a Hero? In every story she had read so many times, the Hero never once failed. The one who must not fail must be the Hero.
"Of course."
Abel answered without hesitation.
"That is what you will become."
Because I will help you.
Toward Abel, who whispered so,
"Then let me ask this once more, too."
Monica put forward another question.
"Are you the Hero, Professor?"
"No."
Of course not.
Gazing at Abel's cherished sword, Monica thought.
That man no longer had a Holy Sword. He was simply carrying weapons as worn as if dragged out of a mire. At 'The Tomb of All Heroes,' Abel had spoken to everyone. About the deaths of his comrades.
"I am only a madman."
That must be how it has to be, perhaps.
If by any chance that — Abel's cherished sword, every weapon Abel carried, if by any chance......
"You're really......"
If they were comrades' weapons he had carried on his body for thousands of years,
If they were merely keepsakes......
"......Out of your mind."
In that case Abel had to be a madman.
He had to be, without question, a madman.
Because excessive nobility could be no different from madness.
***
"──Outsiders!"
A bell rang out.
The boy, Yohan, snapped his head up.
He had been helping with the field work. With volcanoes ringing every side, the land of Yohan's birth lay inside a vast pit. According to what he'd been told, the god had dug out the pit with his own hands. Some thirty-odd people had gathered there and built a settlement. Because amid sprawling dead land, only the inside of the pit was just barely green.
"──Everyone, gather! Outsiders!"
Pant, pant.
Yohan ran, gulping for breath.
Visits by outsiders were rare. The last outsiders to come had been five years ago. The quiet village was buzzing with the visit of outsiders. If they hadn't reached the village by chance while wandering, then beyond doubt they had to be envoys sent by the god.
- It's been so long. To think outsiders would come to this village.
- Today must be a blessed day. Let's all welcome them with grateful hearts.
- Let us host them warmly. That is what we live on for.
- Now, Yohan! Don't get too excited.
Yohan slipped between the villagers.
The villagers were welcoming the outsiders. Past the village's entrance set near the watchtower, three outsiders were drawing closer, and,
"Speak──!"
A shout rang out from the watchtower.
"Who are you!"
The question rang out alongside the bell, and,
"Abel......"
One of the outsiders,
A bald, brawny giant of a man, opened his mouth,
"No — Marchen Blackmore."
"Monica......"
Another of the outsiders,
A blond girl resembling some small animal, opened her mouth.
"No — Roberta Sinclair."
"Now is it my turn to introduce myself."
Yet another of the outsiders,
A young man with copper-toned skin, smiled.
"Nizam Hashemi Rafsanjani."
My name is Nizam Hashemi Rafsanjani.
I came from the east. No, from this side it would be the west.
The young man murmured.
"A pleasure to meet you all. Who might you be?"
He then put a question to the villagers, and,
- Let there be light!
- Let there be light!
- Let there be light!
The villagers cried out, smiles filling their faces.
"Let there be light for the God of the coming Parousia!"
Yohan was no different.
Drawing out small daggers, the villagers sliced together as one.
Their right arms.
They drew the blade across skin already mottled with shallow cuts.
"──We bless you!"
And so they cried out together.
Holding out right arms streaming with blood.
Holding out their right hands toward the outsiders.
"We bless you who have arrived at the holy land of Conatus!"