Chapter 373 |
Strongest Knight of the Round Table (3)
"Come at me properly, you honorless sword-swinging bastard."
Najin's voice echoed. Staring at the blade pointed at him, Lancelot said nothing. Come at him properly? What was that supposed to mean?
From the moment the fight began, it was Lancelot who had been dominating. The injuries alone told that story. His opponent had landed barely one clean hit. And yet the other man spoke as though he were the one testing Lancelot.
Lancelot's brow furrowed.
Phrases like "come at me for real" or "give it everything you have" were things he could not understand. In Lancelot's eyes, Najin was nothing more than an intruder who had forced his way into his domain. There was no reason to treat that with any particular seriousness.
What exactly does he want from me?
All of it felt like a burden. Why he stood here, who he had been, where this place even was, all of it had gone blurry.
"I am." "I am." "My name is." "This humble self is."
"This one is the champion of the Allied Nations." "Pillar of the Empire." "Tomorrow Pillar." "This is Londinel, the nation of blue flowers." "Demon blood runs through my body, but I am human." "I am." "Even so." "We are."
All kinds of memories were tangled together inside his head. In the place where memory flowed like a river, at the end and the beginning of that current, Lancelot had remained for a thousand years. He had done so because he had to.
The result was that his sense of self had grown faint.
The ability to tell where he ended and where the memories of others began had blurred. Lancelot had sunk to the bottom of that river built from memory.
He did not need to think about anything.
He did not need to worry about anything.
The memories carved into his body always found the optimal motion. Like precise machinery, they received the opponent's attacks, countered, and drove the enemy back. There was no room for Lancelot's will to wedge itself in.
'I am tired of this.'
Tired of all of it. Clutching his throbbing head, Lancelot sank deeper. His self began drifting down into the river's depths.
But.
Claaaang!
Najin would not let him sink. A sharp tearing sound rang out beside Lancelot's ear. Looking ahead, a young man was charging in like a madman.
In his hand shone a platinum-colored sword.
The Star Sword, Excalibur.
The radiance Excalibur cast, the platinum sword aura wrapped around it, battered Lancelot. Starlight too brilliant to ignore blazed before him.
'Again.'
Lancelot swung his sword with irritation.
'Again, it is you.'
That damned starlight had always been like this. It never left him alone. He saw the starlight that had lifted him from this very state without his consent, made him a knight, given his life meaning, then stripped it away again.
Toward that hateful starlight, Lancelot reached out.
Deep in its sunken place, Lancelot's self stirred. It was a small movement, but the still pool of memories began to ripple.
"Lancelot, think again. You don't have to be the one to carry all of this."
"I'll do it. I'll be the center instead."
"I'm the Witch of Forgetting, aren't I?"
"I can endure it better than you can."
Her voice. She was gripping his hand and pleading. But he did not grant her wish.
"I understand."
"I'll respect your choice."
"Don't make that face. Do you remember what I said that day? That no matter what happened, I would be with you."
"Yes."
She held Lancelot.
"Let's fall into hell together."
Using her voice as a guide, Lancelot traced back through his memories. Within the swirling tide, her voice continued, faint but unbroken.
"You're going to forget yourself. You'll be buried under so many memories and lose who you are. You can forget me. You can lose yourself. But please remember just this one question."
She whispered into Lancelot's ear.
"Why do people forget their memories?"
Why do people forget? Why do they forget something and then live on having forgotten it? What answer had he given to her question? Lancelot searched through his memories.
To find the answer he had forgotten.
2.
The Star of Oblivion, Guinevere.
Her gaze was not turned toward her enemy. She was looking down at the bottom of the Sanctuary of Oblivion, the deep place where Lancelot and Najin had fallen together.
"Why."
A voice from ahead made Guinevere lift her head. It was the one voice she could not ignore.
"Are you worried? That Lancelot will lose?"
Merlin. Her teacher and her benefactor.
Even after losing everything to a witch, this was someone who had willingly taught magic to the witch that she herself had been. Though Merlin had forgotten, Guinevere remembered those days.
"I am not worried."
Guinevere shook her head.
"Because he will not lose."
"You shouldn't be so sure. That kid is far stronger than you think. Among all the heroes I've seen, he stands alone."
"I think you may be misunderstanding something, Merlin."
Guinevere wore an unreadable expression.
"I'm not underestimating that child's strength, nor am I overestimating Lancelot's. What I'm talking about comes after that."
She tilted her head.
White hair fell across her face.
"We will not lose, Merlin."
"...What?"
"Whichever way it goes, we will win."
And then she said:
"I have placed my own hopes in the heir of King Arthur that you brought here. I found myself thinking, perhaps."
Starlight was flooding the bottom of the sanctuary. Watching the rippling platinum starlight, Guinevere recalled a question and answer exchanged long ago.
