White and Grey, the Genealogy of History 〔Part One〕

"Your Highness — he's about to —"

"Yes, I know."

At the end of Mihai's gaze: a single white-haired man overtaking Mūzeg's own cavalry at terrible speed, bearing in alone.

"Alone…"

Mihai swallowed at the sight of him.

Whatever Serius might think of him, he could not bring himself to want to stand against that.

For Serius, of course, he would put his body in regardless of personal preference. If there was no need, however, he would rather not touch it.

"I don't know what he intends, but —"

Serius, however, was different.

The grey-haired man wore a smile coloured with the lift of an oncoming fight.

After his expressionless default, this was the look Mihai had seen on him most often. Mihai found Serius's face, wearing that smile, beautiful.

"Very well. I'll take you up on it."

"Y- Your Highness —"

"Don't worry, captain. I'll take some insurance of my own. — White light cannon — can you still fire it?"

"Yes."

"Then have it ready. At point-blank, even that should land. — Don't get any closer than needed. He's too heavy for you and your men to engage in earnest."

"Then where shall we be."

"Inside Caligula's mouth would do."

Caligula was the name of the red land dragon Serius and the others were riding.

"Inside the mouth, sir. That's a situation guaranteed to chill the gut, isn't it."

"That, too — don't worry. Caligula is obedient and unusually deep on human-tongue comprehension; orders held, no problem. — For our Mūzeg."

"— Yes. With pleasure."

The captain had no intention of refusing in the first place; the line, however, sealed it.

Those words were, to a Mūzegan soldier, the words above all others. Said by this prince, the highest form of them.

The captain dipped his head briefly and moved smartly to the base of the now-braking red dragon's neck.

He took a position screened behind the dragon's bulk relative to Merea's approach, and —

"It looks like I'll get drool on me."

"I'll authorise an allowance for cleaning."

"Then I can rest easy."

— turned his face up to the gaping mouth that the red dragon had swung around, and stepped in alongside several of his men.

Watching them go, Serius said, to Mihai —

"Do you think I'll lose."

"No. If you lose to that man in single combat, no one in this world can win against him."

"You exaggerate. The world is wide. I have not yet brought even the eastern continent to full order."

"Even so — against a Demon Lord — especially a formula-system Demon Lord — by your birth alone you are overwhelmingly favoured."

"True. Thanks to Mūzeg's ancestors."

"In which case — please use that strength to put that Demon Lord down. I think — if you do — this war ends."

Mihai had been catching the eyes of the other Demon Lords scattered across the field, far off — eyes that were nailed to this side.

While they took the moment of rest alongside the Lemusan ranks, breathing, those eyes had drifted onto the encounter that was about to begin, half-stunned.

"He's their centre pole. That white-haired Demon God is the centre pole of the Demon Lord side."

"Almost certainly. From what I heard, that's also what he was at Lindholm."

"Then breaking him is enough. The other side may be coming on the same terms — Your Highness is the centre pole of Mūzeg, after all."

"That, in itself, is a problem. Recently they have grown too obedient. Even just now we should have simply pushed straight through. But Father attaches weight to these forms."

"For loyalty. And for faith."

When that line landed, Mihai watched Serius's expression cloud.

"Let it stand. — You also fall back. From the way he's looking at me, the line was the truth — I'm what he wants. With enough distance, no one will get in the way."

"On a battlefield like this, an unusual thing."

"This is the battlefield of the present era. I think of it, in some sense, as a kind of salvation. The eras of dark, disordered war with neither pride nor belief — those belong only in history books. I love combat; that I hate, because it is a different thing."

"…Yes."

Mihai nodded, small, at the end, and finally took the step forward to drop off the red dragon.

Caligula's gallop had eased to a walk; the picture was clear now.

"Hold the cavalry in place. Don't let them interfere. There's the matter of the magic eyes and the other secret arts as well — that man must be taken alive. Some of those arts lose their effect with the wielder's death. And in any case, killing him because I caught a scratch would translate to a Mūzeg-side loss."

"— Yes, sir."

To Mihai's mind that was a proposition that left him nothing but anxiety. There was no refusing it.

In a sense, he thought, that love of combat was a weakness of Serius's.

"Then — fortune to you."

"Yes."

Mihai dropped from the dragon first.

The dragon was, by then, fully stopped.

As Mihai readied himself to call the cavalry to a halt, he —

"—"

— caught white lightning streaking through the corner of his vision.

That was him.

— Please. Don't drop your guard.

He prayed it inwardly, and put the man out of his line of sight.

From here on, the world belonged to the two of them.

The encounter of a man trying to climb from the eastern continent to the centre of the world, and a man trying to throw a single stone into the present world's order.

---

For a battlefield, the picture was strikingly orderly.

In the middle of the wilderness, a red dragon lay folded down.

Curled, holding itself still, as if its back were being offered as a circular fighting platform.

Its red scales looked like a luxurious carpet. They also looked like the blood-soaked stone floor of an arena.

