Editing Rakuin no Monshou:Volume2 Chapter2

==Chapter 2: Days at the Imperial Capital==
===Part 1===
Prior to the beginning of the founding festival, the people of Mephius, especially the inhabitants within the imperial capital of Solon, were enlivened. The ten year war with Garbera had ended, the number of peddlers and travellers from other countries would increase, and the circus troupe would also arrive from the east. The end of the war might have led to the beginning of varied opinions on the resist-to-the-bitter-end faction, but for the citizens, just looking forward to being able to partake in the festivities was more than enough to leave them delighted.

In the following week, Solon would be dyed the colour of the festival. For those that grew up in an environment enclosed within cliffs and valleys, those of various attires, different dispositions, the uncultured, and also the so-called ‘plain’ Mephians, this was the only time they could freely dress up, drink at the stands that completely filled up the halls and streets, and relish the usually sparse seafood in Mephius, as the orchestra, minstrels, troupes and attractions pleased their eyes and ears.

Mephius’ reputed gladiator games would, of course, be held for days in succession. The distinguished gladiatorial groups from each region would all be gathered in one place, where those who bragged of their strength would duke it out in the imperial capital of Solon’s arena, which made all others appear lacking in lustre and awfully plain by comparison. Many from distant lands had shown up just to see this grand, magnificent gladiator fest.

And, every year, the arena in the imperial capital hosting this festival would hold a different theme. Amongst the gladiators who had survived day after day of fighting, the Guild would carefully select between the ones with real ability, especially those garnering high popularity, until the final four men were chosen. And for each, a one-on-one battle would be held. Then the two victors would, in the last day, accompanied by two hundred gladiators that had yet to participate in a match, fight against several large dragons—the last and biggest event of the founding festival.

It had been modelled after one of Mephius’ most popular historical figures, the Dragon-slaying hero, Clovis, who, together with the support of Felipe, fought to the very end. Despite being gladiators, they had been bestowed the same title, and released from their status as sword-slave. Furthermore, they had been officially employed as Mephian soldiers. In this day and age, the sword-slaves trained even harder than usual at this time of year in hopes they would be able to participate in the tournament.

''Speaking of which, Tarkas never got invited in the end.''

At times like this, he would usually be in a sour mood. The Tarkas Gladiatorial Group was comparatively fairly large and certainly well known, but the company, having been brought up in a single generation, held weak relations with the nobles and nearly no say within the guild..

“If it’s Shique, I can get some money. Gilliam too, he certainly is the people of Solon’s favourite giant. And then there’s Kain; I’d like to see someone that can best him in a tank shooting match against two Baian tanks.”

Orba recalled him speaking those words. Put in Tarkas’ words, Orba was a gladiator that didn’t give him his money’s worth. His forte was the longsword; he never lost a one-on-one match. But it was a fact that his fighting style was ‘plain’.

It had been Tarkas’ dream to participate in the festival and get first place, but Orba held no interest in it. He wanted the festival in Solon to quickly start and receive it, and it was because Orba thought this way, that he didn’t understand the way the world ran.

Though, of course, he would do so not as the gladiator Orba, but as the crown prince Gil. Instead of going out into the gladiator games, he had a number of other duties to perform.



The evening before the start of the festival, the Mephius royalty and chief vassals took the lead in the celebration of founding day, holding a ritual to pray for a good harvest in the coming year. In the centre of Solon stood the Black Tower, also known as the “Sword forged from the remains of a Space Immigrant Ship’s bow”. The tower was a symbol of the capital, and situated below was the Dragon God Shrine. It was a naturally formed cave, and they were quickly enveloped in a freezing chill upon entering.

Everyone wore the hoods of their robes and walked in silence. Incidentally, participation of this ceremony was restricted to the men. There were no exceptions for royalty, and amongst them, the presence of Empress Melissa and her daughter Ineli were nowhere to be found.

The one acting as vanguard and holding the lamps was not the emperor, but several elderly men with dark brown skin. They were thin, but treaded robustly. These were nomads of the Ryuujin Faith who usually lived in the mountains.

All preparations for the Dragon God ritual were handled by the group of elders. This was an old custom dating back to the days when people all throughout Mephius worshipped the Dragon God. Soon, they arrived at the inner sanctum. Their feet stopped, and they waited patiently as the group of elders offered a prayer in ancient words.

Engraved on the towering wall before them was the Mephius Dragon God bestowing wisdom and power to the founding emperor.

It was a vast, dimly lit space. The lamp kindled and the deep, profound voices of the elders chanting could be heard as their shadows projected onto the wall. The sanctity of the ritual sent shivers down Orba’s spine.

''So this is also something I must get used to.''

Just how much more of this did he have to learn by heart and get used to? If they were to be drilled into his head, he might even end up respecting the nobles and royalty a little. As Orba held such baseless thoughts, his eyes met with Fedom, who flashed him a silent look of reprehension that seemed to say, ‘Stop flapping your head all over the place!’ 

Once the prayer had concluded its end, the elders moved down a passage leading to a considerably narrow room, and they alone exchanged drinks. It wasn’t a part of their banquet, but another form of paying their respect. The party on the eve of the founding festival would take place come nightfall in the central hall within the inner palace, where the remaining nobles and countries’ envoys awaited them.

As they headed towards the room, Simon Rodloom called out, “Prince.” 

Fedom looked at Orba during this sudden predicament, but to his relief, Orba did not turn to meet his gaze. Simon was a leader amidst all the others. Who knew how long he could have been lurking behind Fedom.

Simon started off with a formal greeting, offering a ‘good health’ salutation like all the others.

“It’s not bad. Everyone’s fussing too much over it, so it got blown up a bit.”

According to Dinn’s reports, Simon was regarded as the prince’s attending nursemaid, much to his displeasure. Orba had acted correspondingly.

“The young prince is the man of the hour, after all. Speaking of which, you performed a splendid job with your first campaign.”

