[User] Belstetz bowed respectfully and was silent.

[Assistant] Lamia hated the elderly, but that was because so many of them were so thoroughly incapable. As long as they knew how to handle themselves, she didn’t mind their existence. Still, she felt the elderly were too eager to speak in general, and the best way to handle them was to shut them up. "That, at least, is something I admire about my dearly departed father’s dedication. He knew that expiring pathetically on his deathbed would cast a pall over all his achievements. And we wouldn’t want that.”

[User] No matter how strong and virile in youth, age made fools of everyone. It was Lamia’s opinion that the system of imperial succession, which replaced the ruler before that could happen, was supremely logical. She, too, hoped the curtain would come down on her life before she grew old and her intelligence and beauty withered. “Although, I do plan to make it last as long as I can."

[Assistant] “—Very well, Your Excellency. If you have no objections, shall I continue with the plan?”

[User] "Yes, please do.” The strategist wasn’t interested in entertaining Lamia’s stray remarks, but in continuing his work. She didn’t blame him for that nor reproach him—she only nodded and winked.

[Assistant] Bartroi was dead, and the moronic siblings he’d rallied to his cause had lost their standard-bearer. Already unqualified to take part in the Rite, bent as helplessly as branches in the wind, they had only one choice: to seek someone new to guide them. They would find Lamia. “We’re dealing with a cabal brought together by my brother Bartroi. I can only assume their heads are empty, every one. When they hear our brother is dead, it will be a simple matter to wrap them around my little finger.”

[User] He was just as foolish as the siblings who, misjudging their own ability, had attempted to grasp the Bright Sword and been destroyed; that was Lamia’s true opinion of Bartroi. However, in that his foolishness had ultimately resulted in at least some advantage to her, there was admittedly a measure of value in his life. As she made to leave the room, Lamia stopped and turned back toward her brother’s corpse, his face still buried in the floor.

[Assistant] “Say, Bartroi… Dear Brother. I want you to know, I didn’t hate you—not really.” There was no answer—of course there wasn’t. But Lamia wasn’t looking for one. She wasn’t trying to apologize or somehow salve her conscience. She was simply offering a report.

[User] “You were just the easiest to manipulate. The most susceptible to the innocent blathering of a sweet little girl.” She was letting him know that it had all been nothing more than an opening gambit, a strategic move made when she was still very young.


[User] It was her last gift to the dead man, and then she sinuously glided out of the room, leaving the rest to her strategist, who stood with his head bowed. By the time she emerged from the door of the mansion and started boarding the waiting dragon carriage, she’d already forgotten her brother’s face. Then she smiled sweetly. Her attention was already on her next objective.

[Assistant] "Now, the pruning is done. I can’t wait for what comes next, Prisca.”


[User] "I think this will be the outermost extremity of the Rite of Imperial Selection." Prisca murmured, tapping a red folding fan to her lips as she observed the completed cordon. She was encamped atop a small mountain, protected by the Benedict family’s personal army. They were all dressed in red armor—Prisca’s personal preference—but they were something less than elite troops, lacking in training and untried in battle. But morale, at least, they had in spades.

[Assistant] “I don’t need them to be gifted, I just need them to do what I tell them. Arakiya, you’re there?”

[User] “Mm… Beside you.” Arakiya said, appearing from among the Redmongers at Prisca’s call. She startled the soldiers, who hadn’t noticed her presence at all.

[Assistant] Prisca held up a hand to still the murmuring, then turned and looked at Arakiya. As ever, Arakiya was dressed in minimal clothing, her arms like twigs, but battle-ready. She looked so frail compared with the soldiers in their full armor—but there was a reason she was dressed the way she was. Vincent’s boy swordsman might have ridiculed her for it, but leaving her skin exposed was a way of maximizing her abilities as a spirit eater. According to Arakiya’s own account, lesser spirits prized harmony with nature and thus shunned anything worked by human hands. Hence, her minimal state of dress was a way of attracting those spirits—her food.


[User] “Maybe I’d feel differently if she were ugly…”

[Assistant] “—? What do you mean, Princess?”

[User] “I only mean that you are beautiful. Lovely enough to withstand even my scrutiny.”

[Assistant] “Thank you…I think?” Arakiya tilted her head, somewhat perplexed that her appearance was suddenly the topic of conversation.

[User] At any rate, this was no time for idle chitchat.


[Assistant] "Reporting, Your Excellency!" said a messenger who rushed up to Prisca. He pushed through the army, his red armor rattling, and knelt before her, offering up a scroll.

[User] Arakiya took it, broke the seal, and handed it to Prisca.

[Assistant] Prisca looked it over and grunted, “Hmph. Who gave this to you?”

[User] “Count Belstetz Fondalphon, the strategist of House Godwin!”

[Assistant] “Belstetz… That old fossil.” Prisca considered, recalling the face that went with the name, then closed one eye in contemplation.

[User] “Princess. The letter… What does it say?”

[Assistant] “Nothing important. We’re to act as the rear guard when the assault on the castle begins.”

[User] “Rear guard…”

[Assistant] “In other words, we’re to watch from behind while everyone else does the fighting.”

[User] Arakiya’s face went through a series of expressions as she learned the content of the message. First, her brow was knit in incomprehension; then her eyes went wide; and finally, she puffed out her cheeks in displeasure.

[Assistant] “Princess… I think, maybe, they are making fun of us.”

[User] “I’m sure she seeks to humiliate us, yes. That vixen is never above inflicting her little cruelties. But she would never be reckless enough to endanger the victory.”

[Assistant] “What, then?”

[User] “I think she believes she can win without seeking our help. Although, with that army at her command, I can’t say I entirely blame her.” Prisca, seeking to placate the annoyed Arakiya, gestured around them with a thrust of her chin.

[Assistant] Arakiya looked in the direction she indicated and spotted a series of banners; several other private armies were encamped around them, just like Prisca’s.


[User] The collective army looked down on the castle that belonged to the Abelks family from a ragged cliffside. Prisca, who was now just one part of the threat to the brother who was most likely the greatest threat to her, smiled.

[Assistant] "...is to see just how hard my brother plans to fight now that he’s trapped in the vixen’s hunting ground.”


[User] “Destroy Vincent Abelks! For Lady Lamia!”

[Assistant] “For Lady Lamia!” With a collective roar, the Pruning Force launched its attack against the enemy fortifications.

[User] In concert, the rest of the combined army began advancing quickly on the Abelks castle. Even as their combined footsteps became a rumble and then seemed to shake the very earth, the Abelks forces did not move.

[Assistant] “Brace yourselves!” someone shouted, and the first wave broke upon them.

[User] “Ahh! Good spirit I’m seeing here. I don’t disapprove—in fact, I like it!”

[Assistant] At that instant, the men in the vanguard had the impression that a breeze had blown past them.

[User] “Oh…” Struck by a sudden unsteadiness in their vision, many members of the Pruning Force stopped in their tracks and put their hands to their heads. They dropped their shears, trying to hold up heads that were suddenly heavy. But it was no use. For the necks that should have borne those heads had been sliced clean through.

[Assistant] Unable to support their heads, they tried to cry out in vain. But before they could even fall to the ground, the rest of the unit, still charging from behind, slammed into them and trampled their bodies before finally, their erstwhile bodies parted ways with everything above the neck. Only then did the others realize that the vanguard had been cut down—but it was too late.

[User] “You need all kinds of speed on the battlefield. Quick intuition, quick judgment, a quick sword arm.


[User] "I think that makes me something pretty special—but even so, aren’t you all a bit too slow?” Cecils's words cause astonishment through the ranks as quickly as a silver flash. Soldiers were dying almost before they knew they had been killed.

[Assistant] “Ah, His Excellency truly is incredible! It’s like he knew that if he gave me the sword I wanted, I would become twice as effective on the battlefield!” Cecils shakes the blood off his blade and laughs merrily. He was an attractive youth wearing a pink kimono and zori sandals, with two swords at his hip.

[User] “Keep your guard up! Surround him and cut him down!” A soldier shouts.

[Assistant] “Ooh! I do like how quickly you collect yourselves. Very good. I was just thinking that it wouldn’t be very impressive if the enemies I was chopping up during my big moment were just a bunch of straw men. If a man doesn’t know how to die dramatically, how’s the main character supposed to look good?”

[User] “The kid’s crazy…! Are you Vincent Abelks’s—?”

[Assistant] “Crazy? Now, that’s not very nice. But to answer your question, yes. Absolutely. Very much so. You couldn’t be more right!” The boy turned his head, scanning the Pruning Force before raising his sword with a flair as he slides his sandals across the ground.

[User] “My name is Cecils Segmund! Confidant of His Excellency Vincent Abelks, and destined to one day be known as the greatest swordsman in Volakia! I am the flower and main character of this world—and I will cut you all down to clear a path to the imperial throne for His Excellency!”

[Assistant] "What’s this? That’s where you’re supposed to cheer and applaud… Come on, don’t be shy.” The boy cocks his head, his tied-up hair bobbing from the motion.

[User] “Maybe it was a mistake to offer my name before I got yours?” And then still working under that misimpression, he set to work greeting the great shears with his sword.


[Assistant] “The Godwins’ elite forces have made contact with the Abelks troops!” And so battle had been joined.

[User] War cries shook the air down below. Beginning with Lamia’s private army, the Pruning Force, the net began to close around Vincent.


[User] The front line was steadily approaching Abelks castle. However… “The first line of defense should have crumbled almost immediately. The fact that it hasn’t—I suppose it’s because that accursed swordsman is so skilled.” Prisca snapped her folding fan shut and gazed at the line of battle with her crimson eyes.

[Assistant] At this distance, the troops looked no bigger than beans, but she could see him at work, the overwhelmingly powerful swordsman keeping Lamia’s forces at bay. A secret weapon that Vincent had deliberately revealed to her before the Rite of Imperial Selection had begun.

[User] She’d known he was even better than Arakiya, and yet… “It is still stunning to see him like this.” He was literally a one-man army, holding fast against their entire force. It was difficult to believe. Lamia had brought more than five times Vincent’s forces to bear on the siege of this castle—and yet that calculation was based on the assumption that one of her soldiers was worth the same as one of his. A single fighter who could hold off a thousand troops naturally upset that calculation. “I feel antsy…”

[Assistant] “Does he bother you so much, Arakiya?”

[User] Arakiya, who was waiting as Prisca had bidden her, watched the battle unfold as well, letting her lips curl in displeasure. “Yes. Yes, he does.”

[Assistant] “Is it okay? If I go?”