On top of the unmoving dragon stood one man.

Grey hair, distinctively. A man of striking looks.

And in front of that man, in the next breath, another man stepped into being.

White hair, distinctively. A man of unworldly looks.

The distance between them: ten paces.

To either of them, that was inside their range, perhaps.

Yet neither moved at once.

A strange picture.

Around the red dragon both men stood on, a black wall had formed.

Not closing in, but ringing them in a circle: Mūzeg's cavalry — there to make sure the white-haired man could not slip out.

That this many men did not let out so much as a murmur was, in its own way, both still and grand.

They were waiting for movement.

They were narrowing their eyes, hoping to read the lips of the two men if they could. Voices wouldn't carry.

The order do not approach was, by now, chafing at them.

Heedless of them, the two at the centre finally opened their mouths.

The first to speak — was the grey-haired man.

---

"Our first since Lindholm, Demon God. — Let me hear your name."

---

"Merea Mea. — Serius Brad Mūzeg."

---

That day — the sound of history moving could be heard.

---

In front of Serius, Merea kept one hand on his hip and wore an expression close to unexpected.

"Didn't think you'd let me through this cleanly."

"It was the better arrangement for me as well. Call it an alignment of intent. Interest, if you prefer; though, since both of us are aiming at our own gain, calling either side a harm would be poor manners."

"Today's wars still have room for conversation, then."

"Time and case. The strong sometimes have to demonstrate breadth."

"Listen to yourself. Mūzeg is the side that bears down on Demon Lords without leaving any."

"As I said — time and case. Picking the case is, in the end, the privilege of the strong."

"That's the answer I expected from you."

Merea wore a small sarcastic smile.

"Let me ask, on my side. — Those eyes. Where did you get them."

"…Am I obliged to tell you?"

"Whether you tell me or not changes very little — surely you understand that yourself. The route doesn't matter any more. You possess them now. Where you got them is, in this situation, of little consequence."

"And yet you asked."

"Curiosity. I have a deep relationship with those eyes."

"— First I've heard."

"Is that so. Flander Crow didn't tell you."

Serius let out a deliberate breath.

The line caught at Merea, but he didn't ask back at once.

"Let it stand. With some difficulty believing it, watching you — I begin to think demon-lord ghosts really did live on the mountain."

"Demon-lord ghosts. — So that's what they'll get called, then."

A small pull of his brow.

"So — what did you come for? Not small talk, surely."

"Half of it is that. The other half — as you suspect."

"Then we'll deal with the former first. Talking with the wind out of you would be a chore, after all."

The provocation didn't move Merea.

"— Why do you hunt Demon Lords. Aren't you already strong enough? From what I've heard, you have, at this moment, the force to take half of the eastern continent."

"I see. …That's the angle. — You are unexpectedly fond of logic."

"Answer. Why do you hunt Demon Lords. Did it never occur to you, before hunting, to even try the form of a deal."

To Merea's question, Serius — without particularly setting his face — let out a small grunt with the air of someone calling to mind a favourite dish, and at last answered.

"A deal — is a thing that breaks."

"A deal you start expecting to break is not a deal."

"True. That was perverse of me. — Let me ask you back. Would you seriously negotiate, gold-coin in hand, with a three-year-old?"

"— !"

Even Merea raised his shoulders at that.

He nearly took a step forward; pulled himself back at the edge.

"That's how high you rate us, then."

"In broad terms. It wasn't always so. We did, in earlier days, give a serious counterweight. As Demon Lords gradually weakened and Mūzeg, comparatively, grew, the necessity dropped away. — Do you follow? You are tools. And not the sort of tools one is sentimental about. Disposable.

"For now we have to focus on the other countries. So we'll use you for that. And — being taken by other countries is unacceptable. If we can't take them ourselves, we'd rather break them. Mūzeg has to win. Against any opponent."

Merea's fist closed at the answer.

"Grant — for argument — that I accept that. — Then, on top of it: what do you do, after you've trampled all those other countries. What is it you want, that you chase victory this hard."

"…"

Serius did not answer at once.

In that single beat Merea felt a wrongness.

"…Who knows. I'm not obliged to leak the country's intent to you."

"What do you think, personally, Serius. Right now there's only you and me here. The Mūzeg-prince mantle does, agreed, colour anything you say. But in this instant, you can speak as yourself. Nothing from here will carry."

"…"

Serius was nodding, internally, to Merea's words.

Even so, he did not, in the end, speak.

Merea let out a slightly disappointed breath, and —

"— Right. Then — out of pure stubbornness, I'll get them out of you. Your own words."

— in the same beat, took a step forward.

In his right hand: 〈The Resplendent Sword of the Water God (Seura Euras)〉. By the time he had taken the second step, the same blade was in his left.

Battle.

Serius answered the opening signal without lag — pulled 〈Demonic Spear Kurtad〉 from formula-space and set it in both hands.

On top of the red, white and grey danced.