“''Unexpectedly'' splendid, is what you want to say, right?”

“Yes, pardon my discreetness.”

“Everyone’s surprised after seeing my real abilities. It’s because of the way I’ve been up to now that everyone is probably feeling uneasy. Hmph, like I’d care if they started minding me now.”

Rodloom smiled at his bitter expression.

''Not bad at all.''

Orba impressed with his own acting. After all, he only had to play the part of a simpleton.

Afterwards, Orba continued his act as 'the prince elated with his activities in his first campaign.'

“Did you meet Princess Vileena after that?”

The unexpected jab had momentarily left him short of a response.

“It has been the talk of the maids—those gossipy chattering sparrows, that Her Royal Highness had intruded into your room and firmly scolded you on your late return; such rumours have spread.”

“Me, scolded by that princess? Madness!”

A part of what he spouted wasn’t an act, but his real feelings. Simon broke off into a smile.

“It’s fine like this. If it’s a single rumour, it might help the princess’ situation.”

“Help her?”

“She was the princess of our enemy until not too long ago, she herself must hold some misgivings and conflicted feelings of her surroundings. But, with this, everyone wil watch over the relationship between the charming prince and princess, and soon enough the people will follow suit.”

“And what will become of my situation? Am I just supposed to shut up and laugh it off?”

“This is the time when the prince should show his talents. Show more concern. You should try to laugh with her about things, and become a lord not to be trifled with. Then she will hold a large amount of good-will towards you.”

“As if I need that sort of good-will.”

“You wouldn’t want this talk to reach his majesty’s ears, would you?”

“...”

“But even His Majesty,” Simon began. It was a private matter, but he decided to turn a blind eye and say it. “In his early years, in those times he fought with Lana-sama, it was up to me to be the mediator. Once your mother had made up her mind, she would stay firm.”

Lana was the emperor’s former wife, and Prince Gil’s own mother. She had died five years ago from an illness.

Naturally, Orba hardly knew any of this. He avoided giving a response, which Simon kept quiet about, assuming it was because of his own sentiments, as the two proceeded into the chamber.

And it was here where the incident likely to affect the future of Mephius would occur.




It was a narrow, rectangular room. In this part of the cave supported by wood and iron rods were several laid out chairs, just enough to accommodate the group, centred around a crudely-built stone table.

Orba moved to his previously arranged position. One by one, cups were placed before each seat. The bottom contained a small amount of honey. It was custom that the emperor then personally pour the wine. In last year’s founding festival, fruit wine had been offered. Of course, this year too, the best wine possible had been prepared to show gratitude for the blessings.

“I pray for a good harvest in Mephius. Spirit of the Dragon God, please grant me your divine protection.”

As Guhl Mephius’ voice rang, everyone joined in succession. Orba—or rather, Prince Gil, was the last to go. His eyes followed the emperor, now walking with the wine-storing vase held under his arm.

''The Mephius emperor.''

He was Prince Gil’s father, and needless to say, the man who reigned at the top of the empire. And if Orba’s reasoning was right, he was the man who planned the secret assassination of Prince Gil and his fiancée, Vileena. If a situation were to occur that would force these two alone, would he be able to deceive him? Orba had no interest in finding out; he might even try to kill him. Though, could a father even mistake an impostor for his own son?

Then the room filled with commotion. The startled Orba watched from the side.

''Did I blunder?''

His blood instantly froze. However, the one the vassals were looking at wasn’t Gil, but the emperor. Their faces filled with surprise and—profound fear. Orba also turned to look. The emperor was pouring wine to the first person. Orba didn’t see anything strange happening. The first was an elder nomad of the Ryuujin Faith. The emperor then directed the vase to the next elder.

“Your majesty, please wait.”

The one who brought himself forward was Zaat Quark. The dignified demeanour he commanded when they had met on the streets was nowhere to be seen, and his vigorous face distorted in alarm.

“Please wait, your majesty. Lord Rodloom has yet to go.”

The room had gone into an uproar since near the beginning of Zaat’s interjection. And it wasn’t only Zaat; many had impulsively left their seat. Orba also got up and walked two seats over to Fedom, who had changed his face to match the others, and gently tapped him on the back.

“...What are they talking about?”

“F-Fool! Don’t speak to me here.”

Fedom cursed at him in a low voice, but Orba pressed for an answer with his eyes, leaving him no choice but to speak quickly.

“...Last year, Simon Rodloom was the first to receive the ceremonial wine. It was perfectly natural for something done by rank. The order of pouring reflects the strength of his trust. And to prevent needless strife, the order had been decided beforehand.”

That was why the crown prince went last, Fedom seemed to imply. Ranking retainers was another unfamiliar concept for him.

At this point of the explanation, Zaat drew closer before them.

“Your majesty!”

“Silence, Zaat Quark.”

Guhl Mephius interrupted hoarsely, but in a sharp, hushed voice. With just that, the emperor had quelled the commotion and he stared at the eyes of his retainers who were frozen in fear.

“What is this, interrupting in the midst of a rite. Cease your actions.”

“I will not, your majesty,” Zaat said, turning pale, but he did not stop talking. “The way things are being done is not according to our followed customs. With all due respect, how could you put more trust on those nomads and putrid believers than we lords and generals who, for your majesty’s sake, have devoted ourselves tirelessly!”
	
“Zaat, stop it.”

None other than Simon grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to control him. But he was a moment too slow, as the emperor’s eyes opened wide and ripples on his whole face seemed to violently split open.

“To say this in no other than the Dragon God’s shrine! You’ve quite the nerve, Zaat. You, who defies me like those priests I now hold in contempt, are attempting to pollute this sacred ritual. The benevolent Dragon God shall certainly not bestow his judgment of anger on you, but will instead impose it on me, the emperor that acts as his representative. Depart from here immediately! I shall hand down my sentence afterwards, so you shall return to and be confined in your own mansion. Do you understand, Zaat?!”