[User] “As much as I would like to indulge you, I can’t permit it. Stay here by my side. You might not get your chance at him on this battlefield, but…”

[Assistant] “…your strength will be needed in due time.”

[User] That was all Prisca had to say for Arakiya’s expression to change. She blinked, and her look of annoyance became the mask of a warrior.

[Assistant] Prisca nodded approvingly, then ordered a nearby soldier to prepare a detachment. The numbers of the clashing armies were within tolerances—just. Prisca was preparing to sally with the detachment when she heard a voice. "Prisca. Where are you going?"

[User] Prisca winced at the unexpected question. Nobody nearby noticed her reaction, nor did they respond to the voice—for they didn’t hear it. It spoke directly into Prisca’s mind. A one-way mode of communication, essentially telepathy. She knew only one person who could do that—someone who, like her, was here on this field as a participant in the Rite of Imperial Selection. “Mind your manners, Paladio. Who said you could speak to me?”

[Assistant] “I didn’t realize I needed special permission to talk to my own sister.”

[User] Telepathy took a certain knack, but Prisca was able to respond immediately—something that seemed to surprise him, even if only slightly. The entire point was to be able to capitalize on the way telepathy set someone back on their heels. “What a petty little ploy. Booby traps and parlor tricks—is that all the Demon Eye Clan is good for?”

[Assistant] There was a beat before Paladio said, “Lamia told you to stay in the back."


[User] "I advise you to refrain from acting on your own.”

[Assistant] “A doll that does whatever you tell it. How cute. I’ll be happy to dress you, too, if you like. But as for me, I never had any intention of dancing to that vixen’s tune.”

[User] “So…treachery? At a moment like this?”

[Assistant] “Ha! There, you finally made me laugh. I’m going to plug the hole in the line.” Paladio’s concern was evident even through the telepathic connection.

[User] “I’m not going to waste time explaining myself to the ignorant at this moment."

[Assistant] “Tell Lamia whatever you want.”

[User] “You’re so profoundly crude that no one would believe I’m your older brother. I’ve always hated you, Prisca.”

[Assistant] “Well,


[User] The Volakian Royal Family was known to be a little odd—and when Vincent saw the power of calculation Chisha displayed in getting the carriage moving again after its wheel had snapped off in a gutter, he’d plucked him from the street then and there. From that moment, Chisha began to serve Vincent personally, although he was always intensely aware of how unsuited he was for the position. And he was most unsuited for a battlefield like this—for the war of succession they called the Rite of Imperial Selection. How many nights had he spent asking himself why he was here? And yet no other person could have been entrusted with such a major role—which left only him. He hated to give detailed instructions, and anyway, there was the pressing issue of whom his master would trust. On that point, Cecils was technically an option, at least, but Chisha was of the opinion that the idiot mutt couldn’t be expected to stick to a given strategy. And so after much deliberation, Chisha had concluded that if he wanted this job done right, he was going to have to do it himself.

[Assistant] "You don’t look pleased, Chisha. Your pallor is even worse than normal."

[User] "I suppose so, sire… I was just lamenting my own position."

[Assistant] "Lamenting? Why so?"

[User] "First, because I’m not fond of plans that involve risking my life. And second, because I not only suggested the plan but agreed to take part in it myself—quite strange, coming from me." He ran a hand through his neatly coiffed hair and sighed dramatically, as if to indicate how much trouble it all was. His voice almost sounded like a quiet cough.

[Assistant] And yet oddly, no one had ever complained that he was hard to hear or understand. At this moment, too, he spoke softly.

[User] Vincent listens to him, simply chuckled.

[Assistant] How exhilarating would it be to interject that this was hardly the time for laughter? Of course, Chisha was too rational to do such a thing, and his master too important to reproach. In the distance, they could hear shouting punctuating the cacophony of battle. An explosion of lives being stolen and defended, each pitting their own values against the other. And at the center of it all stood the man who was now here with Chisha: Vincent Abelks. Vincent, the man well understood to be the closest to the throne at the beginning of the Rite. It was only natural that he would become the target of the other claimants, but this encirclement was even more vicious than expected. The attacking force they currently faced sat on the high end of the scale of danger they’d anticipated.

[User] "It is still within my expectations. Which means the progress of events is still within my con—"

[Assistant] A fiery voice interrupts Chisha's quiet murmur, that almost seemed to burn his eardrums.

[User] "I see, I see. You’ve found yourself some decent pawns, Brother. You have my compliments."


[User] For a brief instant, it felt like his thoughts had been lit on fire. The voice, strong and overpowering, belonged to a girl who brimmed with the confidence that her flame could consume all. Chisha felt compelled to swallow hard, his face stiffening. He watched as a group emerged from the shadows: a princess cloaked in crimson, flanked by Redmonger soldiers and a silver-haired girl at her side. “Prisca Benedict.” Standing across from the unflappable young woman, Chisha was suddenly aware that his throat was strangely dry. He forgot to include any honorific when he whispered her name.

[Assistant] Prisca herself chose not to remark on it. Indeed, it—he—was beneath her notice. She cast her gaze past the stunned Chisha to look at Vincent standing beside him. “I’m glad you made it, Prisca. I hope you’re well.”

[User] "Of course I am, Brother. And just imagine how much better I would be if your head were to fall from your shoulders right here and now."

[Assistant] They stared at each other, a brother and sister with an unbridgeable gulf between them, their reunion reeking of blood. But they were both smiling.


[User] They both knew this and acted accordingly. They each saw that the path they walked led to the future of their nation…

[Assistant] “Heh!” The reunion shared by the brother and sister facing each other, Vincent and Prisca, was as violent as a thunderclap. Standing there amid the greenery, they exchanged what amounted to brief pleasantries, and then as if on cue, they both stretched out a hand. Instantly, each of them was grasping a beautiful sword that glowed red.

[User] This world was said to be home to ten magical swords of unparalleled power. The Bright Sword was one of them, and if anyone unworthy touched it, they were burned to a crisp instantaneously. The sword had been passed down in the Volakian royal household for generations, and for the span of the Rite of Imperial Selection, there were as many Bright Swords as there were candidates for the throne. Nobody knew why. But did the existence of multiple Bright Swords dilute their luster? Absolutely not. “” The twin blades cut through the gloom of the forest like lancing sunlight. Prisca and Vincent advanced toward each other easily, swords in hand, and offered an exchange of blows as elegant as if they were dancing, bathing the forest in a shower of red-and-white light. The two opposing flames intertwined, each heightening the heat of their opposite; the scene was beautiful. Fire consumed fire and threatened to consume anyone else who dared touch it or even get close. By all rights, several of these swords should not have existed at the same time; to see them pitted against each other was a vision beyond the wildest of fantasies. The siblings’ entourages were slow to react; they felt their skin singed by the wave of heat—and it was only then that they comprehended what was happening. Only then did they realize that their masters were already engaged in a life-and-death duel.


[Assistant] “What a grave miscalculation! It turns out I had no time to be staring and wondering!” The hot wind against his skin brought Chisha back to himself and made him lament his mistake. He searched in the folds of his clothes and produced a folding fan—made of iron, turning it into a proper instrument of war. He readied himself to assist his master. Before he could reach the fighting, however, he was thrown to the side, cast away from the very spot he had been about to use as a springboard to leap into the fray. The blow was as vicious as the bite of a wild animal. Chisha glared at the one who had dealt it to him, and then he smiled with his almond-shaped eyes.

[User] “The princess is busy. I won’t let you interfere.” Arakiya stood with her back to the heated confrontation between Vincent and Prisca. She was a young member of the dogfolk with brown skin, a good deal of it exposed.


[User] In her hand was a perfectly ordinary tree branch; she almost seemed to stand at total ease, appearing highly vulnerable. And yet Chisha found himself swallowing hard, his cheeks stiff. He realized that she was a wild animal, just like Cecils. "I'm not the kind to do physical labor myself."

[Assistant] "? I’m Arakiya. For the princess’s sake, I fight.” Her answer was utterly brief—but that itself spoke to her deeply rooted, immovable loyalty.

[User] Chisha sighed deeply. In that case, they weren’t going to get anywhere by talking. He settled into a fighting posture with his iron fan, while behind him, Vincent’s soldiers likewise readied their weapons. “I myself and these soldiers behind me fight for another, but with the same dedication. I’m afraid I don’t plan on participating in anything so inefficient as a duel. You must forgive me.”

[Assistant] “Um…?”

[User] “To put it succinctly, I intend to overwhelm you with sheer numbers,” Chisha announced, and the soldiers took this as their order to charge, which they did with gusto, screaming and shouting.

[Assistant] Arakiya’s eyes went wide. She glanced behind her at the battling siblings—Prisca wielding the Bright Sword gleefully, Vincent receiving her every blow and responding in kind. Arakiya stepped forward, intent on preventing any interference. “Difficult things, I don’t understand. But this is for the princess. For the princess, I would die.”


[User] Every soldier who pressed in against her was charged with the fervor of battle. Sword and spear were the only means they had of expressing their lust for war; they would drive them into Arakiya’s skin, tear her flesh, shatter her bones, and end her life. Battle was merely a ritual to achieve such ends. Life pitted against life to the finish. Well, Arakiya could enact that ritual, too. “Nom.” Almost lazily, she popped a spirit into her mouth. It was good timing; lesser fire spirits, touched off by the battle between Prisca and Vincent, had begun to gather around. Arakiya simply took one into her body and turned its strength into hers. That was the natural course of action for a spirit eater. “Bowwow.” Arakiya crouched low, her entire body surrounded by a faint-blue glowing fire. They were too beautiful to be described with ordinary terms like the flames of hell, but regardless, it was impossible to avoid the impression that she was wreathed in fire. As a momentary shock passed through the attacking troops at the sacred vestments, Arakiya poured her strength into her legs and leaped at them. Her body floated as easily as the wind, passing by the first line of soldiers. She simply dodged their attacks, and the men, as they turned to pursue Arakiya back into the formation, noticed something: Their own bodies were now engulfed in blue flames.

[Assistant] “Nggghhhaaaa! !” The soldiers howled in agony, consumed from head to toe by scorching heat.


[User] "Hold fast!" someone shouted.

[Assistant] "Well, this is downright annoying…" Chisha, placed his free hand over the hand that held the iron war fan.

[User] "Gah!"

[Assistant] "Gghh? !"

[User] "Gyaaahhhh!"

[Assistant] "No more of this…" Chisha, making the difficult choice to end this pointless hemorrhaging of troops, stepped forward.

[User] "Soldiers, fall back, please," Chisha said. "I will deal with that…thing."

