Editing Rakuin no Monshou:Volume12 Chapter5 (section)

=== Part 1 ===

At that same time –

Through what twist of fate was it that the two people who, in Solon’s palace, had once engaged in a battle without blades – Emperor Guhl Mephius and Orba, the former gladiator – had been forced into the same kind of predicament at the same time?

Orba’s consciousness was still within that pitch-black darkness. The lights which had made it look like a starry night sky were still gathered together to form an old man’s face, and those gigantic eyes seemed like they were enveloping Orba; when he opened his mouth wide, it was as though he were going to swallow Orba’s insubstantial body whole, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes.

''A sorcerer.''

That, he understood. The man could be nothing else. And on top of that, he had spoken about ‘Garda’. That was the name of a man that Orba himself had killed in the west, but, some time ago, when he had paid a brief visit to Taúlia, the famed strategist, Ravan Dol, had revealed that “Garda might be alive.”

Did Garda have two or even three lives? Was the one Orba had defeated an impostor? At any rate, it did seem true that the man, who appeared to be one of Garda’s subordinates, had set a magic trap and lain in wait for Orba.

''Shit''.

Orba tried to grind his teeth. But his physical sensations felt far away. As though his consciousness and his body had been separated and were dozens of kilometres apart, there was a considerable time lag between when his body showed a reaction, and when that reaction returned to him as a ‘sensation’.

By the time he realised it, a cold fear had risen in a corner of his heart. If just one single part of his body were able to move freely, he would not fear any enemy trying to hinder him. But now that even the sensation of having a body felt far away, he had no means to oppose the enemy.

As though reading his thoughts, the stars glittered distortedly, and a wicked smile formed on the old man’s face –

Just as he was thinking so, one after another, they turned into shooting stars and flew wildly about, drawing trails of light as they did so.

He had no time to follow them with his eyes.

“Guh!”

Did his voice actually escape from his lips, or was it only in his mind?

As sharp as arrows let loose by a mighty warrior, the light crawled inside of Orba’s body. Not just once, twice, or three times, the stars which should have been suspended in the air betrayed their own destiny, and overwhelmed him with their successive strikes.

No sooner had they wreaked white-hot havoc in his body that they reassembled and formed the old man’s figure again. A body should, by nature, only admit the existence of a single soul within it, but now, a second being was starting to assert its presence inside of him.

Orba screamed from the intense pain. Maybe it was because being in the same fleshy container meant that the agony was also shared, but he could feel the screams of the old man who had introduced himself as Zafar reverberating inside of him.

“Who are you – who are you? Who. The. Hell. Are. You!?”

The darkness that was drifting before Orba’s eyes now changed.

He could dimly make out Mephius’ throne room. On the other side of a flight of stairs, Emperor Guhl Mephius sat in state.

For a second, Orba forgot about the pain as he stared at him. It was none other than the scene that he had experienced just ten or so days earlier.

The Emperor’s figure seemed to flicker like a candleflame in the wind, and the pillars with their decorative carvings, the tapestries on the wall, and the courtiers lined up on either side, all scattered into a thousand points of light, drifted for a moment, then formed another scene.

The next thing he saw was the glare of the sun that seemed to be baking the ground white. A man stood opposite him. Studded shoulder pads, a belt made from hide, and a curved sword in his hands.

Orba caught his breath.

Even though he had long forgotten his face but, confronting each other like this, it came back as vividly as though it were yesterday.

This was the man that Orba had confronted when he had first stood, sword in hand, in the arena – in other words, the first gladiator that Orba had killed.

The aggregation of stars forming the gladiator’s shape soon changed and the lights once more scattered and dispersed.

It was like a mirror reflecting his memories. Scenes from what he experienced up until now were projected in no chronological order, with none of them being developed long.

Among those memories –

There was Ryucown, whom he had crossed swords with. There was Queen Marilène, walking forward even as the mob that surrounded her hurled abuse and threw things at her. There were many scenes in which he was leading soldiers on the battlefield. There was the instant in which he had leaped towards the sorcerer who had called himself Garda. There was the quiet night sky with its twinkling stars that he had looked up at with his brother, Roan, and their childhood friend, Alice. There was the evening hour in which heaven and earth seemed to blaze red as Orba held Shique’s cold corpse…

Orba could do nothing to stop them.

It felt as though the sorcerer who had crawled inside him was groping through his memories and letting them all out.

“Not a sorcerer? Not even a flunky to Barbaroi?” Zafar was gasping in pain, but there was a trace of doubt in his whispered voice. “Then, how? How could you, a lowly slave, a mere body-double set up by Fedom, have completely reshaped out diagram of Fate?”