“Your majesty.”

“Your majesty!”

Orba watched as the situation once again escalated into an uproar. The emperor’s face seethed a bright red and he never removed his gaze from Zaat Quark, whose face showed a ghastly blue.

''Internal discord amongst the nobles, huh.''

He had no intention of mediating and planned to stay out of it. While he subdued the smile that formed around his mouth, a casual sidelong glance at Fedom revealed that there was something odd.

His plump belly jiggled as his body quivered. It might have seemed he was in a panic, as sweat ran down his face, but it was identical to Orba’s, with a faint smile that seemed to come and go.

===Part 2===
The exchange between the emperor and Zaat in the Dragon God Shrine spread within the Main Palace in the blink of an eye. And there was also the matter with Kaiser Islan. Everyone doubted the emperor’s way of doing things, but on the other hand, they had resolved themselves to tread cautiously so that they would not be caught in the crossfire.

The arranged founding eve festival celebration had been held as planned and went without incident. There, Orba met with Princess Vileena. It had been ten days since they last met where he received the ‘scolding’ in his own room. She wore a white, high-collared coat and a Garberan-style skirt with the hem spreading out, and piled under then were Mephian-styled trousers and boots. Theresia had gone through painstaking efforts to coordinate it, unbeknownst to Orba. In the presence of surrounding eyes, the two exchanged greetings as if nothing had happened. And then they were done. Their eyes never met after.

''Hmph.''

Vileena was angry exactly because the prince adopted such an attitude.

The Imperial Guard delegates who had come along, Shique and Gowen, had no choice but to smile wryly.

“His highness accomplished his first campaign in stride,” Shique said shrugging his shoulders. “But when it comes to love, he is like that naïve boy before his first campaign.”

“Even those old-timers would lose face when conducting themselves as such. Just what I’d expect of our prince.”

Orba disregarded the two as they belittled him within earshot. Then, Gowen lowered his voice, “Putting aside the issue with the princess, it seems lots of things have been happening behind my back.”

“What do you mean?”

“In a Solon bar, I met War.”

War was originally one of the sword-slaves from the Tarkas group and had participated in the battle at Zaim Fortress. Of the eighty remaining sword-slaves, sixty-two had offered their service into the Imperial Guards. The rest, including the giant gladiator Gilliam, were more than adequately rewarded by being set free. War was also one of those who should have been set free.

“That’s reassuring. Is he doing fine?”

“Hmph, he’s quickly grown senile. When I called out to him, he acted like he didn’t recognise me. There must have been some circumstances, so I brought him to a place with just the two of us before I asked questions. It appears to have been the ‘prince’s order’.”

“What order?”

“It seems to have been to become a Mephius mercenary. One under  the commander during your first campaign—the one called General Oubary.”

He wanted to hear more from Gowen, but with Ineli and Baton’s appearance, he had no choice but to put it on hold. Forcibly making a smile he was unaccustomed to, he called out in a manner natural for the prince.

Naturally, Ineli and the others wanted to hear about the situation with Zaat Quark, but Orba couldn’t say that everything said by the rumours was all there was to it.

“Everyone is saying that His Imperial Majesty planned to revive the Ryuujin Faith again, just as he did in the western provinces of Tauran.”

“It’d be good if it does no harm. I’d be troubled if I had to change my lifestyle. Would he possibly go as far as to prohibit certain foods?”

“You sure are being realistic, Princess Ineli.”

“Baton, you twit.” Even though she scowled at him, Ineli couldn’t help but giggle. “It is because we are dealing with my father that who knows what will become of his thoughts. Isn’t that right, your highness?”

Afterwards, Orba conversed here and there with those who came to greet him. As the only one of the senior statesmen present, Fedom was just as busy as the prince. So it fell on Dinn the page to constantly whispering the names of those who greeted the prince into Orba's ear in his stead. It was by all means, an endless task.

Before long, they were alerted of His Imperial Majesty’s grand entrance. Emperor Guhl Mephius, along with Empress Melissa, made their appearance. Guhl gave a short glimpse at the prince. He might have done so now, but wouldn’t even meet his eyes at the time of the ritual at the Dragon God Shrine.

“Gil. You appear to have improved considerably.”

“I have.”

That was everything to the father-son exchange.

“Has your face not thinned?”

The remark had come from obligation as the empress, her face no longer hidden.

She was approaching the end of her thirties, yet her attire and features slightly resembled that of a young girl; lined up against Ineli, they could be seen as nothing but a pair of sisters.

“To take part in battle is not the only role that men of the imperial family hold. Like your father, you must constantly keep a watchful eye and throw your chest out. Is that not right, your majesty?”

The emperor only slightly raised his brows.

Once the party had started and the countries’ envoys were invited to join in the ceremonies commemorating the founding of Mephius, they began to offer their greetings. Naturally, there were envoys visiting as guests from Ende and Garbera, Arion from the east, and to the north—the group of city-states along the gulf coasts making up Zonga, and the lone islands such as Balor found further to the south.

And to each, their own specialities, forming large piles of clothes, spices, condiments, bizarre musical instruments, designed furniture of varying sizes, armours decorated with jewels; amongst them, what caught Orba’s eye was a Garberan envoy.

The man who had introduced himself as Noue Salzantes seemed past his twenties. He had deep black hair and almond eyes that held a strange charm. In terms of appearances, he could be compared to Shique in handsomeness.

As a Garberan, he should have harboured some ill feelings towards the prince, but Noue offered his greetings while smiling without batting an eye.

“On behalf of the king, Ainn Owell, I offer his apologies for the hardships the subjugation of Ryucown may have caused your Highness. We would like to express our heartfelt gratitude for Mephius’ assistance. The people of Garbera will never forget the kind deed and camaraderie you have shown us.”