[Assistant] Arakiya stopped moving. She remained crouched on the ground like a dog, but she looked up at the tall young man, tilting her head and staring at him intently.


[User] "I am Vincent Abelks’s strategist, Chisha Gold.”

[Assistant] “I am Princess Prisca’s dog, Arakiya.”

[User] Introductions complete, the two bosom companions of the participants in the Rite of Imperial Selection launched themselves at each other. But it was only a single clash, the contest decided in a blink. Arakiya approached Chisha, with his iron war fan, from the ground.

[Assistant] Recognizing the low attack, Chisha brought the fan down, slamming it into the girl’s head. Her silver hair, with its single lock of red, was stained with dark blood—at least, such was what Chisha had expected to happen. But the instant before his blow connected, Arakiya opened her mouth wide and swallowed a pinprick of light. Suddenly, she was gone; he couldn’t see her. As Chisha stood there with his eyes wide, Arakiya, still on the ground, kicked out at him. His slim frame lifted into the air with the impact, which almost seemed to pierce him. It ran through him from his back to his belly, Arakiya’s branch tearing through his torso and pinning him to the earth.

[User] “Gah—hhh—” He wheezed. He coughed up a spectacular amount of blood, but with the branch holding him in place, Chisha couldn’t even collapse to the ground.

[Assistant] Arakiya backed quickly away from him, looking toward him only to say, “There,” her fingers steepled. She turned to report to her mistress that she had vanquished the powerful foe.

[User] “Prin—” But a second later, a red light from above swallowed up Arakiya, along with the entire forest.


[User] She’d worked her way around the vast Crystal Palace, where the party was being held, looking for Vincent and meanwhile working on her brother Bartroi, who always seemed a little too unwary of his younger siblings. Just as she finally found the brother she was looking for— “Prisca Benedict. That’s my name.” "" —next to Vincent, she discovered a young girl in a bright-crimson dress.

[Assistant] "Magic-stone cannon strike confirmed. When the smoke clears, I will inform you of the results."

[User] "I don’t care if you use up every magic stone we have; just make sure you get me what I want. You’re to keep me updated as and when the situation develops."

[Assistant] "Milady." Belstetz replied with a respectful bow.

[User] Lamia rested her chin on her hands and looked out at the forest, which was now a blazing field of light. She smiled. She’d brought so many of her brothers and sisters together to enact this encirclement of Vincent. That she had included even her mortal enemy, Prisca, in this number was not in fact a sign of how much she wished to be sure she had the strength to defeat their brother. It was because she knew that Prisca’s presence was itself the poison that would finish Vincent. "Didn’t I tell you, Prisca? I think quite highly of you. You’re the next most dangerous sibling after our dear brother… You think more like him than any of us. That’s why I knew you could find him. I was sure."

[Assistant] "Vincent and Prisca were in the same place. I’m sure they were both caught in the blast." The telepathic report from Lamia’s coconspirator, Paladio, assured her that her plan had worked.

[User] "Surely, you didn’t really think I came all the way to your house just to corral you." She’d had this plan to use Paladio’s special abilities brewing ever since the Rite had begun.


[User] “My heart finally feels lighter, Prisca,” Lamia said, placing her hand to her generous chest as she pictured the repulsive face of her half sister.

[Assistant] “Lamia, when this is over…”

[User] “Yes, yes, I know. I’ll give you a fingernail or a lock of my hair or whatever you want. You’ll be able to come after me anytime, day or night.”

[Assistant] “For that matter, the fact that he actually still thinks he can beat me makes him even stupider than dear Bartroi.”


[User] The stones were so powerful that the cannons had proven unable to cope with the resulting force, tearing themselves apart in the process of firing. Not even a member of the Volakian Royal Family could have escaped unscathed under such an assault. Not even if there were two of them. This was the masterstroke that would secure Lamia’s victory. And now…

[Assistant] Mutters, “That’s impossible!” Peering through a spyglass.

[User] Even if she couldn’t make out exactly what was going on, however, Lamia herself could tell that something wasn’t right. The forest, which should have been reduced to splinters by the barrage, was still intact in one place, the trees still standing. And what had caused this inconceivable state of affairs?

[Assistant] Shouting, trembling. “There’s someone at the point of impact! A silver-haired dog girl… It’s Prisca Benedict’s right hand!”

[User] Lamia’s eyes widened. Prisca’s right hand—Lamia remembered the taciturn, inexpressive mongrel… “I’ve got to hand it to you, Prisca…,” she growled. She stood and marched over to the scout, snatching his spyglass. Through it, she could see ground zero, where Prisca’s little friend lay prone on the ground, breathing out smoke. Somehow or other, that mutt had completely foiled Lamia’s cannonade. The dogfolk girl didn’t so much as twitch; Lamia couldn’t tell whether she was dead or alive. But she didn’t care. What mattered was the scale of the destruction in that patch of forest—or rather, the lack of it. There was no way Prisca and Vincent were dead. Meaning the first phase of her plan had failed. But Lamia had another arrow in her quiver—and another after that. “I never imagined I would actually have to use Bartroi’s little insurance policy…” She was recalling a suggestion left to her by her brother, the one who had voluntarily thrown away his right to the throne. The other nine siblings who had likewise declined candidacy were cards in her hand, and she would play them to finish off the wounded Vincent and Prisca both at a stroke. Lamia lowered the spyglass and started to give her next instructions. “Begin the ambush. Their hearts might not be in it, but they’ll slow them down at least…”

[Assistant] A sharp voice interrupted. “Your Excellency!”

[User] She reflexively raised her arm, and the Bright Sword she grasped in her hand singed the air it passed through, incinerating the arrow that had come flying at her. She might have blocked the first attack, but the arrows came relentlessly; her soldiers, slow to react, surrounded her to shield her with their own bodies. “But how did they figure out where I was camped?” she asked.


[User] "Wait… It can’t be!" Sensing the answer to her own question, Lamia peered out at her attackers from behind her soldiers. Looking directly into the oncoming barrage, she saw that her guess had been correct.

[Assistant] "Vincent Abelks…" Lamia ground her teeth after realizing her opponent had been wily enough to pull off this maneuver. The handsome face of Vincent, the man who had put her in this situation, floated into her mind, and she thought about how much she hated him.

[User] "Don’t tell me… He was working with my dear brother Bartroi all along?"

[Assistant] "You’ve been working with him this whole time, haven’t you, Prisca?" And with that condition achieved, the attack against the now-outmaneuvered Lamia intensified.

[User] "Your Excellency! Leave this to us. You must find your way to the Pruning Force and retreat."

[Assistant] "Belstetz, you have the line. Hold them here, even if it costs you your lives." She instructed.

[User] "Yes, Excellency. Be safe."

[Assistant] With that brief farewell, Lamia left her camp, which had become a battlefield. She took with her only the elite troops of her personal guard.


[User] Meanwhile, Belstetz was launching a vigorous attack against the traitorous siblings, but he no longer occupied her thoughts. She was already thinking about how to get out of this situation and planning what she would do once she was free. It seemed like the same thing always happened to her plans. “If you control them with emotion, they can be taken from you by someone who wields a greater emotion. There’s something cheaper and simpler than jealousy or greed. It’s fear.”

[Assistant] Lamia could almost hear the plans crumbling in her mind—and the one who had brought them down, had destroyed everything she had worked for, was none other than the person who stood easily in front of her. Vincent’s man, the true manslayer.

[User] "Hey there. Real sorry I was late getting here. I tried to hurry, I really did, but it’s tough work being the first sword on the stage. I think I’ve caught the mood here, though. Maybe I can finish this up without too pathetic a performance.” He smiled—a young man holding a sword and drenched in blood. How many crowds of people had he slain? He was almost entirely red with splattered gore, his unusual kimono so badly stained that it was impossible to tell what color it had once been. What made the young man so aberrant, however, wasn’t that he was covered from head to toe in blood but the fact that he paid this no mind; it was the way he moved and spoke with total nonchalance, and the overwhelming, almost demonic presence he exuded that made it clear beyond any doubt that he only dealt in death. That was the strangest and most awful thing about him.

[Assistant] “Excellency…” The soldiers wearing the armor of the Pruning Force stepped forward, putting themselves between Lamia and the young man, choosing to make themselves a shield so that he could not approach her. Every one of them knew that this choice meant their deaths.

[User] “Hmm, yes! You shine with a brilliant resolve to protect your mistress. That’s a beautiful attitude! Truly stupendous. I don’t disapprove of such tragedy—in fact, I like it.”

[Assistant] “We’ll never let a monster like you get near Her Excellency!” The young man struck like lightning; the soldiers met him with their giant shears. At the instant of collision, what could be heard was not the terrible sound of blades cutting flesh, but the echo of a great crashing of weapon against weapon.

[User] Lamia knew her soldiers were dying; still, she stepped over the bodies of the Pruning Force, escaping to where the boy and his sword could not reach her, fleeing to where he could not follow, running, running, running. And when Lamia Godwin finally reached the place she was running to…


[User] "Prisca Benedict—that is my name." So she’d said arrogantly back when they had first met at that garden party. Prisca had been five years old at the time; it had been her first garden party.

[Assistant] Lamia Godwin had understood instinctively—this girl was destined to be her lifelong archenemy. "Oh? I’m Lamia Godwin, your oh-so-sweet elder sister." She’d forced herself to smile, but Prisca had the same instinct.

[User] "" The only reason Lamia hadn’t strangled Prisca to death then and there was because Vincent was watching like a hawk. He was an intelligent young man; the tension between the two hadn’t escaped him. Lamia had sent assassins after Prisca on a fairly regular basis after that, but she’d always known it would be little more than a nuisance to her sister.

[Assistant] "Say, Bartroi, my dear brother… Why can’t all us siblings just celebrate our father’s birthday together in peace?"

[User] "Oh, Lamia… The same question pains me, too. But it’s simply not possible for us."

[Assistant] "Not possible for us to get along? That’s… That’s so sad…" ""

[User] Bartroi said nothing.

[Assistant] "Yes… You’re right. It’s just like you say, Lamia. If only we siblings could go without hurting one another…" She played the part of the innocent little sister to the hilt, and Bartroi swallowed it hook, line and sinker.


[User] “Truly, you are the most unlovable little sister…” Lamia straightened her hair with one hand as she watched Prisca, who stood with arms folded.

[Assistant] Prisca’s crimson eyes were far from cold; indeed, they burned intensely, the same way they had that day at the garden party. Prisca looked at Lamia.

[User] Lamia looked at Prisca, a perfect mirror image of that day when they had each realized the other would be their mortal foe. "How did that little puppy of yours save you from my cannonade? If it hadn’t been for her, I could’ve wiped out you and Vincent with a single stroke.”