'Why do people forget their memories?'
Do you remember now, the answer you gave me back then? Please remember it. Guinevere prayed that he would stand before her as Lancelot once more.
* * *
Lancelot recalled his past.
Arthur had left.
No matter how great a plan Arthur had laid, Arthur himself had no place in the future Arthur envisioned. It was a plan completed by his death.
"I bear no grudge against you, or Mordred, or anyone. Who would I hold a grudge against?"
"I only ask that you carry on."
Those were the only words Arthur left behind before he departed.
Lancelot had not been able to stop him, and Arthur had carried out his plan in the end. That was how Arthur died. The king whom Lancelot had admired, longed for, and leaned upon had, at the last, put a period at the end of his own story.
So what was the self left behind supposed to do?
The king who had guided him was gone. There was no one left to offer counsel. And so Lancelot asked questions of himself. It was the only thing he knew how to do.
...Lancelot doubted.
The king had said it. The reason he had been chosen was because he constantly doubted himself. Because he questioned the path the king walked. Because he doubted whether it was truly the right road, that was why the king had seated him at the Round Table, so Arthur had told him.
Galahad had affirmed Arthur's way.
Galahad considered it right.
But Lancelot did not.
Lancelot doubted Arthur's way. That doubt was not meant to deny Arthur, though. Lancelot still respected Arthur. Arthur was his benefactor, and the lord he had served.
'So.'
To doubt was to supplement.
The plan of Arthur's that Lancelot had seen was unstable. Whether Arthur succeeded or failed was for later generations to judge. Arthur had created only a thin thread stretching toward the future, the faintest of possibilities.
Perhaps that thread would snap before it reached anyone. And even if it did reach someone, the odds of that person succeeding were slim. The probability of failure was overwhelmingly higher.
If that happened, this entire journey would be meaningless.
'The king's death would become worthless.'
That could not be. It must not be. He could not leave things that way, so Lancelot sought a method. And he was not the only one.
Merlin, Mordred, the Knights of the Round Table.
Each chose their own path.
The fairy Merlin sealed herself away. Mordred willingly took on infamy. The Knights of the Round Table took their own lives to leave their stars behind. Every one of them, in their own way, added their star to the thread Arthur had left.
Hoping the thread would not break, they sacrificed themselves.
'I.'
Lancelot looked to a place further still.
'Then what I must do.'
Was for the time after that possibility carried on.
The heir of Arthur who would one day appear.
The successor who would take up this possibility could not be allowed to fail. Lancelot knew the reason Arthur had failed. The same failure, the same history, could not be allowed to repeat.
'If it fails this time, there will be no next time.'
Because he had doubted Arthur, Lancelot had prepared for the possibility that Arthur's plan would fail. He readied the Lesser Evil to avoid the worst outcome.
'The Sanctuary of Oblivion, the Ark of Humanity.'
Because he trusted Arthur, Lancelot sought a way to make Arthur's plan succeed. He readied the Best to avoid the worst outcome.
'A space to strengthen the star of those who come after.'
The Sanctuary of Oblivion was a space that could fulfill both purposes. To build this space, sacrifice was unavoidable. Lancelot stood at the front of that sacrifice.
He made himself the center.
He chose to become the vessel that would hold the memories.
Yes. That had been his role. For this, Lancelot had to endure the long years. Waiting for a tomorrow that might never come, he stood at the heart of memory.
'Whether it will be the Lesser Evil or the Best, I do not know.'
That was not his to decide.
It was for the successor who would one day find this place.
Waiting for that day, which might never come, Lancelot sank down beneath the river of memories.
'It doesn't matter. Let it go. Let everything go.'
All the memories tangled together. The boundary of self grew faint. He whispered to himself that it was fine if he broke apart.
Because Galahad was there.
Even if he fell apart, the Galahad he had separated from himself would complete the purpose. If something had to be left behind, it was right to leave Galahad rather than a Lancelot who was dirty and clouded. He had judged it so.
'Galahad will complete the goal.'
Because Galahad was him, drawn only from his most perfect parts. An ideal hero. He would be able to do it. Believing that, Lancelot sank.
He sank, and yet.
"Did I not say so?"
At the voice, Lancelot raised his head. Galahad stood there, looking down at him. Slumped where he sat, Lancelot looked up at Galahad.
"Why are you here?"
"Because I am also you."
"You are not me. You must not become me. You were to stand as the guardian responsible for the ark, watching over it there. Why have you not carried out your duty?"
Galahad did not answer. Instead he pointed upward. Even from the river's bottom, the surface was visible. A star was flashing up there.
"That starlight is troublesome, is it not."
"......"
"The starlight of King Arthur has always been like that. It does not permit us to stand still. History describes him as a compassionate man, but in truth, he was not that, was he?"