Orba stared fixedly at Noue’s eyes. He was truly fit to be a civil servant, and did not look to be one who would personally wield a sword. With these thoughts, Orba’s interest in him faded.

More noteworthy was the gift Garbera presented to the prince, consisting of three of Garbera’s airships, that caught his interest. He was already in the middle of organizing an airship squadron from the few capable in the Imperial Guards. The airship itself had fighting potential, but above all, held great value in being used as a messenger in a battlefield. He gratefully welcomed the gift, which he had hoped to get his hands on as soon as possible.

After that, Noue also expressed his salutations toward Princess Vileena. They were acquainted. The Salzantes House was one of Garbera’s distinguished families. Moreover, Noue was recognized for his wisdom.

“It has been a while since we last met, Princess. You can be rest assured of the stagnant state of affairs.”

“Is father in good health? And what of grandfather?”

“Yes, they are,” Noue made a smile bordering that of guileless innocence. “It is the talk of the palace that the princess had issued an appeal towards the soldiers in Zaim Fortress.”

Vileena turned red. According to Noue, her father, in a strained laugh mixed with grief had said,

“From the start, she was never a person to sit down quietly and do nothing regardless of place.”

And her grandfather had said, “same as always,” with an openhearted laugh. “Even as she lived alone in my estate, in the coming day, the princess would be up to her usual mischief, and then suddenly disappear again, to have rescued a child from a burning house with an airship, and day after day, gossip of her venture would jump all around back to here. And as I thought she was just about ready to come of age and be fit for marriage, from far away, past the country borders, I hear of such news. If such talk of the princess has not died down, then this old me also cannot yet allow myself to be assaulted with illusions of the tiny Vileena running all ‘round.”

Vileena covered her eyes.

“Is that so…”

Vileena muttered, as her lips moved to form nothing less of a smile. Gripped with an undeniable yearning, her eyes became teary. Having heard the words of her loved ones, even if it was second hand, she could not help but long to be near them. She had been here nowhere to the extent of years, but thoughts of how she had come to be so far away began to be made anew.

Once the delegation of introductions, which had lasted for some time, was over, the festivities began. It was a sword dance. One of Mephius’ trademarks, several swordsmen were singled out and chosen to dance with a real sword.

“Look, that is the Clovis contender, Pashir.”

“Those are some amazing muscles. I want to sleep with those big, strong arms wrapped around me, if not even once!”

“Who do you intend to place your bet on, milord?”

The sword-dance performed on the eve of the festival involved the selection of participants in the gladiator tournament. The nobles would witness their sword dance in person, and place their bets on who could seize the same position Clovis or his aide Felipe held, as a form of side entertainment.

Pashir was also a name Orba had heard of. His eyes followed the nobles’ pointing fingers, and instantly,

''Ooh.''

He let out a gasp of surprise when Pashir the gladiator looked directly at him. With a massive body, he was certainly an unyielding gladiator. With deep black hair and a moustache, his whole body teemed with energy. He immediately looked away. Was it by chance that he had looked his way? At the very least, the gaze he held was not one that held respect towards the nobles.

Finally, with the loud beat of a drum, all twelve members began their sword dance.

They formed a circle and pointed their swords to the centre in unison, and then kicked off in all directions. They trod their steps, and just as the man on the right appeared to be struck overhead by a sword, the man to the left parried the blow before his chest. With their feet, they swung only with their full strength across the air, each clash occurring with precise timing that produced a steady rhythm; and as the drum beat louder and faster, the clashes gave chase.

And soon enough, they looked throughout the hall for those possessing high skills, and on discovery, would provocatively swing their sword. This too, was a kind of custom, where the provoked could join in on the sword dance. The women dressed in light garments would take in hand the respectfully offered swords, and enter into a new ring containing several swordsmen. The clattering of the weapons had further made it rowdy, where a single mistake in their pacing could result in the loss of a life, but the atmosphere produced by the blades had unwittingly drawn people in.

Before long, the aforementioned Pashir had separated from his dancing circle. Roaming the spacious hall, he began his search for people to provoke.

“Come to me, oh respected swordsman.”

“No, come to me!”

The soldiers who took pride in their skill and the young nobles shouted out. In an air of arrogance, Pashir passed by each of the men in turn, and then stopped his feet.

A faint commotion was raised, as the inquisitive eyes all focused on one spot. He stood directly before Prince Gil. Pashir directed a single, quiet glance towards him, but the violent passions hidden between those confronting pair of eyes had caught Orba’s attention. He was without a doubt, a man in his thirties. Of course, he was also experienced.

''Oh?''

A heated sensation welled up within Orba’s body and crossed his head. He was throbbing with resentment for being holed up in the room for so long. And also flowing out, was resentment at the continuous unaccustomed battles. The desire to take part in a real battle pushed its way out.

But he certainly could not brandish a sword in such a situation. Having received such a hesitant reply, Pashir’s face filled with scorn. Orba’s blood raged through his head.

“Your highness, leave this to me.”

From behind him, Shique stepped forward. He had read Orba’s feelings from behind. Orba was inflicted with a light feeling of bashfulness, but it would be foolish beyond a doubt to reveal his true character here. As the emperor had, he calmly nodded. It was not considered disgraceful to send a proxy in your place, if you were invited into a sword dance.

The hall erupted. Shique, at first glance, had a beautiful face that could be mistaken for that of a girl’s. The combination of him and the boorish Pashir was a sight to behold. With a smooth motion, Shique nimbly drew the sword from his waist, and lined his sword against the tip of Pashir’s sword.

[[Image:Rakuin no Monshou v02 083.jpg|thumb]]
They started off slow. Both cautiously and slowly let their swords meet, but eventually, they judged the other as an opponent of worthy skill and immediately increased their speed. As if they had settled their starting warm-up rally, they began to display movements no less inferior to those of the other sword dances..

