Flander Crow

"I wandered off the line a little. — Returning to the topic — in fact, I, who am saying all this, am also a man who went from hero to Demon Lord. Calling oneself a hero is, somewhat, embarrassing, but to walk through the history without it would knot the words. I'll tell it plainly."

In Merea, naturally, there was curiosity about Flander's past — but more than that, there was the wish not to keep Flander, hiding pain underneath, talking on this.

But Flander's manner of speaking carried something settled, and Merea understood, in the head, that he would not be stopped before the end.

"Flander as Demon Lord. — At the character-level alone, not a fit, frankly."

This man of androgynous beauty, a Demon Lord.

Image-priming is, frankly, a stubborn thing — when one says Demon Lord, a more ridged shape comes up.

"I, having defeated a certain Demon Lord, was then certified as a different Demon Lord — and killed. That was my regret. I wanted some accounting for why it had to come to that, and, honestly — vengeance, there was, in no small measure, that wish too."

Flander, as if having decided that what could not be voiced until now would be voiced now, lined up word after word.

"Flander — you've remembered your regret?"

"Yes. Until very recently, I'd lost it, mind. — Mind, don't misread: in my heart, there is, by now, almost no unresolved feeling about it. Possibly come full circle? Hah — at this point, I think I get everyone's feeling."

Regret-weathering.

For him, was that a good thing — or —

"Of having let the regret weather, I have no remorse. This is for the best, I think, from the bottom. The pride I held to in life, I did not, by my own hand, soil. If, before the regret weathered, the enemies had come up Lindholm Sacred Mountain, I would have — laid hands on them."

He did not look the part, Merea thought — but, having seen spirit-bodies on Lindholm's mid-slope dragged by their regret, he could not, fully, dismiss it either.

The Heroic Spirits at the summit had all been full of reason; up to the very moment of ascension to 〈Empyrean〉, they remained that way — but —

— Without me as the vessel of their regret, would they have gone strange.

A measure of self-conceit in that, Merea was conscious of.

But, borrowing Flander's earlier framing — the first history, that he had been born as the vessel of the Heroic Spirits' regret, should, plainly, be told.

"But —"

The contrastive line of Flander's threaded through Merea's thinking.

Flander's red eyes were fixed on Merea's, the same colour.

Two pairs of graceful red lights swayed in each other's eyes.

"In its place, a new regret has sprouted."

"What kind?"

"— The worry that this world, as it is, will kill you. That is what holds me here, now."

"…"

Holds.

Stays.

The Flander speaking those words was, almost certainly, already being called by 〈Empyrean〉.

Merea read that.

— I am, in fact, holding Flander back from release.

He wished, somehow, to put Flander at ease, but no method came to him.

"From Sky Dragon Cortista's account — lately, the ones the loose bar has marked as Demon Lord are, also, showing signs of decline."

While Merea thought, Flander, again, spoke first.

"Almost all, by now, hunted out, I think."

"…If they discarded their Demon Lord-grade strength, surely the nation would stop chasing them, no?"

The thought surfaced, and Merea said it.

"I wonder. They see possibility in even the Demon Lord's blood. And — there's a meaningful problem in the order of events. The nation sought the Demon Lord's strength first, and chased them blood-eyed; the Demon Lords cannot easily make themselves defenceless. If I really discard my strength, will they actually stop on me? Suspicion and fear, by that, make discarding the strength hard."

"…Right. Discarding strength while being chased — frightening."

He himself probably could not bring himself to it.

Such a power-collecting nation may, having taken the weapons and the strength, also demand, say, let us dissect the body.

Inheriting a line of strength is, when the strength is genetically locked from birth, also no help.

"So — those Demon Lords, hesitating, while hesitating, are running for their lives — that read?"

"For the most part, yes."

Flander shrugged; Merea, brow knotting.

"Demon Lords in flight… by now, who's the Demon Lord, frankly."

"Said it. And — you may, also, end up on the being-chased side, like them."

"Yes…"

The future-picture Flander feared was that.

The reason Flander was able to predict Demon Lord on Merea's Future Stone was that, on layered information, he had read Merea ending up in that same state.

"So — if, if it comes to that —"

In the next moment, Flander, unusually, broke the still-water bearing and, with a closing-in edge, set both hands on Merea's shoulders.

He pulled the shoulders close, turning Merea's body to face him head-on.

And Flander said it.

"— You — cooperate with those Demon Lords."

If you read the line on the page alone, the older heroes would, surely, be startled.

The word Demon Lord was, once, the symbol of evil.

"If they are seeking help — extend a hand. It may, possibly, not be repaid. There may also be times when the hand is brushed off. But, at some point, when you yourself are in trouble, they may, in turn, be the ones to extend a hand."

Merea, taking Flander's line, looked into those eyes head-on.

And, slowly, but with strength, nodded.

"— Yes. If they are not, in truth, the incarnation of evil, and they are caught in the helpless curse of that word Demon Lord, and they are seeking help —"

To such Demon Lords —

"I will gladly extend a hand."

Merea thought it, plain.

"— Yes."

Flander, again on that complicated wry smile — but in this wry smile, a colour of gladness, also, had surfaced.

Looking up at the sky, hand shielding the sun, Flander, by the way, continued.

"From here on, monologue. To remember my own regret and discharge it properly, I'll let it out aloud, in passing. If you'd rather not hear, it's fine to step away."

Flander wore his usual smile.

"Understood."

He had no plan to step away, but Merea answered so.

A few seconds of silence, and Flander began to thread the words, small.

Merea, only, listened — quietly, attentively.