[Assistant] “I know how good your hearing is. I’m sure you know Arakiya is what they call a spirit eater. Her power depends on the spirits she consumes—and that should make your answer obvious.”

[User] “—You’re suggesting she ate a spirit strong enough to repel that assault? I doubt such a thing—” She was about to conclude exists, but then she stopped. She looked at the ground and nodded as if it made sense now. “I’ve been assuming that Vincent, knowing he would find himself surrounded, picked this place because the castle was sturdy enough to repel attackers. My entire premise was wrong, wasn’t it?”

[Assistant] “Abandoning the castle was part of our brother’s plan from the beginning. He chose this place not for its fortifications, but for the land itself.”

[User] “I assume you mean, more precisely, the spirit sleeping in the land, yes?”

[Assistant] Prisca didn’t deny it.

[User] Observing her little sister’s reactions, Lamia grasped the reason she’d been led here and why her cannon barrage had failed. “The Boulder. Muspel.”

[Assistant] Prisca nodded. "We are currently standing in a corner of what is reputed to be its sacred territory.”

[User] Muspel, the Boulder—this was the name of one of the four most renowned spirits in the world. The so-called Four Great Spirits were said to wander Volakia at will. If one was able to consume one of these powerful beings, it might indeed be possible to protect one’s master from Lamia’s artillery assault. “And your little puppy dog survived taking the power of one of the Four Great Spirits within her?”

[Assistant] “She consumed only a small portion—and even that would have annihilated a lesser vessel. But victory doesn’t simply fall into one’s lap. There are always sacrifices.”

[User] “—I suppose you did this knowing what would happen if the great spirit went berserk after it was eaten,” Lamia said. Prisca had determined that her strategy required risking the life of one of her closest confidants. Lamia understood now that the plan had involved leveraging the power of one of the great spirits. But the Boulder was a transcendent being, impossible to communicate with, let alone control or command. Perhaps Arakiya had consumed only a portion of it, but it was always possible that her own being would be consumed in turn and she would go on a rampage. “I have another question,” Lamia cooed.


[User] "How ever did Vincent manage to trap the Boulder in this location? It seems humans aren’t the only ones our dear brother can manipulate with his plans."

[Assistant] "There’s no doubt that plans and manipulation are our brother’s specialty. But the means are immaterial. All that matters is that I have my results."

[User] "Yes… Yes, you’re right." Prisca, who had decided she wasn’t interested in a lengthy chat, held out the Bright Sword.

[Assistant] Lamia drew her own sword out of the air and took up a fighting stance. Neither tried to stop the other from drawing, but it was not a sign of trust. To abide by what you knew to be a fact could not be called trust. The sisters simply knew it was what they would do. As they knew that the matter would shortly be settled by their own hands…

[User] "I’ve always hated you, Prisca, since the day we met."

[Assistant] "Don’t worry. Of all those whose names I’ve bothered to remember, I despise you the most." Elder sister faced younger, their hostility and animus on full display. They would have done nothing differently, said nothing differently, even if this had been the last time they were to see each other in their lives.

[User] They each stepped forward, their swords crossing, the world enveloped in a flash of white and red and heat. Lamia saw nothing around her; she was in a world in which only she and Prisca existed, and she laughed, more certain than ever before that she should have murdered this girl when they first met at that party. The sisters hated each other to the end, reviled each other until the very conclusion of their relationship.


[Assistant] "Prisca and Lamia should be about done settling things by now." Vincent said, looking down at the half dead Arakiya. She was completely exhausted, leaned up against a large tree with her legs kicked out, limp. It wasn’t exactly surprising; she’d single-handedly repelled a magic-stone cannon barrage with the power to annihilate an entire army, and to do so, she’d taken one of the Four Great Spirits into her small body. The consequences were dire; Arakiya had done it knowing full well that it might cost her very soul. Thus, Vincent’s plan succeeded, and Arakiya had been instrumental.

[User] "It can’t have been easy. Prisca is blessed with good help—I’ll admit that much."

[Assistant] "I did it…for the princess…"

[User] "Yes, I’m sure. I don’t doubt you." It was rare for Vincent to praise such loyalty. Nearly everyone who served the royal family was at least as loyal as Arakiya—some even more so. That included Vincent’s personal soldiers, who had been used as bait for the enemy, never knowing that Vincent himself had made a secret agreement with Prisca.

[Assistant] "I suppose Chisha is going to give me a piece of his mind, though." Vincent muttered.


[User] He was looking at Chisha, who, after being skewered by Arakiya, had been right in the middle of the meeting of the cannonade with the power of one of the Four Great Spirits. He was being given heroic treatment but was badly wounded both inside and out. His odds of surviving were no better than a coin flip. He was a clever strategist, a devoted servant whom Vincent would be able to entrust with important positions in the future—and yet even he had been part of the plan, a way of selling the ploy to ensure that it would avoid detection and succeed. Nonetheless, Vincent was confident that it had been worth it. “I have much the same opinion of Lamia as she did of me and Prisca. The Rite has only just begun, but with this, I’ve eliminated my greatest rivals for the throne.”

[Assistant] From the perspectives of ambition and aptitude, and from the perspective of whether they had any likelihood of actually obtaining the throne, only Lamia and Prisca had been worth worrying about in Vincent’s opinion. Sadly for all the other siblings, not one of them was a match for Vincent. Although, there was one who—though still no threat for the throne—had taken Vincent by surprise in another way. “Imagine—apparently, I also misjudged my older brother Bartroi.”

[User] Bartroi Fitz, who had departed this world shortly after the beginning of the Rite of Imperial Selection, pruned away by Lamia. He’d hated the idea of brothers and sisters killing one another and had sought to keep the death wrought by the Rite to an absolute minimum with a plan that surprised even Vincent. “Declining to participate in the Rite himself, he promised the submission of several other siblings in exchange for my guarantee of their territories and persons. A bold move, if nothing else.”

[Assistant] If it worked, the number of heads Vincent would have had to sever in order to achieve the throne would have been ten less. And if each of them had raised personal armies in contesting the succession, the loss of life would have been that much greater. The proposal was predicated on a worldview that ran counter to Vincent’s own avowedly more correct reading of the situation—that none of his brothers or sisters could be allowed to live. Broadly speaking, there had been two keys to his escape from Lamia’s encirclement. One had been Arakiya, capable of using the great spirit to neutralize the cannonade; the other was the double cross that Lamia had never anticipated—in other words, the siblings and their armies, whom Bartroi had secretly entrusted to Vincent. True, if they succeeded, he would essentially be honoring a contract with a dead man, but Vincent didn’t have it in him to simply consider the matter null and void. Reward must be no more forgone than punishment—that was one thing Vincent always bore in mind as a member of the Volakian Royal Family.


[User] "" Arakiya, breathing shallowly, had no response to Vincent’s reminiscences.

[Assistant] “You said your name was Arakiya, yes?”

[User] “? Yes… That’s right.” Arakiya looks at Vincent suspiciously.

[Assistant] Vincent came and stood before her, where she looked at him like a skittish small animal—and then he winked at her. "I’d like to make you an offer. From me—” There, Vincent stopped and gave a small shake of his head.

[User] The emotion in his dark eyes never shifting, he corrected himself: “From your emperor.”


[Assistant] “Damn you, Prisca…!”

[User] “Silence, varlet. I have nothing to gain by speaking to you.”

[Assistant] The face of the man with long hair was a mask of rage as he pulled the Bright Sword from thin air. However, the half-circle slash of crimson was met and beaten back by a strike from above, forcing the magical blade out of the man’s hand. Disarmed, the man’s eyes shot open as he witnessed a flash, a sword stroke far more beautiful and cruel than his own. And it was the last thing he ever saw. The slash easily separated the man’s head from his body, ensuring his death. The now-disconnected head and torso simultaneously went up in flames, great red tongues of fire that reduced the corpse to ashes. These were the last moments of Paladio Manesk, son of the Volakian Royal Family.

[User] “In the end, you were never more than ordinary. That was your limit.” Prisca’s judgment on the fate of this foolish older brother, who had holed himself up in his castle to await his destruction, was harsh.


[User] As she had promised, Prisca had taken his head with her own hands. The honor was presumably lost on the now-dead man, but Prisca herself didn’t give a second thought to Paladio’s predicament. All she knew was that she had removed another obstacle between her and the throne. That was the only fact worth noting. “Princess…”

[Assistant] “Arakiya? I’ve cleaned up here. How goes the rest?”

[User] “No problems. It’s over.”

[Assistant] Sheathing the Bright Sword in thin air, Prisca turned as Arakiya emerged. She’d been around and about taking care of the soldiers who peppered Paladio’s base of operations, but nowhere on her exposed skin was there so much as a scratch.

[User] “Lamia was at least more entertaining. I never imagined I would miss that spiteful villain.”

[User] “What’s the matter, Arakiya? It’s not like you to look so serious.” Prisca made a show of seating herself on her deceased brother’s throne, then turned a questioning gaze on the silent girl.

[Assistant] “Oh…,” Arakiya replied finally, then blinked. After a moment, she said, “Will you soon fight? With Master Vincent?”

[User] “My brother? Yes… Yes, I suppose I will. Whether it will be soon, I can’t say, but we will eventually have to settle matters.” Prisca, realizing that Arakiya’s demeanor had to do with Vincent’s continued existence, allowed herself to relax into a smile. Vincent Abelks was her greatest opponent in the Rite of Imperial Selection, her true test. Ever since the day she’d helped him escape Lamia’s encirclement, she’d watched as his army had grown ever larger and as he eliminated their other siblings—the other claimants to the throne—one by one. Lamia had known this would happen; it was exactly why she’d sought to strike at Vincent early on, even if it meant working with the others. If those others had been smart, they would have continued to work together after the encirclement failed, when Vincent had been at least nominally on the back foot. But they had missed their chance, and Vincent had licked his wounds and taken the opportunity to recover.

[Assistant] “For such idiocy, they deserved no better than destruction,” Prisca said. After all, when one emerged victorious from the Rite of Imperial Selection, what awaited them was the throne of the Volakian Empire and all the responsibilities that went with it. Those siblings had shown that they would never have been able to bear the burden. Now with Lamia gone and Paladio dispatched, all that remained was…


[User] “I must express my profound admiration.” Prisca rested her chin on her hands and turned her crimson eyes on the newcomer, who bowed with elaborate politeness.

[Assistant] Just for a second, Prisca closed one eye, searching her memory, but she soon recalled who the man was. Except that he didn’t quite look the way she remembered. As Prisca recalled, the last time they’d met, he’d had black hair.