Once Shique turned to the right, Pashir would move to the left. Pashir bent his back and readied to swing his sword, and Shique, familiar with this move, drew a large, showy arc that collided with his blow. Pashir quickly pulled back the sword he had just swung. The opponent kept sending out an unceasing, daggering look. Shique pretended to switch to defence and then commenced an attack sweeping towards Pashir's feet.

Pashir deflected the attack, as if he had anticipated the move, quickly switching back to the offensive. Neither were stuck on offence or defence. Offence was defence. Defence was offence; it was no doubt the ideal swordplay.

Orba opened his eyes in wonder. He could tell they were both serious. Serious, meaning there was no hesitation in killing the other party.

There were several instances where lives had been lost from a sword dance, and in most cases, the assailant was not charged. It was accepted as a formality, and the shed blood would be offered to fulfil the prayers for an abundant harvest.

After several rallies, the sound from the drum came to a dead stop, and simultaneously, the two swords engaged in mid-air also came to a stop.

The centre hall burst into unstinted applause. As Shique wiped off his sweat, he responded to the acclamations with a smiling face.

“That was pretty good.”

Orba said to Shique, who had come back to his side. Judging the comment went both ways, Shique shook his head.

“Look at that, he isn’t even sweating. He hasn’t gotten serious yet. ‘Strong-armed Pashir’. I’ve heard of his name, but to think he was this good.”

“And you also weren’t wielding your prided dual swords.”

Though he said so, Orba marvelled at Pashir’s skill. The aching in his blood had grown since before. But he was no longer a sword-slave. He held no obligation towards others, nor could he be forced to kill others out of duty.

“He’s very talented, but I doubt Tarkas would really want him,” Gowen said in a low voice.

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“He’s certainly strong. Strong, but plain,” Gowen readily concluded. “He won’t excite the crowds. That’s right, Orba. You’re also like that.”

Orba nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders. As he was troubled by his heated blood, he failed to notice Noue Salzantes attentively watching him.



Soon after, the party in the inner palace met its end. However, the nobles, officers, and particularly the young couples prepared to set out to town, as if to say the real festival was only just beginning. They were already in a festive mood for the festival that would begin tomorrow. From amongst them,

“Things have become interesting.”

More exultant than anyone was Fedom Aulin, who had invited himself to the prince’s room.

“What could be so interesting. Did you see your own face as you were being borne through a mirror or something?”

“The situation with Zaat Quark. The head of the anti-imperial faction was forcibly placed under house arrest. This will surely create a commotion.”

It must have been something big, for him to ignore Orba’s retort..

“And there’s also the situation with Kaiser. The misgivings towards the emperor will grow stronger and stronger. There is a possibility danger might also befall the crown prince. I’ll have you act as a body double a while longer.”

''Tch. Fuckin’ grazing the issue.''

Fedom had just forcibly tied the knot on the unnatural absence of the real prince. Orba just barely restrained himself from mentioning the occurrence with the ‘right of the first night’. He did not have enough information. Fedom was no friend he could confide in.

“You did well today in front of his majesty and his chief retainers. No one would have thought you were a gladiator. It seems this was the better of results.”

“You resemble Tarkas.”

“What do you mean?”

Orba turned the other way, without offering a response. In his good humour, Orba immediately moved on to talk of others. 

“Is the news that Kaiser will be executed true?”

“I don’t know. It depends on how his majesty feels. That is not something of your concern.”

“Can’t you somehow mediate for him and get him out?”

“What?” Fedom stared at Orba with startled eyes, short of any good humour. “When I said to ‘behave like the prince’ I did not mean to ‘''be'' the prince’. Keep your head out of politics. I don’t know what ideas you were given, but you better get rid of them immediately. Or better yet, focus only on the things you were assigned to.”

Afterwards, Fedom hurriedly returned to his residence within the palace and called out the name ‘Hermann’ at the entrance, as if he had no spare time to even tidy the dirt off his shoes. Hermann was a magician that looked after and lived in the same manor as Fedom. However, a maid had rushed over to inform him that Hermann had been absent the past few days.

“Again?”

Fedom let out an irritated groan, but it wasn’t a necessarily urgent matter. It was just what Hermann had said a few days ago that bothered him.

“Soon, without fail, a change in fate shall occur. You shall be without setback until then. You need only focus on preventing the double’s true colours from being revealed, my liege. Currently, the prince’s death has left a hole in the web of fate, and it’s true form—the golden mean<ref>The desirable middle between two extremes, one of excess and the other of deficiency</ref> so to speak, is in the midst of mending itself. To that end, a vast ‘gale’ will break out. The ‘gale’ will, without doing anything, swallow up a great many people. Please wait patiently for now. Amongst the countless that will be blown away from and vanish under the ‘gale’, my liege will ride along the ‘gale’ as a friend. So long as you wait, you will certainly be invited to join the ‘gale’ towards fate’s destination.”

He only wanted to get a clearer understanding of those prophetic words..

In Mephius—or rather, in its sphere of civilization, it was rare for magicians to be employed by leading aristocrats. They were almost never seen in public. There were even fewer of them than the prized species of dragons, Geysers or Ma’Duks, though there were also cases such as Ende and Arion, where the officially accepted magicians took part in politics and commanded in battle. These two countries were special exceptions, having statesmen that succeeded the lineage of Magic King Zodias.

Particularly in Mephius, which prided in having the strong spirit of warriors, they prejudiced against those who wielded unfound powers. An example would be the historically well-known magician Garda, hailing from the western provinces of Tauran, whose customs were rather similar to that of Mephius. As a priest of the Ryuujin doctrines, he exercised free usage of black magic in ether, ruling over the former capital Zer Illias. Even now, mention of his name instilled fear.

Fedom never personally professed of Hermann. Three years ago, Hermann had unexpectedly visited Fedom who, strangely pleased with the fortune-telling he had performed, let him live a life void of destitution since then, only providing for him without knowing where he usually went.