"I was killed by those who had been comrades. Comrades of the home country. After we had brought down the Demon Lord, they sought my strength further. The strength of the 〈Technique God〉, by which I was called. My specialised strength on the formula side was, in a warring age, very useful."

〈The Magic Eyes of the Technique God (Flander Crow)〉.

The strength to read through a formula in an instant.

Combined with sound comprehension and a real formula-generating capacity, the bearer would, in a blink, become a top-rate formula-user.

"Formulae are, in any age, a threat. Tyrant, pushing far enough, can put out demon-god-like strength on body alone, but formulae fire massive attacks more easily. That, in this world, phenomena can be expressed by formulae contributed, hugely, to the scaling-up of conflict."

A side of formulae was, in fact, firing-off-a-cannon-shot-without-building-the-cannon.

"Tactically, strategically, formula-users are powerful and easy to use. I, with eyes specifically effective against formula-users, was, for them, a tool they wanted painfully badly. — But —"

Flander drew a deep breath and continued.

"I refused to become their tool. They told me to go destroy a country with no fault at all, and that, I felt, was wrong. I had built the formula-strength for the salvation of my home country. To turn back the Demon Lord nearby. — Not — to invade an innocent country."

Flander's eyes were serious.

And, in that moment, Merea finally registered that the first hero a certain nation targeted was Flander himself.

At the same time, knowing Flander had — for his pride — refused his home country's unreasonable order —

— Flander was, truly, a hero.

So Merea was certain.

Flander's way of living may, in an age tipping into war, have been clumsy.

To live as a living thing, perhaps, Flander should have followed his home country's order and become the hero the nation demanded.

But —

— Flander Crow chose the ridiculously straight road.

That road was, for Flander Crow, the hero's road by his own faith.

"Once I refused, poison was put on me, unknowing."

Flander laughed, self-mocking.

"It was, again, one of those gradually-creeping nasty kinds. Choosing a slow-acting one was, perhaps, because they wanted time to trade with me for the antidote. At any rate, by the time I noticed, the poison had run far. I still believed they were comrades, so my noticing was late. — No — I had noticed, but could not believe it. I who, even at that point, believed they would have a change of heart, was very young — and very sweet."

Even so —

"Even at the brink of that grim end, of refusing that order I had no remorse."

— Amazing, you are.

Merea felt, plainly, proud of having been raised by Flander.

"I have the regret of not, in the true sense, having persuaded them, and the regret of not noticing the poison — but of the way I lived, no remorse. — And — once the poison ran and the time left was nearly nil, I rushed to do the one last thing I had to. If my eyes were taken by them, that, again, would seed war-flame. And, as for me, bitter on principle. So — bringing the poison with me, I climbed up this Lindholm Sacred Mountain, where people rarely come, and placed the eyes at the summit. I was not particularly robust of body, so the climbing me, even today, I'd like to praise. ……Then, having achieved that, I died."

A grim manner of death.

Merea felt a small sting run through his chest.

"After that, becoming a spirit, I stood watch over my eyes alongside the friend Heroic Spirits. By that, my eyes safely settled into Merea's body. — I had no children either. For me, Merea is like a son. So, on my end, I am glad that the eyes have been inherited by Merea."

Flander's profile — gladness on it — burned itself into Merea's eye.

"By now, universal hero cannot exist. — Or — possibly, universal hero never existed at all. Only, at minimum, today's hero is, far more than the older era's, diversified and fragmented. The hero of one nation is, to the rival nation, a Demon Lord. That sort of thing happens easily, in this age."

What, in fact, is a hero.

The same kind of plain question he had, once, brought to the word Demon Lord, surfaced in Merea's heart.

"Even so — that he, who has inherited my eyes, becomes someone's hero — that, I would wish for. Not a great hero. A small hero who, holding to his own pride, can defend someone — even that —"

— Will I, by that, truly repay you.

"— Merea. There is no need to repay any longer. You have already, enough, repaid us."

Flander, abruptly cutting the monologue, turned his eye to Merea and said it.

A line that read as if having seen clean through Merea's chest — Merea was, briefly, surprised — but, after a beat, settled into a strange acceptance.

That, almost certainly, tied to Flander's life-as-Heroic-Spirit nearing its close, was the strange register of his acceptance.

"That you broke our regret was, in itself, the largest gift to us. You may not realise it, but that the Heroic Spirits wandering here could escape their bondage was thanks to you. If your soul had not crossed worlds, and had not shown us your growing form, we would have wandered this place again for hundreds of years. Carrying worn regret, dragging only pain."

"…"

Merea could not thread words.

"So, Merea — from here on, find for yourself what it is you wish to do. The means to fight, I gave. The means to live, I gave. The means to defend something — I gave. The spirit and bearing we, as Heroic Spirits, believe to be right — I taught you. How you use it is up to you."

"I —"

Merea had been leaning, somewhat, on the Heroic Spirits' wishes.

Could not be helped, that.

Since the rebirth, knowing nothing of the lower world, the picture had been built from Heroic Spirits' old-tales and the Sky Dragons' fragmentary world-talk.

By the inherited memory and personality, a moral baseline had been formed since rebirth — but only that.

Merea had no born-into-this-world impulse toward the world.

Being able to live had moved him; but Lindholm Sacred Mountain's bleak picture had not, even in that Merea, planted any dream toward the world.

"That is your work going forward. No need to rush. You have plenty of time. Until you find the something, the first matter is to survive. So — I lay on you the mission of survive. Don't be crushed by this hopeless world."

So saying, Flander showed a soft smile.

With that as the close, Merea and Flander cut the conversation.

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