[User] “Did I surprise you, milady? My apologies. My near-death experience on the occasion of our last encounter seems to have robbed me of my color.”

[Assistant] “So I see. Strange things do happen. But I was going to refrain from asking about this appearance of yours that I briefly found so confusing. You’re Chisha Gold, are you not?”

[User] “I’m most honored that you remember me.” Chisha bowed again.

[Assistant] Prisca, who had been busy playing at sword fighting with Vincent and had then turned her attention to Lamia, didn’t know the details, but from what she had heard, Chisha had had a close encounter with Arakiya that day and sustained near-mortal wounds.

[User] “I’ve brought a little token of His Excellency’s esteem to mark this occasion. It might seem a touch precipitous, but we do hope you’ll accept it.”

[Assistant] “I only took my enemy’s head a few minutes ago, and already, my brother has managed to send a messenger into this camp. How very like him. And what is this congratulatory token?”

[User] “Fine wine, if it please you.” Chisha produced a bottle of what was known to be some of the finest wine around.

[Assistant] Nonetheless, she said, “Arakiya, destroy it.”

[User] At those words, the bottle in Chisha’s hand shattered, the sound ringing around the room as the wine cascaded onto the carpet.

[Assistant] Chisha’s smile was almost reptilian. "Some nobles would have sold themselves out of house and home for a bottle like that.”

[User] “I’m well aware. If we hadn’t been in the midst of the Rite of Imperial Selection, I might even have accepted it. But my brother will have known perfectly well that I would destroy any gift he might send me at this moment.”

[Assistant] “And so he did,” Chisha said, nodding, betraying no sign that he found any of this upsetting in the slightest.

[User] Gifts were always assumed to have some ulterior motive in the Volakian Royal Family. With assassination by poisoning being so popular, it would have been unthinkable to simply drink something another member of the family had sent without further inspection.


[User] The reaction had no doubt been completely expected, yet even so, Vincent’s young friend watched Prisca as calmly as if the emotion had been drained from his body along with his hair color. "Go back and tell my brother that the most obvious obstacles are gone and that it will soon be time for he and I to settle things. We can no longer act toward each other as we once did, nor should we wish to."

[Assistant] "If you’ll forgive my asking, Lady Prisca, do you honestly believe you can win against my master?"

[User] "Certainly. For this world bends itself to suit me."

[Assistant] Chisha responded to this expression of Prisca’s philosophy with an admiring bow. Prisca looked away from him, waving a hand as if to say the conversation was over. She expected him to go back to Vincent and tell him that it was time to prepare for the final battle. However… "And if the world turns for your benefit, how does the future look to you?"

[User] "What?"

[Assistant] Prisca’s gaze returned to Chisha, probing, seeking the meaning of the pregnant question. Then her eyes widened—for someone was kneeling on the floor before her.


[User] It was Arakiya, her knees in the pool of wine; she was leaning down toward the alcohol that stained the ground. As the liquid slowly spread, she reached out with her quavering tongue and lapped at it audibly.

[Assistant] "Arakiya, what are you doing? No attendant of mine should so demean herself as to—"

[User] "Princess. I’m…sorry…" Arakiya’s eyes were full of tears as she looked up at Prisca, who watched her in amazement. It was the first time she’d ever seen such sadness from her milk sister, and even Prisca could not help but be stopped in her tracks. Nor was it the end of her amazement, for then the strength left Arakiya’s body, and she collapsed to the floor.

[Assistant] "Ah…hh… Hkk!" Arakiya uttered only a few inarticulate groans. Her limbs began to spasm, her eyes rolled back in her head, and it was obvious that she was suffering in her final moments.

[User] Prisca had only been watching for an instant before her eyes revealed that she had begun a series of cold calculations. Now that Arakiya was on the cusp of death, countless possible choices presented themselves to Prisca’s mind, rising up and then disappearing. The average person would have taken too long to sort through them; Arakiya would have died while they were making their decision. But Prisca was not an average person. Nor was Vincent, who had foreseen what she would do. That was why this brother and sister, closer to each other than to anyone else, had no choice but to engage in a mortal contest. "Goddamned fool." Prisca muttered, coming to the side of the fallen, twitching Arakiya. She sat Arakiya up in her arms and, in almost the same motion, pressed her lips to Arakiya’s mouth, then began to suck out the poisoned wine.


[User] She spat it aside, mouthful by mouthful, as if sucking poison out of a wound.

[Assistant] “Grr…” Prisca, too, felt the effects, but even as the poison ate away at her body, she continued to draw it out of Arakiya and spit it away.

[User] “A most terrible pair,” Chisha remarked, observing them with true praise on his tongue.

[Assistant] Arakiya had stopped spasming, and although she was unconscious, the moment of greatest danger had passed.

[User] Prisca, who had brought her to this point, wiped her lips, and she couldn’t hide the tremble in her voice as she asked Chisha, “How did my brother convince Arakiya to work with him?”

[Assistant] “Do you not know?” Chisha asked, tilting his head in some confusion even as he remained impressed with her boldness. "I should think you, Lady Prisca, are better placed to understand His Excellency’s thinking than I am.”

[User] “Hmph… And yet he gave you a starring role in his little play.”

[Assistant] “I can only regret being unable to repay his kindness.”

[User] Prisca stood slowly and returned to the throne. Chisha was privately astonished to see that she still walked steadily. But he was also, just as privately, relieved to see how she leaned against the backrest, betraying what a steep toll the poison had taken on her.


[User] “Lady Prisca.”

[Assistant] “Yes, what?”

[User] “Had I not served His Excellency Vincent, I would have wholeheartedly served you, milady. It’s only a shame that I didn’t have the chance.” He shook his head.

[Assistant] “Ha.” Prisca laughed as if she was letting out a sharp breath. Then she looked down at Arakiya, where she lay on the floor, and wore a small smile with her lips that were now the color of blood. "I have no need for a charmless clown like you. If you wish to serve me, then at least make yourself presentable. Pretty. What a ridiculous commoner.”

[User] She let out a long sigh, but to the bitter end, she wanted to be herself; she insisted on that final snipe. And then she stopped breathing. That was the end of Prisca Benedict.


[Assistant] “And so the poor, sweet princess was caught in her enemy’s trap and lost her life. The princess’s elder brother claimed ultimate victory and became the nation’s emperor, and they say he still rules and prospers to this day.”

[User] "Wh-what a very thrilling story! And what happened after that?”

[Assistant] “There is no after that. I told you, did I not? The princess, the main character of the story, dies at the end. The story can’t continue.”

[User] “What?! But…but nothing says that!” The young boy’s eyebrows were raised adorably in his distress. It was a most unusual state for him.

[Assistant] Priscilla cocked her head. Her orange hair cascaded down her shoulders, flashing as it went. She crossed her arms in front of her ample chest. "Come, now, Schult. Have you grown so high-and-mighty that you can critique the story I choose to tell you? What about the tale has so upset you? Tell me, if you can.”

[User] “Yes, milady! The princess in that story was just too, too tragic! She worked so hard and tried her very best, but her brother tricked her, and her pet dog tricked her, too… Oh, I simply don’t know what to do!” Schult puffed out his bright-red cheeks.

[Assistant] Priscilla felt herself smile a little. She’d massaged a few of the details, but her story largely followed the facts. As such, Schult’s reaction was touching, given that he himself knew the “tragic princess.” However…

[User] "However you may discover you feel about it, the princess is already dead, and the story is over. It can’t be changed. That’s the nature of the tales that we tell.”

[Assistant] “Aww… But that’s so sad. It hurts so much.”

[User] “What are you going to do about it, then? Waste time complaining and being upset?” If that was how he planned to conduct himself, Priscilla’s evaluation of Schult would change dramatically.


[User] Schult crossed his stubby arms and nodded distractedly.

[Assistant] Priscilla didn’t rush him but waited to find out what his answer would be.

[User] At length, Schult unfolded his arms, looked at Priscilla, and said, “In that case… In that case, I’ll write the rest of the story myself!”

[Assistant] “What?” She raised an eyebrow. This answer, she had never imagined.

[User] Schult met her response by clenching his small fist with determination. “Lady Priscilla, you said that the story was over. But I’m going to think of what happens next, so that the princess doesn’t have to meet a tragic end!”

[Assistant] Priscilla didn’t say anything right away. “Continuing what’s finished, eh? Well, how will it go on? What future will you give to a dead princess, Schult?” Priscilla took in a small breath—and then she closed an eye pensively.

[User] “Well, uh… Well, first, the princess drank the poison, but she didn’t die from it! She went into a deep, deep sleep, and then later, she wakes up again!”

[Assistant] “Hoh. She wakes up, does she? And why is that? The poison was very deadly. Strong enough to kill a person easily.”

[User] “But the princess and her dog both took half of it! That’s why!”

[Assistant] Instead, she simply mussed his pink hair and smiled. “You think of the strangest things, Schult. Rewriting a finished story to suit your own druthers—haughty behavior, don’t you think? Spitting in the face of the one who gave birth to the story in the first place?”

[User] “Lady Priscilla?” he said. "Er… Um, was I wrong to do that?”

[Assistant] “Why would you be wrong? There’s nothing wrong about taking a story you can’t accept and bending it into a shape that suits you. Nothing wrong at all. In fact, I’m impressed.”

[User] “I hope you’ll tell me the rest of the story of the poor princess. Tell me the tale that suits you.”

[Assistant] “—! Y-yes, milady! Well, first, the princess didn’t die from the poison! And then someone very kind helped her…” Schult, his eyes shining now that he had Priscilla’s permission, began weaving the rest of the story.


[User] Priscilla rested her chin on one hand and watched the ecstatic boy go on at length, her free hand gently brushing the cover of the book.

[Assistant] “Lady Priscilla? Are you listening?”

[User] “But of course I am. Who do you take me for?” Priscilla patted Schult’s head again and smiled.


[Assistant] “Finally up, are you?” Someone, just a face in profile, spoke to her as her eyes fluttered open on the bed.

[User] Arakiya found herself looking up at an unfamiliar ceiling, but a quick glance to the side revealed a man in most unusual raiment, pure white from head to toe.

[Assistant] “You’re all white…”

[User] “It’s Chisha Gold. I wish that you would at least take the effort to remember my name. Merely my own opinion, of course.” Chisha, as he called himself, showed no change of expression despite his complaint.

[Assistant] Arakiya paid no heed to his objection. Arakiya felt something was wrong; she brought a hand to her left eye.