While he spoke, Orba’s past continued to flickeringly appear and disappear.

“I don’t understand. It can’t be… Some ‘power’ must be interfering. If we’re talking about a hero, then the ''signs'' of a hero being born should have appeared beforehand. In which case, either amending the diagram of Fate or killing him in infancy would have been easy. Who is this bastard? It’s like he just appeared from some other world. So what…?”

Just as the old man’s voice suddenly died out, Orba’s past, which had been unfolding at dizzying speed, abruptly stopped dead.

It was a memory so vague that at first, Orba himself could not tell who was being projected in that scene.

The reflected scenery was that of Fedom’s town house in Solon. This he remembered. It had been a huge turning point in Orba’s life. Reclining back in a slovenly, arrogant manner, Fedom, the domain lord of Birac, had announced to him that:

“You’re going to become the Crown Prince of Mephius.”

Right, it was the moment when he went from being a gladiator to becoming Gil Mephius’ body-double. But the one who was holding Zafar’s attention was neither Fedom nor Orba. Next to the Lord of Birac was a person standing as still as a shadow. That man had left a uncanny impression on Orba. A strange man, who appeared young at first glance yet, depending on how the light hit him, who also seemed very old.

''He’s… a sorcerer?''

Orba suddenly realised. When he had been talking with Fedom, hadn’t he heard something about that man being responsible for putting the iron mask on him? Moreover, he was the one who, with just a touch of his fingers, had broken that mask – which had not budged in two years, no matter how much strength Orba had used on it – right in half.

What was his name?

''Right, Herman'' – Orba remembered as Fedom called him that. However –

''Impossible'' – a voice immediately rose in denial. Zafar’s.

The scene that remained frozen in time and space started to shake.

''Herman? That name… It can’t be. The face is different as well… That man… no, that ‘esteemed gentleman’ is – is, without a doubt, Lord Garda’s…''
 


Meanwhile, Orba’s body was still lying in the grass on the ground. Pashir was kneeling beside him and the Mephian soldiers formed a circle around them.

The Dairan soldiers had, by then, already found what was apparently the sniper who had taken aim at the prince. However, he had already died. He had apparently fired a desperate shot just before his flame of life had burned out. The bullet had missed however, immediately afterwards, there had been another soldier who had attempted to cut down the crown prince, but Gil had dealt with him himself.

On Kayness’ orders, they had thoroughly searched the surroundings to check that there were no other enemies lying hidden.

Gil Mephius’ chest was still heaving painfully, and his shoulders were violently rising up and down.
“Bring His Highness into the mansion,” suggested Kayness. “We were expecting a battle at dawn, so a number of doctors have already been summoned. They can treat him.”

Pashir nodded and was about to follow the suggestion, but Orba’s hand was still tightly gripping his arm. It bit into him with the strength of an iron band, and, after thinking for a moment, Pashir frowned.

“Orba,” he glanced behind him.

Kain, in the iron mask, stared blankly back for a moment, not realising that it was his name which was being called. “Orba!” when Pashir barked at him in rebuke however, he hastily stood to attention.

“I’m leaving you in charge of my unit. Take the horses and go provide reinforcement to Lord Eric.”

“M-Me?”

Pashir signalled that, yes, him. Fundamentally, he would have preferred to go himself, but he felt that, as someone who knew Orba’s real identity, he had to stay by the crown prince. He was afraid that, during the course of the medical treatment, it would be all too easy for him to be unclothed and for the slave brand to be exposed.

“Fly the flag of Mephius as obviously as you can. Loudly advertise that we’ve defended Dairan. That way, we’ll be able to unnerve the enemy while raising morale on Ende’s side.”

“It’s fine, Orba. I’ll go with you,” Gilliam stepped forward.

They still did not know what Eric’s situation was. The three hundred soldiers who would march forward would also serve as a large-scale reconnaissance party. Kayness Plutos would chose men from among the survivors of Darowkin’s unit, and send them with them.

“They’ll take you to the best place to cross the river with the horses.”

“Much appreciated. Right then, come on, Iron Tiger,” said Gilliam, leaping onto a horse as though in part to spur ‘Orba’ on.

“Aaaye,” Kain, disguised as ‘Orba’, answered in a despairing tone, having apparently resigned himself as he also clambered onto horseback. “Later, when His Highness the Crown Prince wakes up, I’m getting at least one sarcasm in.”

Kain positioned himself in the vanguard and, with Gilliam acting as his adjutant, they started off with their three hundred men with the Dairan soldiers serving as their guides.

The clouds of dust that they kicked up were carried away by the wind and vanished in the pitch-black darkness.

It was not yet dawn.