The Returning Spring
Roberta gazed at the bronze equestrian statue in the plaza.
It was the time of day when the sun stood at the very top of the sky. There wasn't a single cloud, and the sunlight poured down in full force—yet it wasn't particularly hot. It seemed that summer had already passed, and autumn was on its way.
At the beginning of August, she had left the Kingdom of Osnover with her two companions. By the end of the month, after passing through two small states, they arrived at a duchy called Sirkaf. This country was a vassal state of the Jokuster dynasty, and among the vassals, it was the northernmost.
Beyond it lay Osnover and several other nations, but those were sovereign states. Though they showed courtesy to the emperor and bowed their heads, they were unrelated to tribute or investiture.
It was one of the defining characteristics of the third age of humanity—the Jokuster dynasty.
In the previous two ages, there had been no sovereign states outside the empire. All lands had simply been subordinated under it. But now, the territories outside the empire accounted for half of the world.
And that territory was shrinking year by year. Just as the Kingdom of Osnover had once been a vassal state but no longer was, there were more and more nations seeking to cast off the empire's influence.
Akean, Emperor of the One and Only Empire
Roberta read the inscription carved into the base of the statue.
At first, she had assumed it depicted some king of this land—but she was wrong. It was a statue of an emperor, something rarely seen in other countries busy erasing the remnants of the empire.
That itself was neither surprising nor remarkable. Such traces could occasionally be found in vassal states. Since ancient times, emperors had launched frequent campaigns to protect or expand their domains, and when they succeeded, they often left behind marks like this.
What piqued her interest was the phrase that followed.
And in praise of the eleven knights
At the mention of eleven knights, Roberta's curiosity was stirred.
Lately, she had developed a habit—seeking connections. Ever since leaving Osnover with Ulrich, she had tried to find links between her experiences and him.
And understandably so. Ulrich had been involved in far too many events, yet almost nothing about him was properly known. For someone like her—curious at best, suspicious at worst—it was difficult to ignore.
Could he be among them?
Now, as she read the inscription on the bronze statue, Roberta tilted her head slightly. The names of the eleven knights were not written. Nor did it explain why the emperor and they were being praised.
"You seem quite interested, Priest."
When Roberta turned around, a young man greeted her.
He carried a stringed instrument and reeked faintly of alcohol. He was very short—so short that even considering Roberta's above-average height, he barely reached her chest.
Likely a half-blood, she thought.
There was an old saying: short minstrels were descendants of Gaheka.
Gaheka, the god of pleasure and abundance, had created a small race called the Nagl, whose blood carried a wandering nature. Thus, those of mixed blood often had gentle dispositions and a strong inclination toward indulgence—drink, gambling, music, and other pleasures.
The minstrel before her matched that impression perfectly.
"It says it praises His Majesty Akean and the eleven knights, but it doesn't actually say what they're being praised for. Do you happen to know, brother?"
"Of course."
He lightly plucked a string and winked.
"If I don't know, who would?"
Roberta took out a few copper coins and handed them to him. He responded with an exaggerated bow, then plucked the strings again and began to speak in rhythm.
"Long ago, there was a mage who dreamed of immortality. A foolish man who feared standing before the judgment of his deeds, and wished to flee forever."
The mage feared falling into the world of evil gods after death—that is, hell. So he researched methods of eternal life, seeking a body that would neither age nor die.
"Who in this world has ever attained immortality? Even today, countless mages and alchemists pursue it without success—so naturally, that mage of old eventually met the death he had long postponed."
But death was not the end.
As his flesh rotted within the grave, the mage opened his eyes, emerged from his tomb, and walked once more among the living.
"Unable to escape aging and death, the mage instead dreamed of resurrection. He believed that if his body rose again—whether before or after standing before the judgment—he would return to the world of the living."
And in a sense, he succeeded.
Though he died of old age, he rose again after death. Even as his flesh fell away, leaving only bones, he continued to move.
"But the mage did not return whole. Perhaps his soul had been bound at the judgment? Though his body rose—even as a skeleton—his mind was gone. He became a monster that hated the living."
He came to be known as the Lord of the Dead.
With a single gesture, the dead rose from graves across many lands. And those dead slew the living, adding them to his army.
"The rulers joined forces to resist—but it was futile. The Lord of the Dead rose again no matter how many times he was struck down, and the number of his undead soldiers only continued to grow. Many cities fell to ruin, and many nations faced destruction. Some said it was the end of the age."
The minstrel paused briefly, glancing around.
A crowd had gathered. People who had been idly wandering the plaza had stopped and taken their places, drawn in by the tale.
"But how could evil triumph over good?"
He smiled and continued in a dramatic tone.
"At the very moment when all seemed lost, when the world bowed to its end, one man rose in defiance. He was a farmer—but one with noble blood flowing through his veins. That man was Akean. And the knight who stood at the very top came to him and awakened his destiny."
Akean, along with that foremost knight, gathered ten more knights from various lands and defeated the Lord of the Dead.
The Lord sent his armies against them, but they were defeated. And though his body had risen again and again, after being struck down by Akean's blade, it never rose again.
"Having defeated the Lord of the Dead, Akean ascended the throne. For the blood that flowed in him was none other than the blood of Jokuster."
The minstrel gestured toward the bronze statue behind him. Under the blazing sunlight, it seemed almost wrapped in an aura.
"And the eleven knights returned to their homelands and enjoyed their honor. This very land—the Duchy of Sirkaf—was founded at that time."
He went on to tell the later stories of the remaining ten knights. Some established nations upon ruined lands and became vassal lords, like Sirkaf. Some became empresses to Akean. Others wandered as knights, earning fame.
When the tale ended, the audience dispersed. A small pile of coins had gathered in the hat at the minstrel's feet.