[User] “Consider it the price you paid in exchange for being left with your life. Much like how I’ve turned white as snow. But the important thing is that, indeed, both of us are alive.” When he saw Arakiya’s fingers brush her eyelid, Chisha explained calmly,

[Assistant] “The princess. Where?”

[User] “You mean Lady Prisca? I’m afraid she’s quite dead.”

[Assistant] “!” Arakiya drew a sharp breath.

[User] Arakiya's right eye, the one remaining to her, opened wide, and she reached violently toward Chisha, seeking to wring his pale neck.

[Assistant] “Oops! Not now—you’re still convalescing."


[User] "Calm down, sweet little puppy.”

[Assistant] “Gah!” No sooner had he spoken—almost bantering—than something hard hit her in the forehead and she felt herself go limp.

[User] She blinked, trying to understand what had happened. At the edge of her vision, she saw a blurry but smiling face. The figure bent over her, peering down at her where she’d collapsed—it was the blue-haired boy. The instant she realized who it was, Arakiya, who hardly ever betrayed emotion, felt as if her heart was in a million pieces. “Smiling jester…”

[Assistant] “Ha-ha-ha! I know you must be happy to see me, but there’s no need to call yourself that. After all, there’s not a person alive who can help grinning when they see my face!"

[User] With her remaining eye, Arakiya glared at the boy who’d jabbed her in the forehead, revealing a very obvious desire to kill him.

[Assistant] Chisha shook his head slowly. “Allow me to apologize for his blathering. And also for my all-too-easily misunderstood answer to you. I reiterate that Lady Prisca is dead. However, your princess remains with us in this world.”

[User] “But…that…”

[Assistant] “His Excellency will be true to his word. You became the poison that felled Lady Prisca, and for that reason, he will not perjure himself. However…”

[User] “I can’t ever…see the princess…”

[Assistant] “That’s correct,” Chisha said softly and nodded.

[User] Arakiya all but ignored him; she pressed a hand to her left eye and held her breath. Vincent will keep his word. If what Chisha had said was true, then Prisca was dead but had survived. The Rite of Imperial Selection had ended for her with Arakiya’s betrayal. “Princess…” Arakiya called to mind the beautiful face she had spent so long studying. Did she hate Arakiya now? Did she hate Arakiya, who had given in to Vincent’s plan and become poison to her? Arakiya, who had been unable to have faith in Prisca’s ultimate triumph and had instead acted on her own initiative to save her princess from death? It was not that Arakiya had been enraptured by the magic of Vincent’s words. If Prisca truly could not hope to best Vincent, then it was not because of a matter of strength or wits. It was a matter of the heart. Prisca was so deeply compassionate, so kind. That was why she couldn’t hope to defeat the cold and cruel Vincent. “Oh… Ohh…”

[Assistant] “Oh my, she’s started to cry. Chisha, what do we do with the puppy? His Excellency says she’s a stray now.”

[User] “I’m told her course of action is to be left to her discretion. Anyway, what about you? The brutality with which you annihilated the Pruning Force is getting around.”

[Assistant] Chisha and the boy chatted by Arakiya’s feet; Arakiya herself covered her face with her hands and wailed. She completely ignored the other two; instead, she cried, and as she cried, she prayed. Though she was a spirit eater, a barbarian with nothing to pray to, she cried out to Heaven.


[User] "—bends itself to suit me." The girl murmured, holding down her orange hair as the wind tried to pick it up and flutter it behind her. She stood in a grassy field, studying a grave site built in the shadow of some trees. The marker bore the name Prisca Benedict. She gazed at it, her crimson eyes creasing into a smile.

[Assistant] "Princess, you’ll catch your death if you stand out here in the wind."

[User] It was an old woman, dressed in noble garments. Several servants stood behind her. "Princess," the old woman repeated, "please listen to me…"

[Assistant] "Enough with your ‘princess.’ It’s foolishness. Prisca Benedict is dead and in the ground. And that being so, it cannot be right to call me princess. I’m supposed to be your precious granddaughter."

[User] The old woman bowed her head.

[Assistant] "Hmph," she said and looked back at the grave. "She looked so much like me… To think that she would serve me twice."

[User] "A valuable thing," was all the young woman said, and then she opened the scarlet folding fan in her hand with a crack. She turned toward the old woman and the servants waiting behind her.

[Assistant] "Princess…"

[User] "How many times must I tell you not to call me that? The princess who bore that title died pathetically."


[User] "Tragically, perhaps, but it was only what she deserved for her inability to leaven the anxieties of her followers. The one before you now is… Hmph. What was it again?” The girl tilted her head in curiosity.

[Assistant] The old woman closed her eyes, and after a beat, she answered. “Priscilla.”

[User] “Yes, that’s it.” The girl nodded slowly and closed the fan with a snap. Her older sister always used to tuck it away amid her cleavage—and the girl couldn’t do that, but perhaps in the near future, she might become able to. For she was alive. And as long as one was alive, there was a future. In which case…

[Assistant] “That means we can continue. After all…” She looked up at the sky. Hovering in the almost disgustingly blue heavens, the sun burned so bright, it nearly seemed scarlet. She reached out a hand as if to grasp it, and she could still feel the warmth of the Bright Sword against her palm. Comforted by the heat, the girl—Priscilla—smiled and said: “…the world bends itself to suit me.”


[User] Everyone finds a death match entertaining when it isn’t their life on the line. That might sound like an extreme statement, but from where he was standing, it had a distinct ring of truth. It wasn’t something to be laughed off as a silly exaggeration. He heard wild cheering from overhead as he rolled back across the hard ground. The cheering turned to jeering at his cack-handed escape, but he didn’t give a shit.

[Assistant] "After all, I’m the one risking my goddamn life here!" he spat—along with some phlegm—before he brought the huge sword in his right hand up in front of him.

[User] It was enough to check his opponent, who had been about to follow up with a bare-handed blow. The pale, bald man coming at him adopted a lazy posture, both arms dangling as he sneered. The bald man held no weapons, an unusual choice around these parts. But in one sense, something much worse than any sword or spear resided in the man’s swaying arms. There was a technique called the Poison Hand. A means of murder that involved soaking one’s hand in poison, storing it up until just before the point of death. Eventually, the impregnated toxin gathered in the fingernails, meaning the slightest scratch could kill an enemy. The bald man’s purplish-red fingers and nails were the evidence that he possessed this technique.

[Assistant] "Looks like we’ve got a shinobi who screwed up some important murder."

[User] The hands, and the man’s unflinching readiness to kill, were enough to guess at his background. Shinobi were killers who had undergone the most rigorous possible training and submitted to unimaginable augmentation of their bodies. Some people doubted they really existed—said they were just an urban legend—but if so, they were an urban legend worth believing in. They were hired by the great and powerful as elite troops in the game of kill-or-be-killed that such people lived in. No telling how this one had ended up here, but now he was trapped, just like the rest of them. For this was…

[Assistant] A disgusting little hole called Ginonhive, the sword-slave island, where its captives are forced to fight each other. The sword slaves were literally enslaved—and this was the status of the two men fighting at the moment. The words represented the lowest of the low; every day, much of their blood was spilled, many of their bones broken, and many of their lives lost. And this, the so-called sword-slave island, where these fights to the death passed for entertainment, was the perfect place for the awful crowds of imperial subjects to slake their bloodlust. It was the kind of place one would naturally expect to find in a land as thoroughly brutal as the Volakian Empire.

[User] "Not that it makes it any better to have them pulling our strings!" the man growled, standing slowly, the heavy sword in one hand.


[User] The weight of the weapon meant it didn’t lend itself to being swung around one-handed for very long—but sadly, the man had no choice save to rely on his right hand to do the fighting. For his left, which might otherwise have helped it, was gone. He sighs.

[Assistant] His long, wild hair was tied back behind his head, so that he could glare at his opponent with eyes that some called evil. It was all he could do to keep the enemy at bay. It wasn’t as if the arm was a recent loss. It had happened in the distant past, and he’d long since adapted to how it impacted his balance. Even so, when he fought opponents whom he had to be careful around, like this one, it still sometimes felt like a heavy burden to him. “Which means I can’t be draggin’ this out.”

[User] “How about it, Mr. Might-Be-a-Shinobi? What say we work together to forfeit this game?”

[Assistant] “Forfeit…?”

[User] “Hoh, interested, are ya?” Sensing his chance, the one-armed man plowed ahead. “It’s easy: I keep runnin’ from you, and you keep attacking me, but you don’t hit me. That goes on for a while, the spectators and the owner are gonna start getting restless. Chances are, they’ve got a demon beast or something on hand that they’ll send in to get things going. And then we don’t have to fight each other, just the creature.”

[Assistant] “And if we defeat it together, we survive today—is that what you’re saying?”

[User] “Yeah, that’s the idea! Aw, it’s great to find a guy I can talk to for onc— Hgggh? !” Just as the one-armed man was grinning and thinking what an easy conversation this was turning out to be, Poison Hand lashed out with his sharp nails. The one-armed man just managed to dodge, rolling backward to gain himself some distance from his foe.

[Assistant] The bald man sneered at him. “Don’t be stupid. Work with you to fight a demon beast? And maybe getting myself killed in the process? Anyone with a choice between a one-armed man and a demon beast would pick the cripple. I’m no different.”

[User] “Hey, look, I know how you feel, all right? But as a fellow human being…”

[Assistant] “Besides, this is my chance to show off the skills I’ve honed. And I can’t stand when someone stops me from having my fun.”

[User] “Oh! Sorry. I didn’t realize you were one of those natural-born killers. Guess we just look at things too differently to see eye to eye, then.” He would have liked to scratch his head with sheer embarrassment, but the moment he lowered his arm, his only guard, a finishing blow would have come his way. He settled for a sigh—and then his opponent’s Poison Hand twitched. He felt it coming—or rather, he knew it was coming.


[User] "—!" With a sharp breath, the one-armed man dodged his attacker’s right hook, but even as he saw the left arm move at the edge of his vision, he was bringing his sword up to meet the man’s spinning leg. The blade bit into the leg just at the knee, severing it and spraying dark blood everywhere. A few drops spattered on the one-armed man, who had to hope that at least his enemy’s blood wasn’t toxic.

[Assistant] "Just bad luck…or should I say, a bad star." Then the loser’s head went arcing high up through the air, still wearing an expression of disbelief.

[User] "Another close shave today, huh?"

[Assistant] "Hey, I’d love some easier wins. But these old bones have seen more than thirty years, and with just one arm, these clumsy little victories are the best I can manage." The one-armed man retreated from the arena, which was still echoing with cheers, through a passageway reserved for the sword slaves.