Galahad smiled, bitter.
"Rise."
He looked down at Lancelot.
"Rise, take up your sword. Do not run. Do not look away. Face yourself directly. That is what the king always said. His successor turns out to be exactly the same."
"What are you trying to say?"
"Remember."
The star flashed. The surface churned violently. The starlight reached all the way down to the bottom of the river. With that starlight at his back, Galahad spoke to Lancelot.
"I have no intention of pressing upon you that we are sinners, of belaboring the obvious fact that we massacred millions. Only remember the starting point."
Galahad pointed to the sky.
"What it was we were trying to do."
Stars shone in the sky above. Ten stars forming the constellation of Lancelot, and of Galahad.
"What was the star you could not let go of, even to the very last."
He pointed at Lancelot. Lancelot looked at his own hand. A single star rested there. One star he had honed and polished while waiting for a tomorrow that might never come.
"Do you remember?"
Galahad gave a small, dry smile.
"What are you waiting for? Go on."
When Lancelot raised his head again, Galahad was not there. No, perhaps Galahad had never been there to begin with. Lancelot closed his eyes and opened them.
'Why do people forget their memories?'
At the bottom of the Sanctuary of Oblivion. At the bottom of the river built from memories pooled over ages, Lancelot recalled the answer.
"So as not to forget the most important thing."
Lancelot remembered his wish.
3.
Even as he swung his sword, Najin's gaze was fixed somewhere far away. Something felt as though it were about to come into view. A level of mastery that had until now appeared only in blurs was taking on a clear shape.
He could see it.
Something, within reach.
Injuries had accumulated on Najin's body, but rather than slowing him down, his movements were growing faster. Even Lancelot was now choosing to dodge Najin's attacks rather than counter or parry them.
Sharp. Not every strike was sharp, but out of ten swings, two or three produced blows that could cut through the Cross Shield.
Najin's tenth star was trying to rise.
Climbing the tower of heroes, tempering himself through repeated battles with Galahad, the star that had drawn close to completion took on a definite shape. Its outline grew clear. One step remained. To take that step, Najin pushed himself harder.
While Najin pressed forward with his eyes fixed on that step ahead.
Lancelot's breathing changed.
Najin's instincts screamed. The future unfolding before Najin's eyes pointed to death. The gaze that had been fixed far ahead snapped to the present. Najin and Lancelot locked eyes, Lancelot's blazing before him.
Something shifted in those pupils.
Starlight entered Lancelot's eyes, which had been empty until now.
At that instant, Najin found himself smiling without meaning to. He kicked off the ground and leaped far backward. The moment Najin landed, Lancelot hurled Arondight straight up into the sky. Then he gripped the Cross Shield with both hands.
Booooom!
He drove the shield into the ground. A shockwave burst out with a thunderous roar. The earth did not merely crater but cracked open, and a storm whipped outward from him at the center. Najin raised an arm to shield his face against the raging wind.
When the storm finally died away, what it revealed was the Cross Shield, shattered into pieces. Lancelot had destroyed the Cross Shield with his own hands. Stars rose from between the broken fragments. One, two, three... ten stars that had been sealed within the shield began orbiting around Lancelot.
Lancelot reached up and seized his own helm.
Crack.
The helm broke apart. The iron mask shattered. Helm gone, he thrust his hand toward the sky. The sword he had thrown high dropped into his grip. He held it upright before his face, blade pointing straight up.
Lancelot performed the sword salute.
With the Cross Shield shattered and the sword aura stripped away, Arondight was exactly as it had first appeared-a dull and cracked, imperfect sword.
But that lasted only a moment. The stars floating around Lancelot began to pour into Arondight.
Tang, tang, tang!
Like a smith hammering a blade.
Kiiiiing!
A sound like a whetstone grinding the edge to a keen finish rang out. Ten stars settled into Arondight.
Spinning.
Lancelot raised the sword over his shoulder. Gripping it in one hand, he closed the other hand around the flat of the blade. In the hand gripping the blade, one more star rested.
Lancelot's eleventh star.
The eleventh star he had honed over a thousand years ground Arondight's edge sharp. With a screech of metal and a shower of sparks, starlight flew. Where the star passed in its friction, Arondight recovered its keen edge.
"Lancelot."
Lancelot spoke his own name. Only then did Najin let out a long, slow exhale. So he can finally say his name. Najin adjusted his stance and opened his mouth.
"Najin."
Najin looked straight into the eyes of Lancelot, revealed now that the mask was gone. He still could not tell what the man was thinking, but...
One thing was clear.
The Lancelot of until now and the Lancelot from this moment on were different. Najin smiled, as though he had gotten exactly what he wanted. Beating an enemy who showed no real intent was worthless.