With a satisfied smile, he let out a long breath and approached Roberta.
"How was it? Have your questions been mostly answered?"
"Yes, thanks to you."
Roberta touched her dry lips.
She had answered, 'a lot has been cleared up,' but in truth, that wasn't the case. She had heard many things, yet none of it truly connected to what she was searching for.
"You said the foremost knight became the court minister, correct?"
"Ah, you mean Lord Mergeus, the chief knight—yes, that's right."
He added that the knight had entered the court alongside Akean. At that, her interest quickly faded. It differed too greatly from the path of the person she had in mind.
If he had left after finishing his duty, that would be one thing—but to become a court minister? To remain by the emperor's side and take up a position managing the court did not align with Ulrich at all.
Well, it's probably exaggerated anyway.
The minstrel's story had been full of embellishments.
He had declared it the end of the world, yet in reality, it was likely no more than a remote regional incident. Roberta, who was quite knowledgeable in history, had never even heard of it.
When she asked about the source, the minstrel simply said he had heard it somewhere.
After all, a minstrel was not a historian. As the name implied, they composed songs and tales—not scholars concerned with verifying truth.
"By the way, did you know?"
She looked at him as if to say, what do you mean? and he continued.
"The magic used by the Lord of the Dead. It's said that someone actually learned it."
"You mean the art of immortality?"
"Yes. One of the knights succumbed to temptation and learned it, but he was cursed in a different way from the Lord of the Dead. In the end, he was cut down by Emperor Akean's blade—that's the rest of the story."
"That's quite an unsettling ending."
The minstrel shrugged.
"Turning a happy story into an unpleasant one—or saying something unnecessary and earning the displeasure of descendants—it's not a tale that's well accepted among us."
Even after the minstrel left, Roberta stood gazing at the bronze equestrian statue, lost in thought. Eventually, she turned and made her way toward the inn where her companions were staying.
Knock, knock.
As she tapped on the door, a voice immediately responded, "Come in."
Roberta carefully opened the door to the room. Ulrich and Fritz were inside.
The two sat facing each other in chairs. Fritz held a piece of damp firewood in both hands, eyes closed. Ulrich leaned back against the armrest, watching the boy with a tilted posture.
Roberta sensed the rapid flow of mana within Fritz's body. In the confined space of the room, even a small flow was easy to detect—and she could tell what it was trying to accomplish.
Oh no.
In an instant, the firewood burst into flame.
"Ah—!"
By the time the boy opened his eyes in surprise, it was too late. A blue flame flickered fiercely at the top of the damp wood. Ulrich immediately reached out, grabbed the burning piece, and extinguished it. White smoke rose as the fire died.
"The flow is too strong."
What Fritz had just attempted was a training exercise—moving mana within his body to evaporate the moisture inside the wood. The goal was to control mana with precision, but if he failed, the wood would either shatter or catch fire.
"You're being too impatient. Try moving it little by little—even to the point where you wonder if it's enough—and do it slowly."
Ulrich picked up another piece of wood and handed it to Fritz. The boy swallowed nervously and took it.
He must have failed quite a few times already. Broken pieces of wood were scattered around the room, and Ulrich's clothes bore clear scorch marks.
As Fritz closed his eyes and began moving his mana again, Roberta pulled a chair over and sat nearby.
"So you're up today."
"If I had stayed asleep any longer, you would have woken me, wouldn't you?"
"I would have, after waiting a few days."
He had fallen into a deep sleep for two days—without any warning.
They had arrived in the city at sunset, secured lodging, and planned to leave the next day, yet he hadn't woken at all.
She had seen him sleep for over a month back in Dithmarschen, so she understood the situation—but it had still been deeply unsettling.
As far as she knew, the reason he fell into such deep sleep was boredom—but where could he possibly find boredom now? Didn't he need to go to the Pantheon and have the excommunication and summons revoked?
"Then perhaps I should have taken things a bit more leisurely."
Roberta stared at Ulrich.
"Are you serious?"
The corner of Ulrich's lips lifted slightly.
"If I worried you, I apologize. It happens sometimes. Dreams can feel no different from reality—and sometimes, they're enjoyable enough that you don't want to wake up."
"Isn't that the case for you as well?"
"Well, sometimes. But no one sleeps like you do—saying they'll rest a bit longer and then sleeping all day… or even over a month."
Just that morning, what had she been thinking as she looked at his face with Fritz?
She had worried that he might sleep for over a month again, like before—and if that happened, she had no idea what they should do.
"Yes… I suppose there aren't any like that now."
"That makes it sound like there used to be."
"…Hmm."
Watching the mana flow slowly through the firewood, Roberta asked,
"Is it really alright not to hurry?"
"It's fine. The problem you're concerned about won't occur. Someone faster than us is already in motion. There are more eyes on me than you think."
As the moisture evaporated, the wood began to dry. Ulrich watched the rising white vapor, then said,
"That's enough."
"The excommunication and summons will be withdrawn immediately. The fact that I am heading to the Pantheon already fulfills much of what they want. So there's no need to rush. Of course, that doesn't mean I should wander endlessly in dreams."
"If you're going to sleep like that, I'd appreciate at least a warning."
Roberta gave a wry smile.
"I'll consider it."
Ulrich handed Fritz another piece of wood.
"So… you're not heading straight to the Pantheon this time either."
"We won't stray too far. There's something I need to check."
She almost pointed out that she had heard that line several times before—but swallowed the words.
Whatever he wanted to confirm, it would surely be tied to his past. And the longer their journey continued, the more she would come to learn about him.
"Where are we going?"
"A place called Roslayen. You may know it—it's a count's territory about one or two days west of here."
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