[User] Orlan was stationed around the colosseum. "Here ya go." The one-armed man said, tossing his blood-soaked weapon to Orlan.

[Assistant] "Okay, cuffs are on." Then he added, "You know, I’m glad you survived today. Maybe it’s not my place to mention, but there were some ugly rumors about that guy you were fighting. He grabbed a couple of guards by the arm, and they both died. Everyone claimed it was an accident, but…"

[User] "But a Poison Hand user having an ‘accident’ is pretty much like saying he cut off their heads with his own weapon, isn’t it?"

[Assistant] "You said it. But we don’t get many of his kind through here.


[User] "Gah, guards’ lives are as cheap as sword slaves’ here. Don’t tell anyone I said any of that, hey?” Orlan smiled thinly; he really wasn’t cut out for guard work. Or maybe it wasn’t guard work that didn’t suit him—maybe it was Ginonhive. Maybe the whole Volakian Empire. The empire prized tangible virtues: unshakable conviction and the willingness to put one’s life on the line in a fight. Bleeding hearts and bountiful compassion earned no respect here. It could be hard to live with people who possessed such a rigid view of the world. But that was the Holy Volakian Empire.

[Assistant] “Well, still gotta be better than being a sword slave like me!”

[User] “That’s not funny… Oh, hey, I’m not trying to say the only reason I’m glad you won is because the other guy was a jerk. It’s also because you’re pretty decent yourself.”

[Assistant] “Hey, watch it. You get too mushy, you’re gonna end up going down my route!”

[User] “What do you mean, ‘route’?”

[Assistant] “Ah, never mind. Let’s just get out of here.” The one-armed man smacked Orlan, still confused by the unfamiliar vocabulary, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he tried to get them moving. For one thing, he wasn’t that interested in standing around shooting the breeze, but for another, this passageway led to the arena. Which meant that eventually, the fighters for the next match would be coming through it…


[User] “Ohhh my. I was just wondering who could be flitting about here—if it isn’t my sweet little Al.”

[Assistant] “Ugh…” This was exactly what he’d been hoping to avoid—a run-in with the next competitor. Al felt his mouth twist into a scowl.

[User] “Oh my, oh my, oh my,” the new fighter said when she saw it, her voice tinkling like a bell. She came up to him looking like she was having a grand old time, her long, tall body swaying as she walked. “‘Ugh,’ he says! How positively mean! And here I thought we were friends…”

[Assistant] “Gimme a break. I’d have no end of trouble on my hands if I went around claiming I was friends with you. The best thing you could call us is acquaintances who occasionally stand and chat.”

[User] “Hee-hee-hee! You do say the funniest things, my sweet.” The woman with the rather beautiful smile and laugh was tall, with close-cropped dark hair. Indeed, she was uncommonly tall for this world at over six feet. She was blessed with a perfect figure, curves right where a woman would want them, and she displayed them proudly with an outfit that showed plenty of skin. Combined with her angular face, it all made her look like a sculpture escaped from an art museum. But there was something about her that was far more memorable than even her striking appearance: her arms. So far from being as long as her tall body would suggest, neither of them extended below the elbow.


[User] Thus, she faced an even greater disadvantage than Al with his one arm, yet she was the flower that had bloomed against this adversity. Spectators didn’t shout and jeer at her from the front row; instead, she enraptured all of them. She herself was the main event here on the sword-slave island of Ginonhive.

[Assistant] “I’m grateful to ya, Hornet, I really am, but let’s think about our respective positions here. If a little ant like me stood next to you, I’d get blown away.”

[User] “Oh, please don’t say things like that. You’ll make me sad. You’re my very, veeery best friend, after all.”

[Assistant] “Veeery best, huh? I guess that means all the others are dead.”

[User] “Tee-hee-hee!”

[Assistant] With turnover as high as it was on this island, one could rise through the ranks of sword-slave life with startling alacrity. The fact that the Hornet didn’t contradict Al was somehow endearing. Between her unforgettable appearance, the way she talked, and the way she behaved, the Hornet had a way of grabbing people’s attention and never letting go. She was indeed like her namesake; two or three stings of her venom and your life might be over. Compared with a toxin like that, the Poison Hand that Al had fought a few minutes earlier was like child’s play.

[User] “Mistress Hornet, it’s almost time…”

[Assistant] “Oh, I know. If you please?”

[User] It was, believe it or not, one of the guards addressing her in this deferential tone. Orlan’s colleague knelt in front of her and removed the foot shackles she wore in lieu of handcuffs. But the gesture was that of a man bowing before his queen. This innate capacity to make others grovel before her was where she had earned her nickname, the Empress of the Sword Slaves.

[Assistant] “Well, I hope you have another of your lovely, elegant fights, eh?” Al ribbed her.

[User] The guard glared at him.

[Assistant] “Ooh, scary.”

[User] The guard had become the Hornet’s man down to the bone—he probably wouldn’t have hesitated to attack Al if she’d told him to. However, she stopped him instead. “Don’t be silly. Come, dear, my arms.”

[Assistant] “Yes, ma’am.” Still kneeling, the guard gave a nod.

[User] From down the hallway appeared a low-ranking jailer, his face covered with a scarf, pulling a cart that bore two massive swords. Each was nearly as long as a grown adult was tall, but the hilts were very strangely shaped. That was only natural, as these weapons were exclusively for the Hornet’s use.

[Assistant] “Aaaand here we go!” the Hornet said languorously, turning her foreshortened arms toward the swords. The stumps fit neatly into the empty hilts, settling in with an audible click. Then the woman’s muscles tautened, and she hefted the huge blades easily, even though each appeared to weigh more than two hundred pounds. An ordinary person wouldn’t even have been able to lift one, let alone handle two of them at the same time.


[User] “Won’t you at least watch me fight before you go, Al, sweetie? Pretty please? You’re already here. I want to dedicate my victory today to you and you alone.”

[Assistant] “Thanks but no thanks!” He couldn’t resist another snipe despite the continued glaring of the Hornet’s guard. Even at that, though, the Hornet smiled again and walked past him into the arena.

[User] "A’right. I’m going to head back underground and get some sleep.”

[Assistant] “Wha…?! How dare you, ignoring Mistress Hornet like that!” the guard snapped.

[User] “The hell are you talking about? I told her to her face I wasn’t going to watch. She smiled about it. That’s a good enough answer for me. Am I wrong?” Al gave the angry guard a good, hard glare of his own and watched as the man flinched back, overawed.

[Assistant] “Holy hell, does she know how to keep you on your toes! She hardly acts like a sword slave, does she?” Al said as he walked past the Hornet’s silenced attendant, away from the arena.

[User] Orlan fell in beside him. “Hey, at least she seems to like you all right, Aldeberan,” Orlan said without malice.

[Assistant] “Give me a break, Orlan. And I thought I told you…” The one-armed man, Aldeberan, winked at the guard. “Call me Al. You know I hate my full name.”


[User] “I’ve been thinking, Al. You really think we can go on like this?” Underground beneath the island were living quarters where the sword slaves boarded. “Living” was a relative term, however; there were no conveniences or considerate touches that might make the place more welcoming. It was just a space in which the slaves could exist. Each of them claimed a place to camp out down there, then passed the idle hours until they were led away to fight again. Al was no exception. He had just been lying in his bed, grateful to have made it there another day…

[Assistant] “Hey, Al? Are you listening? Helloooo, Al!”

[User] He frowned at the man’s syrupy sweet voice and rolled over on the hard floor. Putting his back to the other person was supposed to signal that he wasn’t interested in talking, but the man didn’t seem to take the hint.

[Assistant] “Hey, come on,” he said, shaking Al’s shoulder. “I’m telling you, you have to listen. I’m talking about something really important!”

[User] “I’m not listening, and would it kill ya to sympathize with a guy? I just wrapped up a job, and I’m tired. I want to go to sleep. It’s my only damn pleasure.”

[Assistant] “This again? You know there are things to enjoy on this island besides sleeping. After all, you’re very popular, Al.” The man grinned and gestured with his chin at some figures who could just be seen in the distance. They were women in provocative clothing, and though they were officially sword slaves themselves, they served as the island’s prostitutes. They were never—well, almost never—summoned to fight in the arena, but instead, they were expected to make themselves available as an outlet for the other sword slaves. The idea of being “popular” with them was more credit than Al would ever give himself…

[User] “Ugh,” was all he said.

[Assistant] “Wah! Al, you can’t— That’s just too rude! These are beautiful women we’re talking about! Neither of you has a better job than the other!”

[User] “I’m not discriminating because of what they do.


[User] "It’s…like, a feelings sorta thing.” Al scowled, fighting down the nauseous feeling that accompanied this flurry of criticism. He could grab the women and play games with them, sure. They would wave to him, smile, each of them looking for her next trick. Some of them were broken by the tricks they found. These were women who were given no kindness. But even in this place, they were trying to live as best they could. Who was he to treat them as less than him?

[Assistant] "You’re not very comfortable around women, yet you’re always respectful toward them. No wonder they like you, Al.”

[User] “They just don’t have a lot of choices. If they had more options, they wouldn’t give a second look at a run-down old fart like me.”

[Assistant] “Hoh-hoh, ain’t mincing words! But that’s one of the things I like about you, Al.” The outrageously gorgeous man smiled at him.

[User] Al sighed, not sure what to do with the man’s ingratiating attitude. The pretty boy with the long gray hair—Ubirk was his name—had been brought to Ginonhive as a sword slave five years before. He was slim and pretty—but not exceptionally talented. In fact, he was about as unsuitable for fighting as they came; it was obvious that he would be trampled into the dust after no more than a few minutes in the arena. So how had he survived five years here? The same way as those women. The Hornet might have been the most noted of the female sword slaves, but no small number of women proved capable fighters in the ring. Ubirk’s job was to keep a number of them fulfilled, just as the female prostitutes did for many of the male sword slaves. His abilities in that regard were what had kept him alive this long. “So, Al, to get back to what I was saying…”

[Assistant] “Didn’t you hear me? I’m not in the mood for a chat.”

[User] “Oh, don’t be like that. I have a special invitation direct from the Empress herself.”

[Assistant] “Then I’m even less interested.” Al gave an exaggerated frown; that was a face he didn’t want to see and a name he didn’t want to hear for a while.

[User] Ubirk grinned at that. “Wow, you’re talking about the Hornet like that! Nothing scares you, does it, Al?”

[Assistant] “Don’t be ridiculous. You saw me a few minutes ago. I’m terrified of women. Which obviously includes the Hornet. QED.”

