Editor 159

Albion’s Pastoral (11)

“…Do you remember me from a previous life? It’s a past I myself do not know.”

“If knowing something only after the fact still counts as knowing. If Sir Kishion had not rendered some small help to your previous life, then Gideon Asher at that time would hardly have thought to fund the beleaguered Kishion command.”

The “memory” of the ‘Promise’ quickly rewound.

When the Kishion territory battle broke out in the eighth world, the anonymous donor who provided emergency funds to the Kishion camp, cut off from central support by political machinations, turned out to be Gideon Asher.

‘And the reason for that… it was because he had rescued Cleio Asher from the river… was it.’

Cleio’s breath quickened as if water had seeped into her prayers. Noticing the shortened rhythm of her breaths, the crown prince wore a satisfied expression.

Melchior no longer checked the time.

“That child, who had the right to die freely in a way not prepared by God, might have been better off than me.”

A faint excitement colored the crown prince’s cheeks at having, for the first time in nine lifetimes, a kind of listener he’d never encountered before.

It was a sight that no person could look away from, yet the chastity that dominated the crown prince’s beautiful appearance was a restrained madness.

“Even someone so powerfully blessed does not know everything. Well, that was before you received your blessing, wasn’t it? Once, Baron Asher had a frail child who died young. The red-haired knight pulled them from the water, but it was too late and the child had stopped breathing. Yet now, before me, stands a hero of the capital who almost died young.”

Melchior gently moved his lips to add,

“I don’t know his name, and perhaps he never had one to begin with.”

At least, Melchior could recall no event of naming. The child, whose gender was unclear, revealed only a faint presence under Gideon Asher’s actions.

In such a world, where things repeat but are never the same, no memory is light, and no character is peripheral.

Melchior was accustomed to the ways of God.

“Even remembering the past, do you know why my battles were always so disadvantageous? It was because I always had to stand in a game where the rules, the hands, the roles and meanings of the characters changed every time.

At first, Theophila was a rustic shrine maiden without even a surname. An innocent girl with no prophetic abilities.

But after eight repetitions, she became the holy Theophila Ygraine, representing the powerful will of God.”

During those repeated lives, Melchior did not simply sit and accept his fate; the world responded to his resistance with greater oppression.

“At such times, I couldn’t help but feel the presence of God.”

—God, who thwarted him.

The crown prince’s words were not directed at Cleio, but at the will of God that had placed Cleio in that seat.

A declaration: I know you, and I know what you have done.

“I am pleased with this life. I can clearly sense that the force holding the world together has weakened. Even before, I always sent a healer to Tristain territory, but this is the first time Theo Tristain managed to cling to his life for so long.

It’s also the first time the young Armorique prince learned of his patricide. Even being able to raid the domain of Shuliman was a first.”

Leaving the dazed magician be, the crown prince stood to personally prepare tea.

He poured hot water from a small brazier into the teapot, let it steep, then strained the leaves. Amid the clink of teaware, the bell of the school’s clock tower across the river rang out.

Suddenly, she snapped to her senses.

Cleio still had not forgotten her purpose, and was steadily achieving her original goal.

To buy time.

Clack.

Melchior set a teacup before Cleio as well, then sat back down in his seat and drank first.

When held in his hand, even a cheap mass-produced porcelain marked only with the seal of the parliament looked like a kind of artwork.

Ironically, at this moment, Melchior seemed more human than at any other time Cleio had known him.

He acted as if he wanted his achievements to be recognized, like an adventurer.

“You bear the stigmata of ‘foresight,’ so you must also know what I will do someday. Did you see it?”

Clatter.

Even the “separation” could not completely suppress the agitation, and ripples spread across the teacup Cleio held. For Melchior, that was answer enough.

“Is that why you feared me so much? Even when I treated you simply as my little brother’s friend?”

Though there was nowhere further to retreat, Cleio unconsciously leaned back against the chair.

Yes.

In a previous life, after the war between the two rivers, the list of Melchior’s sins was long.

‘Among them, the greatest was destroying all the world’s ether. Whether that was his true goal, an accident, his own will, or the author’s design… I never knew.’

No one could ever explain why the coldly just and wise crown prince had done such things. It was only speculated to be the madness of the royal bloodline.

In a way only possible in the world of narrative, as if struck by God’s will in the form of thunder or storm, the one who had finished his role was struck by the curse of madness.

‘Destiny is always realized.’

‘The vision Arthur saw… the image of Melchior pointing at himself in the blood must have been from that moment.’

At the end of the story, the crown prince, fulfilling the formal requirements of the coronation with murder and threats, brought forth a sinister and faint eclipse.

Arthur, gravely wounded after slaying Aslan, could not cross Taethurn and failed to stop Melchior.

Though Arthur had driven himself onto a disadvantageous battlefield, perhaps the minimum faith he held in his brother, who had guarded the castle of Albion so resolutely, made him hesitate for a few seconds longer.

During that interval, a thin crack tore in the sky, and Melchior abused the right of consecration.

The coronation in the Kingdom of Albion ended with the king bestowing consecration at the time of eclipse. That custom was a kind of “covenant,” and the words of consecration were prescribed by law.

“To the one who knows the power of the hymn, eternal authority.”

Melchior destroyed the promise that had sustained the kingdom for a thousand years, by reciting a curse instead of a blessing.

At that moment, the last Gate of Mnemosyne lost its connection to the outside world, and most of the intangible ether that had hovered around the world scattered and vanished.