He knew the true identity of Prince Gil, and thus could be considered an existence that acted as Fedom’s Achilles heel, though Hermann himself was the one who originally foretold that a mere gladiator would be able to act as the prince’s double. There was no harm in keeping him alive until Fedom had achieved his own ambitions.

''And that future isn’t too far away.''

Naturally, such thoughts made him feel self-important. Even the words of his wife welcoming back her husband, fell on deaf ears. He gave a light nod, and then continued his thoughts within his burning red face.

''Because the emperor is so foolish as to strengthen his authority at the end of a ten-year war, anti-imperialist sentiments have increased. The imprisonment of Kaiser Islan, and the placement of Zaat Quark under house arrest have only fuelled their flames.''

It was the long awaited opportunity. Fedom had no intention of patiently waiting until the emperor, Guhl Mephius, personally stepped down from the throne. He may have been approaching the verge of old age, but as of yet was still in high spirits, and it was’nt guaranteed that he would select Gil Mephius the First as his heir.

Having seen the favour he held toward his second wife, Melissa, there was a possibility that Ineli would marry a distant relative of the Imperial House and her husband made successor to the throne.

''If I can bring together the anti-imperial faction with this, I can move freely in the future.''

Within the faction, there numbered many like Zaat, who were anti-emperor rather than anti-imperial, but it was not yet the time to call for change. The local populace aside, many in Mephius followed a conservative way of thinking. Fedom had assessed there was not enough momentum to dissolve the country’s system at this instant.

They may not have been able to bring themselves to abandon the long standing history of the empire; however, the opportunity opened by the doubts raised on whether the emperor’s actions were detrimental to the country’s future would play crucial.

''First, I must gain more allies. There is no problem with the prince’s popularity. Rather, it would be convenient in the distant future to give off the impression that he is an imbecile. Most important is that I maintain a resolute will.''

''Boldly, but cautiously.''

At times when pursuing large goals, taking a large gamble was also necessary. He had already placed his hand. It was a gamble where his and all his relatives’ lives would be in danger should they discover he had set up a sword slave as the prince. He would ride the flow—this ‘gale’ as Hermann called it, and then quickly and keenly make his next move.

In spite of the late hour, Fedom prepared his wine and retired to his study. He wrote the various names of the lords in his notes, as he consumed the wine like it was water. His mind was clear, not the least bit drunk, but intoxicated with excitement, as he once more pictured how the future would play out.

===Part 3===
The bell on the Black Tower rang, signalling daybreak. It announced the beginning of Mephius’ founding anniversary. Since last night, stands and stalls had been busily readied, and their abundant variety of banners and signs coloured the town. A single step into the streets was enough to be wrapped in the savoury aroma of grilled meat and fish, and the sweet, fragrant smell of cake and candy. Casks of wine were served all throughout town, and glasses were raised in toast early as the rising sun. The children tightly grasped the spending money their parents had handed them for this once in a year event and ran about through town, troubled as to how to spend their money, and the girls, having dressed up for this very day, walked through the streets while spreading their gorgeous smiles.

The ten-year war with Garbera had come to an end. Unlike the miserly atmosphere that visited the festival until the most recent years, this year held a wealthy assortment of international programmes. Travellers from abroad were also seen in great numbers. Portraits of the soon-to-be bride, the Garberan princess Vileena, were decorated with garlands. giving off a peaceful atmosphere.

At noon, an extensive military parade began. The soldiers, clad in armour decorated with precious stones and flowers, marched heroically as they hoisted their glimmering swords and spears up high. Leading them was the man who had taken the seat of the hero Clovis the previous year. The man, saddled on a white horse and proudly wearing a golden helmet, was a gladiator that did not hold the title of a slave<ref>Person that freely becomes a gladiator, as opposed to sword-slaves who are forced to become gladiators(e.g. for committing a crime)</ref>. He had participated in the deadly arena only to ward off starvation for his family, but through last year’s championship had been officially employed as a Mephius soldier and currently worked as a corporal directly under Odyne Lorgo.

On the final day of the festival, a naval review alongside a parade employing air carriers would take place to the people’s enjoyment. But for now, they would anticipate the event in the near future.

“C’mon, let’s hurry.”

“There’re already people that have been lining up since last night. I hope there’ll be seats.”

The people were waiting in line at Solon’s grand stadium, which would be transformed into the world’s greatest arena ring for this one week.

Not missing this occasion, Orba’s figure could also be seen in the grand stadium. Following the parade, the nobles gathered together on the Solon palace balcony, where they held a short ceremony immediately after.

''It sure is big.''

Below him, a great number of arena bouts were being held. Sword matches, spear matches, mounted horse battles, and even mounted dragon battles took place, and in a corner near the walls was a separate division, where the single-shot quick draw matches were held.

There were many arenas in Solon, and Orba had personally fought at the amphitheatre in the city of Ba Roux. But even accounting for that, this stadium was by far the largest of all the places he’d been to. Apart from its immense size, Solon’s specialty, the tank restaurant, would also be held in the evening hours.

The number of guests it could accommodate slightly exceeded fifty thousand. Even with those numbers, it neared a full house since the first day, and only in the area where Orba was seated was there much legroom. Supported by pillars that connected to the ceiling, a purple curtain spread across the front where the figures of guards stood out. It was an area exclusive to the imperial family and nobles, and it was there that Orba and Ineli sat, lined up against each other. Baton, Troa, and a few others were also present.

“The same thing always goes on in the matches,” Baton complained, although he had accepted Ineli’s invitation. "It’s only good on the last day."

‘Clovis’ and Felipe’s dragon slaying’ event would be held on the last day, and practically all the imperials and nobles would be attending. It was no normal gladiator match, but one of the important ceremonies commemorating the founding of the nation.

Ineli lightly admonished him with a "You twit."