[User] “Kyooo eee… What? Another of those funny words from your homeland, Al? I never do understand what they mean!” Ubirk tilted his head, trying to grasp Al’s unusual vocabulary. Al had no intention of going out of his way to explain. Ubirk, perfectly accustomed to this behavior, didn’t press the matter. Unfortunately for Al, that didn’t mean he was done talking. “Come on, just listen. Otherwise, the Hornet might crush me the next time she makes love to me.


[User] "And wouldn’t you feel really guilty about that?”

[Assistant] “Oh, for the love of… If I listen to you, do you promise not to bother me during my sleeping time? If you can manage that, I’ll give you a few minutes to talk.”

[User] “Ha-ha! You’re such a nice guy, Al. It’s such a shame you can’t handle women.”

[Assistant] “Shaddap,” Al growled, dismissing Ubirk’s teasing and demanding he hurry up and talk in the same breath.

[User] "Rumor has it there’s going to be a major event happening here at the arena very soon. Bigwigs from all over the empire are going to be there.”

[Assistant] “Really? They haven’t done that in years. Why now?”

[User] “It’s ’cause… You know. The Volakian emperor died, and we’ve got a new one now. In other words, all the imperial candidates are dead.”

[Assistant] “They’re all dead, so we’ve got a new emperor? Oh, you mean the last surviving candidate becomes emperor. Yeah, I guess that would mean the others are gone.” Ubirk’s explanation left something to be desired, but Al was wise enough to figure out what he meant. He winked silently.

[User] “None of ’em probably like each other very much, but I guess even they throw a party at times like this. I’m betting it’s not very good news for the likes of us, though.”

[Assistant] “A ten-year sword slave just has a different level of experience, doesn’t he? You have my respect!” Ubirk said, half earnestly and half sarcastically.

[User] Al gave a click of his tongue. “Stop it. Thinking about all my ‘experience’ is only gonna make me depressed.”

[Assistant] “The fight against that mountain of a magic beast four years ago… That was the hardest. Without the Hornet, we would all have bought it right then and there. The horns from that thing are still decorating the hall.”

[User] “Truly, a battle to inspire legends. Too bad you and the Hornet were the only ones to survive it.”

[Assistant] “Yeah, and it’s what made the Hornet start paying attention to me.”


[User] And yet it wasn’t as if he owed her nothing—she was the reason he had survived that brutal battle four years earlier. “But sometimes, when ya can’t cope, ya can’t cope. So what is it? What does the Hornet want?”

[Assistant] “Nothing complicated, I promise. This is going to be a big, special event, so lots of people who don’t normally come will be here. And that means…”

[User] Al didn’t say anything.

[Assistant] Ubirk dropped his voice to a whisper. “We might just be able to take someone important hostage, maybe even a high count or better. Then we can demand our freedom!”

[User] Al winced again. Audacious as that might sound, it was old hat to him. “You guys really don’t know when to give up, do you? How many times have you kicked that idea around?” This wasn’t the first time Ubirk had brought this extraordinarily unlikely fantasy to him, and Al was starting to get tired of it. Ubirk wasn’t alone; many of the sword slaves on this island were secretly plotting their bids for freedom. As long as they were here, no sword slave was assured that the next day would come. It was the most natural thing in the world to wish for freedom. And yet… “I guarantee you that hundreds, maybe thousands of people have dreamed that dream before you. And you know how many have escaped? Not a single one. It’s a ridiculous, impossible idea, getting away from here.”

[Assistant] “Believe me, I know. But that’s because they didn’t plan well enough, or they didn’t pull it off right. Those plans were always going to fail, and they failed.”

[User] “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.” Al didn’t disagree with Ubirk, but everyone thought in terms of ideals when they were planning. Ubirk’s argument wasn’t enough to overcome Al’s inertia on the subject. “Anyway, I can’t see the Hornet ever actually agreeing to that sort of bullshit. The Empress likes it here. She’s a berserker. Lives for the fight.” The Hornet lived without impediment and wanted for nothing; she had found a place where she could fulfill her every whim. Al couldn’t see why she would relinquish such exceptional treatment. Which, in turn, made the whole idea that this invitation came from the Hornet deeply suspicious. “I’m on to you. You apologize right now, I might just forgive you,”

[Assistant] “Ha-ha-ha-ha! No good, huh? The Hornet seems to like you, Al, so I thought maybe if you could talk her around… Ouch!”

[User] “I only said I might forgive ya.” Al rapped the guileless-looking Ubirk on the head with a knuckle, causing his eyes to brim with tears, then swept him out of the way. Al was substantially worse off now than he had been before indulging Ubirk’s little chat. Nonetheless, it was probably worth paying attention to the fact that there would be a major event here on the island, and soon.


[User] Age gaps were hardly unusual in marriages among nobles, and loveless unions were practically de rigueur as a way of solidifying connections between houses. But for a man of more than fifty to welcome a bride of twelve—even this long-serving butler found himself taken aback. Not least because this particular wife seemed to offer no advantages at all. At the same time, Jorah’s basic decency was beyond doubt. He possessed that rarest of things among the empire’s elite—kindness—and it was more than enough to inspire unflinching loyalty in the butler. That loyalty moved him to try to help the young woman in every way he could, knowing she would be quite overwhelmed by her new environment. Yes, the butler welcomed his master’s young spouse with his own firm resolve. That resolve had quickly crumbled in the face of the woman herself. Yes, the girl was twelve years old. Yes, she’d come to Jorah’s mansion young and with no household of her own. But she was arrestingly beautiful, and her soul burned more intensely than any fire. Priscilla. That was the name of the forceful young woman who had appeared in this home like a conqueror. Priscilla Pendleton.

[Assistant] "Not bad." The girl said, her voice emanating from her pale throat in a way that seemed to penetrate deep into the listener’s brain. It took the butler a moment to realize this was her appraisal of the tea. The reason for his belated understanding was simple: the girl’s face. Nothing in particular had happened or changed—she was simply so beautiful that he had been captivated; it had felt as if time had stopped. And when time resumed flowing, and the butler realized she had spoken words of praise, he shivered. This girl, whose age didn’t amount to one half of one half of his own years, made his blood seem to run faster with her compliment; a feeling of paralysis gripped his very soul. Being a butler at all was like a gift from the heavens to these old bones. It was only natural, perhaps, that such a person should bow before a girl like this, someone who was obviously a born ruler. For to serve someone meant to be dominated by someone.

[User] "Withdraw. I wish to speak with my husband."

[Assistant] "Yes, ma’am." Without a second thought, the butler bowed and backed out of the room. He wondered if she might not take just one more sip of the tea as he was leaving. He wondered if the youthful conqueror wouldn’t mind putting that seal of approval on his work. The hope almost physically burned in the old butler as he silently left the room.


[User] Jorah looked listless, and his hair was beginning to go white, Jorah’s awkward gaze rested on Priscilla.

[Assistant] Priscilla responded to her husband’s hesitant approach with a “Bah” and a loud sniff. "Don’t speak to me in that cringing, raspy way. I can barely tell the difference between your voice and a faint breeze. Or wait—was that a breeze I heard just now?”

[User] "N-no, no, it wasn’t. It was me talking… I simply meant that you seem to be getting along well with the servants.”

[Assistant] “Hmph. If that’s what you think, it only proves how blind you really are.”

[User] “What?” Jorah said, his eyes widening.

[Assistant] Priscilla met her husband’s ridiculous reaction with a look of exasperation. “Listen. The relationship between me and them is not one of getting along. They simply obey me. They know of no other way to live except to bow and scrape and serve. All I need to do is give them some instructions, and they wag their tails happily.”

[User] “I—I see…I think…”

[Assistant] “If anything, I’m surprised you managed to hold on to such passable help for so long.”

[User] “Hold on to…? I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t quite follow…”

[Assistant] Priscilla’s one open eye grew even sharper at Jorah’s continued gibbering. "—You are ever more inscrutable. What I’m saying is that you seem to lack the desires and the motivations that almost every person naturally has. I’m not saying I’ve never encountered such people before. But…”

[User] “Y-yes?” Jorah stammered.

[Assistant] “…that being the case, I continue to fail to understand why you took me as your wife.” Priscilla also continued to stare at him, hard.


[User] I’m Prisca Benedict, a young woman who was supposed to have died during the Rite of Imperial Selection.

[Assistant] She uttered the name of a member of the royal family who had been defeated in the bloody contest to determine the next emperor of Volakia and had supposedly died as a result. But Prisca had not died. After feigning her death, she still lived. Not under her real name, but with an assumed identity as a young woman named Priscilla Pendleton who was still learning how to navigate polite society. Many people had given everything to ensure that the girl survived—but when Priscilla wedded Jorah, she hadn’t hidden any of this from him. Of course, if he had refused her, knowing what he knew, it was highly unlikely Priscilla would have let him live. So in a way, her telling him the truth was an unspeakable disaster for Jorah. But that didn’t change the fact that, despite knowing the circumstances, he had still agreed to marry Priscilla. Why was that? Even Priscilla, who’d had the old butler bowing and indulging her every whim practically within moments, couldn’t seem to solve the riddle of Jorah’s true motives.


[User] Jorah looked moderately surprised, but then his lips softened into a slight smile, a gentle expression such as one might give to a small child who couldn’t figure out the answer to a question.

[Assistant] "You may be my husband, but that does not give you the right to humiliate me with a look like that."

[User] "P-pardon me. I just… Until now, you’ve carried yourself like a young sage, always seeing through everything. It surprised me to realize…"

[Assistant] "Realize what?"

[User] "…that sometimes you do act your age." From Jorah’s perspective, the remark was a substantial gamble in and of itself. He seemed to be privately considering the possibility that he would get his head knocked clean off.

[Assistant] "You n-needn’t worry. I don’t intend to use you or expose you or any such thing. On that point, I am absolutely sincere."

[User] "Very well." Priscilla said after a moment.

[Assistant] "It wouldn’t have mattered what you were planning anyway. For this world bends itself to suit me."

[User] Jorah didn’t answer. One might characterize Priscilla’s philosophy as a belief in fate or perhaps destiny. As soon as the words had left her mouth, Jorah’s expression softened once more. Before Priscilla could remark on it, however—

[Assistant] "Forgive me, Master." said the butler, reentering the room with a knock at the door. It was wrong of him to interrupt the master and mistress of the house when they were having a private conversation, and a man of such long service ought to have known better. The reason for his indiscretion was explained by the report he gave them:

[User] "We have visitors from High Countess Delacroix."

[Assistant] "The high countess? I haven’t heard anything about that." but then he exclaimed,

[User] "Priscilla?!" For his wife was already up and striding out of the room.