act12mini

The honor of a knight needs no testimony.

How can you claim to uphold chivalry, when you have given up the ground on which you stand and left your fate to a war you have no control over?

Can you continue to shed tears and feel sorrow for the dead who line your path?

A drop of rain falls upon the tip of the spear.

The forest's night fog glows, as though the dawn has come early in the drizzle.

Finally, you're not holding back your Originium Arts.

I'm in full gear, while you're not even wearing basic armor. Is this really a fair duel?

What armor can bear the full brunt of a campaign knight's blow? Especially one from you?

Yes, it's perfect.

Wait, you're...

Hey, good eyes.

Some nobles didn't even realize until two months into our partnership.

Others realized it immediately, but kept their mouths shut as though they didn't know anything.

Sarkaz mercenaries. Has the business machine of Kazimierz taken in your ilk too?

You flatter us. It's no skin off my nose whatever you think we are, but there are more than just Sarkaz hiding here.

Kazimierz treats us all equally... when it's deciding who to throw away.

Spooked?

The only thing unusual about a Sarkaz is that we live a bit longer than the average Kazimierzian. And I'm still pretty young.

...Although it's true that I have fewer and fewer old friends by the year.

*cough*...

Silver shards litter the ground in the falling rain.

The broken armor cannot keep the blood inside.

It's over.

No...

Who do you want me to admit defeat to?

The campaign knight grabs his lance again and lunges forward.

But his legs do not move.

...Who do you want me to admit defeat to?

The knight stumbles and falls to his knees as the golden light rains down on his cheeks.

He raises his head and gazes at Nearl, his eyes wide open in the rain.

To the nobles in the high tower of the Adeptus Sprawiedliwi Kazimierz, who spend their days in intrigue and vainglory?

Or to the merchants who cover up their dark deeds with false mirth, and disguise their twisted greed with contrived jest?

Do you want me to admit that I can never win against the tyranny of bloodlines?

Or do you want me to flee Kazimierz, abandon the struggle, and bow down to all that we despised?

*cough*...

I never saw another path worth taking.

You still won't admit the only possibility, will you? Then prove it with your sword.

If it's you who thinks I'm wrong, then... I'll accept it.

I didn't lose to power, to money, to the will to survive, or to inexorable time.

...No.

Młynar sheathes his sword.

The rain of light continues to fall from the cold night sky before the dawn.

Like I said... you don't need to die here.

If he turned back, it would stop, he thought.

...Hah.

How do you live with it, Młynar?

Even though your fury burns so much fiercer than mine, even though you've seen the same things I have?

Don't tell me you don't see it...

The G.C.C. meddles with the campaign knights at will. More and more knights sell their honor and their swords to those merchants, fueling their increasing ambition.

As for Leithanien... much time has passed since the fall of the Witch King's spire. I have seen with my own eyes their war preparations. There is no romanticism in it, only terror.

And there will always be those who roam the barrenlands, made pariah by Catastrophe, war, and the evolution of the cities.

You know all this, so... why do you not draw your sword?

His vision blurs and he cannot see Młynar's expression, only that he is still gazing down on him.

Why do you hesitate? What are you thinking?

He finds no answer in the rain, only golden starlight melting in his field of vision.

Every breath he takes is a struggle, as his life flows out along his cold armor.

...And that scornful sneer from up high, which awaits all who passionately pursue their ideals.

Not the numb spectators who snigger as I weep for the victims.

I feel equal sorrow from them as I do for the dead.

It's the ones who are even now sneering at my futile efforts against them.

Even if I banged my head so hard against this wall that my bones shattered into dust, there would be no echo.

The rain does not stop. His eyes remain wide.

He recalls the summer downpour, the muddy forest ground, the ring of wild flowers flowing on the stream.

He remembers the last good dream he had in those times.

You should not be so silent, Nearl, he thought.

—Just like then, you must return to The Grand Knight Territory, after a long and futile journey.

I don't believe you can let it go, Młynar.

...Their two names were erased just as they shined the brightest, like a fire thrown into a deep pool, going out without a trace.

For fifteen years the Adeptus Sprawiedliwi has remained silent. Your questions have gone unanswered.

House Nearl, bright as they are, was rejected by Kazimierz... The nation has sunken into darkness, and will not abide even a single ray of light.

That's why you became disillusioned...

You... don't know how many years they've waited in foreign lands.

...What did you say?

Ha...

I encountered them a few years ago, when infiltrating Leithanien...

Drip.

A single drop of ink stained the last letter from home.

He never had the chance to send a letter asking the question that he harbored for twenty years.

After twenty years of silence, he knows this is the only thing he can ask the campaign knight.

...Did you tell anyone else about this?

Czcibor shakes his head.

Młynar waits in long silence for the next rebuke, and even longer for a word of repentance.

But the only response is a long exhalation, like a sigh, followed by the soft sound of clanging metal.

The campaign knight's body leans towards his lance that pierced the earth.

It is like one of the countless suits of empty armor they have seen on the barrenlands.

After a moment, Młynar kneels in the rain, making a gesture of mourning for his former comrade.