"This is on a completely different scale from the usual. All the well-known gladiators from within Mephius will be gathered together in one setting. —Ahhh, it’s hot. Fan me harder, will you?" Ineli commanded the servant charged with caring for the guests in the boxed seats.

In response, a different slave girl brought a cold drink over. Looking at her, she was still in her younger years. Her dark skin somehow provided for a refreshing appearance. He unintentionally gazed at the girl leaving, when Ineli suddenly pinched his knee.

“—“

“Does His Highness the Crown Prince fancy those sorts of slave girls I wonder? You used to fawn over my maid, Lisa back then. So you like the types that are easy to understand.”

“That’s not it.”

Having been invited, Orba stared down at the fights below, but somehow experienced a sense of unrest. Sitting in the seating area exclusively reserved for nobles and looking down at the arena matches like this, he was afflicted with a pang of guilt. In his mind he clicked his tongue.

''How long will I be troubled by these feelings of a slave? If I can’t cut them off in places like these, I’ll trip up and expose myself one day.''

Just now, a cage holding slaves was brought out. Another cage was brought out from the gate on the opposite side, but contained within were several small-sized Faye dragons. Their distinctive features were their six legs and flattened snouts that looked like they had been squashed by a hand. Most notable were the two curved tusks that protruded from above their mouth.

Both cages were flung open. The dragons simultaneously jumped out, mouths foaming. The slaves also escaped in one go. The majority of them were half-naked women. The Faye’s jumping power were tremendous. One of them immediately caught up with its prey and pushed her down. The Faye bore its fangs.

Orba instinctively clenched his fists. Ineli covered her mouth as she screamed, but her eyes glimmered, excitedly anticipating the bloodshed to come. Then, several gladiators rushed out from a newly opened gate.

It seemed to be a game where ‘The strong Mephian gladiators rescue the sacrificial pagan girls in distress’ where they, relying on naught but a lone sword, would challenge the Faye. 

They may have been small-sized dragons, but the length of a grown Faye could well hit three metres. And as wild Faye, they formed groups and attacked with a ferocity comparable to even that of a large dragon, felling many of the gladiators. In the midst of this, cries of “Pashir! Pashir!” rang across the stadium.

The rumoured top-pick contender for Clovis’ seat. Unsurprisingly, he displayed movement far superior to the rest. A Faye leapt towards him and he sliced horizontally against the incoming dragon, and then immediately jumped up on it and thrust his sword aiming for its soft neck. And as he desperately fought for his life, he also hurled instructions towards his allies. He had them form pairs of two, and as one distracted the Faye’s movement, the other would seize the chance to leap in from behind. This strategy yielded them great results.

The maiden escaped in a bloody frenzy and dashed in Orba’s direction. She attempted to cling to the paling, but even the foremost seats were situated considerably higher than her reach. The soldiers guarding the seating location once again waved their bayonets in an attempt to drive her off.

“Help! Please, help me!!”

Behind her, a Faye was hot on her heels. The woman’s maddening scream pierced Orba’s ears. Realizing this, Pashir gave high chase. Wielding his sword, he swung at the Faye, but the sword snapped off mid-strike,  possibly because of it being overworn or poorly made. Still, he did not lose heart and clung onto the Faye by wrapping himself around its neck. The Faye struggled furiously, frantically trying to ram its tusks into the tender flesh before its eyes. Finally, it managed to tear Pashir off. The dragon swooped down on the maiden, who still clung to the paling.

“Pashir!”

At this time, Orba exceeded the limits of his patience. Beside Ineli who, taken aback, looked up at him, he pulled a sword out of a guard’s waist and threw it with all his strength.

The sword deeply pierced the ground between the girl and the Faye. Pashir quickly plucked it out and sent a sharp blow towards the Faye’s face, pursuing the wild animal without a moment’s hesitation. Shortly after, a large spurt of blood flew out from the dragon’s neck.

All six released Fayes were finished off. However, that did not mean the fight was over. They had to fight to the last survivor alongside the corpses of the fallen women and dragons.

They may have temporarily put in a joint effort to rescue the women, but they never intended to show each other any mercy. It was a battle where each and every one of them fought to live another day. The swords flashed here and there, and each time, another life was lost.

In the end, Pashir and one other gladiator remained. Both breathed heavily. Their bodies were covered in blood and sweat, each sustaining wounds big and small.

Orba looked on as Pashir moved to his right, and the opponent to his left. As they gradually closed their distance, the opponent thrust once, then twice, but Pashir brushed off all attacks. Seeing Pashir was not switching to offense, the man swung more widely, and in that instant, Pashir applied a lightning fast thrust. It appeared to be aimed at the chest, but was actually used to trip his opponent’s feet. His right leg went flying into the air. And faster than the leg could touch the ground, Pashir delivered the finishing blow. There were no wasted movements. Skin unexpectedly hard as armour. Nimble movement. And above all, he was well versed in  controlling the flow of a fight.

“Have you taken a liking to him? Is it not in bad taste to have taken a liking to someone so close to a slave?” Ineli said as she peeked at him with a side glance.

“It’d be a shame to let him die here.”

“Really? He may be strong, but he has no beauty. He especially has no popularity with the female crowd.”

After forming a smile with a strange fawning look in her eyes she asked, “Hey, brother. I have a favour I’d like to ask.”

“What is it?”

“It’s about Orba. I was wondering, could you have him participate in the gladiator games?”

“Why?”

Orba drew back in surprise as she asked him.

“Don’t you think the participation of the hero who defeated Ryucown would make it far more exciting than any normal year up til’ now? Please? I’d like to see him fight again in person.”

“He’s my Imperial Guard you know. Is it even possible to get him into the games now?”

“That’s why I’m begging you. Could you comply with Ineli’s request?”

She said, doing nothing but snuggling up close to his shoulders. In that gaze, Orba saw a calculating look fully aware he would not refuse. He winced, and faster than he could offer a reply, a figure came running over to him. The one panting and on his knees was Dinn.