Since this was already a world far removed from the gods, the faint connection to the other side of the world faded away without resistance.

Because Melchior’s final words were not recorded, it was never revealed how he stripped the world of ether.

Thus, the crown prince’s end remained in mythic ambiguity.

‘But even if he closed the Gate of Mnemosyne, there’s no way the world would end just as he wished. History continues, no matter the pain and sacrifice.’

Just as in the history of the previous world Cleio had lived.

Even when knights lost their sword energy and magicians lost their healing powers, only the ether of Tiflaum remained active.

Also, the abilities of researchers, who were relatively less sensitive to ether, persisted longer than those of high-ranking knights.

Melchior, who sank into the bloody water right after the incomplete eclipse, could not know what happened after.

The vast quantities of Tiflaum mined in Albion provided a precious reprieve for the entire civilized world.

It stopped Brunnen from violently conquering the continent, and sustained the era of hardship when magic was replaced by science.

Hunger, disease, and the collapse of infrastructure claimed countless lives.

Thus, on the threshold of the twentieth century, humanity underwent a redefinition of the world.

In the pains of losing ether, humans learned to run the godless world by their own power.

The age of myth transitioned into the age of history, and it was Arthur Liognan who led the way.

Arthur, a king made solely of will, the King of Men, encouraged the ordinary researchers of the Royal Academy of Science and the Capital Defense Magic Corps to open a new era.

Only when trains once again crossed the continent on time, and mines reliably produced coal, did Arthur finally hold the long-postponed coronation.

That was the closing chapter of Part 1 of , which Cleio had read.

To Cleio’s mind, the conclusion of was perfectly reasonable.

The gods leave the world they created, and human history converges into the age of iron Cleio knew so well.

And even the part that gives the reader a lyrical sadness, as a “lost golden age of the past,” was, she thought, an outstanding variation on the theme.

‘And the structure reassures the reader by showing that humanity ultimately overcomes all such hardship. Among them, Arthur was a fine protagonist and king… or so I thought.’

She could not understand why Musai, who had crafted such a kind and flawless history with such care, decided to rewrite the world.

Realization always comes late.

‘Did the goddess never want the age of iron to begin in the first place?’

Though she knew this was not the time, Cleio could not help but mock herself. She was an agent who had failed to properly grasp the author’s intent or the will of God.

However, this story had not yet entered an irreversible phase. There was no luxury for self-reproach.

Thus,

Melchior watched with interest as the light of intellect returned to Cleio’s once-clouded hazel eyes.

“…Yes. I saw it. All of it.”

“I was glad even then. My exit was always in a different form, but that was the first time in all my lives I managed to tear up the celestial mechanism of this precise world.”

“But Your Highness, even so, human history continues unbroken—what meaning is there in such an attempt?”

“If that history was pleasing, why would God have turned the world back? Clearly, it did not look good in God’s eyes. If the ether, once called divine grace, can be abolished, perhaps one could climb back up the gap left by that grace.

If I can endure another nine or so cycles of this painful repetition, maybe I will someday be able to break the tip of God’s pen?”

Catching Cleio’s face turning pale, Melchior laughed aloud.

“Ha ha, the truly frightening thing is not someone like me, merely tossed by God’s will, so why are you so grave?”

Setting down his empty teacup, Melchior spoke leisurely.

“The power to fix the turning points of history belongs only to Arthur, and only when that child acts do events become history. The cold pen of God omits everything else. You know that you, too, are an element tied to that child’s life and the continuation of this world.”

Though Arthur was no longer someone who could be called “that child,” Melchior still referred to the grown young man as his youngest.

For one who had lived too many lives for a human to bear, someone now approaching his nineteenth year might well appear a child.

“So, how was the pain that comes with knowledge?”

“It’s something hard to endure without God’s guidance.”

Melchior lowered his long lashes, feigning disappointment.

“Oh dear, it was a vain thing to seek understanding of my situation from one chosen by God. The delusion of the long-lived.”

Ding—

Before they knew it, the hour hand had made a full circle, and afternoon was passing.

“I haven’t even gotten to the main point yet, but time is passing so quickly it feels cruel. Now, the only reason you’ve sought me out when you never have before must be because of Arthur, right?”

Cleio did not deny it. What use was there in saying things neither could trust?

“I have no intention of taking that child’s life, so you don’t need to fret so much. How could I dare? I have no wish to return to that moment, tearing the amniotic sac and passing once more through the birth canal.”

To hide her trembling, she set down the teacup she had hardly touched. Her mind swam with an onrush of information.

‘So that’s what it was, after all.’

Even the seemingly omnipotent crown prince clearly did not know that the was the last manuscript, and that it could not be rewritten.

‘If he knew… he’d have destroyed a world ruled by a god who treated him so cruelly without hesitation.’

That was a truth that must be hidden at all costs.

If Melchior learned the truth, he would kill Arthur and choose to perish with the world.

And thus attain eternal peace.

‘All those modifiers attached to my name, being a magician who can “mitigate,” or the one prophesied by the priestess, were just… camouflage.’

As a device to conceal the most important truth from the adversary who could shake the world’s very existence.

It was then.

A sharp ringing pierced Cleio’s head.

Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—

It was the sound of the world grinding to a halt.

Then, the golden letters of the ‘Promise’ scattered in warning.

A being deeply entangled in the world’s structure was bleeding under coercion, suffering, swallowing screams.

From the edge of the sky, cloud as black as ink surged in.

That was no cloud of glory.

It was a harbinger of collapse.