“Brother?”

“Something important’s come up. I need to return to the palace.”

“Ehhh?”

“Ahh, the matter with Orba. I’ll let you meet him later. Please be content with that. Then, I’ll see you later.”

Restlessly, Orba quickly departed.

Ineli was left flabbergasted, and soon her face flushed red as she stuck out her tongue at the fading back of Gil Mephius.

And another person was looking up from the stadium at that very same back. It was Pashir.

The girl who had previously carried over the drink to the seated area where the prince was located, was wiping off the sweat and blood off his skin with a cloth.

“Mira,” he called out the girl’s name.

“Yes?”

“Was the one who threw the sword the prince?”

“Yes.” Mira’s face, having had her name called out, was dyed in embarrassment. “It happened so fast and completely surprised me.”

“I see.”

Pashir, even now, stared motionlessly at the sword in his hand. The timing at which he had thrown it, the speed, and the very place it struck, was done with outstanding precision.



It took Orba half an hour to return to the palace.

War, who was waiting in the antechamber, stood straight up and greeted him.

War was a former gladiator. He was a man past his forties, and long past his prime as a swordsman. Neither his skill nor his appearance was particularly worthy of praise. Despite having been in the Tarkas Gladiatorial Group for slightly over a year, he was nothing more than an ordinary sword-slave, other than one seemingly blessed with good fortune at having survived ten years as a sword-slave.

''In a way, that’s a skill in itself.''

Orba thought, as he looked at him. Nothing about him really stood out and his only achievement deserving of merit was him having survived. Accumulated in his years, he was by no means narrow-minded.

After the battle at Zaim Fortress, the majority of the sword-slaves belonging to the Tarkas Gladiatorial Group had chosen to remain enlisted as the prince’s imperial guards. War had also been one of those who chose to remain, but Orba took him off the Imperial Guards and instead gave him a different mission.

"How did it go?"

Orba offered War a cup of wine. War respectfully picked it up, and as Orba waited for War to drain the contents,

“Did you find anything out?”

Orba asked, doing his best to feign normalcy, despite his heart having been beating furiously since his departure from the arena.

There were twelve Mephian generals. Excluding the three that handled the dragonstone ships comprising the air fleet, all of the other nine generals were performing wide-scale recruitment of mercenaries. The end of the ten-year war with Garbera had more or less reduced the size of their forces, but in a warring society, the admissions booth was always open.

He had commanded War to become one of those mercenaries. He would enlist into the mercenary corps belonging to none other than Oubary Bilan.

“What I know is no more than the common soldier, and at best can only be considered the talking gossip of the lower officials.”

“Ah, I don’t mind. Speak.”

Oubary led the Black-Armoured Division that burned down Orba’s village. Because it had happened six to seven years ago, there was no telling how many soldiers remained behind in the same position. A considerable amount should have died in the war with Garbera. Even so, there was a high likelihood that there was someone who knew of what happened at that time. To go investigate the happening and report back to Orba was what War had been commanded to do.

“There is a man who goes by the name of Bane and has maintained his rank as captain for the past six years. Bane has long served the general, but one of Bane's subordinates, somehow dissatisfied with this treatment, voiced his complaints in a cheap tavern I often go to. On one occasion, when he was drunk, I exchanged cups of wine with him so as to become better acquainted. I may not look it, but I make a good listener. I listened to his complaints without a single look of displeasure or reluctance and left a rather favourable impression. I've yet to meet him beyond that once, but before long I will be able to pry into more personal matters. Oh, and also, I’m certain Bane was present at Apta Fortress. I am positive that was what I heard.”

''Looking good.''

There was progress. And what was more, big progress. Orba struggled to restrain his desire to jump up and clap in joy. Then he caught sight of War, who seemed to be somewhat hesitating, as if there was something else to mention.

“What is it? If there’s something else you’ve found out, no matter how trivial, say it.”

Orba urged him another drink, and the slightly ashamed War shrank his shoulders back. He then proceeded,

“I’m not sure if this has anything in relation to the prince, but there was a remark that Bane accidentally blurted out that I found worrying. I had overheard a conversation between some of the upper members by chance, and according to what I had heard, General Oubary will be dining together with the man from Garbera known as Noue Salzantes in the near future. Bane found it strange and puzzling, because if he had to say it, Oubary would be on the side opposing peace negotiations with Garbera.”

''Noue and Oubary?''

This was certainly an unusual fact. Orba, after doing nothing but slipping more money into War’s hands, temporarily left the room.

''This is doubtlessly no public meeting. Anyone could tell that these two meeting together is weird. That’s why when you don’t hide it, even the soldiers will talk about it.''

However, that was the undeniable premise that led to the conversation. 

''If that’s the case, then the dining location won’t be at the Bilan Estate. It will be somewhere inconspicuous, and yet also be a restaurant with a bar room that nobles can use—there won’t be many that fit this description. Noue will be in Solon for, at most, a week until the festival ends. This is the perfect time to cast a net.”

“Your highness, your highness. What are you thinking of?”

Not catching Dinn’s words, Orba silently mulled over his thoughts. Something strange worried him. He recalled the speech Noue had delivered without hesitation in front of Prince Gil and his smiling face. There was nothing objectionable of him as an envoy. It was because he was so faultless that Orba had lost interest in him at that time. However, upon hearing news that Noue might be secretly meeting with Oubary, Orba now found his behaviour worrying. To put it simply, he himself had failed to catch interest in Noue.

''I don’t like this.''

And, he began to think this could perhaps become a means by which he could seize Oubary by the neck.

Orba immediately ordered Dinn to relay a message to the Imperial Guards’ living quarters. Several minutes later, his own personal guards lined up in the room. All of them were his acquaintances, but donning his guise as Prince Gil, he handed down his orders.
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==Translator's Notes and References==
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