Chapter 33

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 33
Chapter Title: The Nameless God
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#33

Walter and Lucy followed the monk with expressionless faces. Whees, on the other hand, looked around ceaselessly, as if fascinated.

“Grand General. Are all the monks here hairless?”

Whees asked, pointing at the young monk's shaved head. Walter put a finger to his lips, warning him to lower his voice.

“I heard they shave it all as part of their training.”

“Why is that? It must be cold without hair.”

“They believe hair is a product of the past that brings lingering attachments and worldly desires. They regard it as a byproduct of impiety.”

Whees tilted his head at the cryptic words.

For a Raphi, who shed old feathers to adorn the future with new ones, the very concept of shaving one's hair was utterly incomprehensible.

Then he suddenly stopped and looked back. White feathers were scattered on the path they had just walked.

“Oops.”

*He just called it a byproduct of impiety.*

Feeling inexplicably uneasy, Whees scurried back, picked up the feathers, and stuffed them into his pocket.

“Come to think of it, I heard the Grand General's sword was originally from this temple.”

Whees muttered again in a small voice, uncomfortable with the silence. At that, Lucy, who was walking ahead, turned her head with an interested look.

“This is the first I'm hearing of it. Is that true, Grand General?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“So you mean you received it with the monks' consent?”

Walter moistened his lips with a troubled expression. The answer came from an unexpected person.

“Yes. Dawn was a sword enshrined as a sacred object. No one could wield it, so it was kept underground until Sir Hyverge lifted it. Since its master appeared, it was only right to return it to him.”

The young monk chimed in, looking at Walter with eyes full of admiration.

Seeing the monk's unguarded expression, Whees seized the opportunity and quickly stroked the monk's smooth head. Surprised by the rougher-than-expected texture, Whees spoke to him familiarly.

“Master? You mean the person who wielded the sword is its master? Not the god you serve?”

“Yes. It is written in the oracle. The sword has a separate master, and that master will restore the name of the Nameless God.”

“Huh? You mean this god's name isn't actually 'Nameless God'?”

“What kind of… Who in the world doesn't have a name?”

The monk retorted, glaring at Whees as if he were spouting utter nonsense.

Even though he himself had no name and was called Number 61, the young monk puffed out his chest and continued.

“The Nameless God has a true name. It has just been forgotten over time. The revelation stated that the master of Dawn will recover the true name, and when the name is returned, the god will manifest and descend upon the world.”

“Hah, really?”

“Yes. All the priests believe that Sir Hyverge is the fulfiller of the oracle.”

The monk looked up at the ceiling mural with an overwhelmed expression before lowering his gaze. His eyes fell on Walter—or more precisely, on the sword hanging at Walter's waist.

Like a newborn chick imprinting on its mother, the monk stared at Walter with incredibly bright, sparkling eyes.

“Hah. So the Grand General is the fulfiller of the oracle?”

Lucy looked at Walter with a peculiar gaze.

Walter, seemingly uncomfortable with the monk's stare, avoided his eyes by pretending to look around.

She had known his sword was special, but this was the first she'd heard it was such a significant artifact.

*No wonder Walter looked troubled when I said I was sending Duke Kill to the temple, suggesting it would be better to exile him elsewhere. This must have been why.*

“Let's get going. We'll fall behind schedule.”

Walter redirected their attention in a low voice and led the way.

The three followed behind him in a group. The young monk gushed about how wonderful Sir Hyverge's voice was, and Whees chimed in, agreeing wholeheartedly.

As Lucy, watching the farce, added that the Grand General was even handsome, making him the complete package, a fed-up Walter finally spat out.

“This is a sacred place. Let's be quiet.”

Lucy narrowed her eyes, noticing the tips of Walter's ears had turned bright red.

It seemed that in the future, if she wanted to torment Walter, showering him with embarrassing compliments would be more effective than cracking a whip.

With the rarely flustered Walter leading the way, they headed toward the back of the temple.

As the door opened, the sound of sweeping—*swish, swish*—drifted on the cool breeze. The sound grew louder with each step, and soon, the figure of an old man sweeping a clearing came into view.

Each time the broom moved, scattered leaves, coated in dust, gathered in one spot. The old man sensed their presence and paused his sweeping for a moment, then shrugged once before diligently resuming his work.

“Everyone, wait here for a moment.”

Lucy nodded to her companions.

Whees and Walter quietly stepped back. The monk, who had been following Lucy obliviously, finally caught on and scurried back the way they came.

Their joking demeanor gone, Whees and Walter scanned the surroundings with stern expressions. Leaving the dutiful soldiers behind her, Lucy greeted the old man.

“Hello.”

In the clearing filled with yellow earth, only the old man and Lucy remained.

Despite her loud greeting, the old man, seemingly oblivious to her approach, kept his eyes fixed on the ground, engrossed in his sweeping.

The old man, who had always been slender, seemed even more gaunt than before, perhaps due to his hunched posture or the hard labor.

The same ash-gray robe as the monks, combined with his whitish hair, made him look older than his years. Lucy, who had been watching him quietly, squatted down next to a pile of leaves and spoke to the old man.

“It's been a while, Duke Kill.”

The sweeping stopped. Kill glanced at Lucy before moving his hands again.

“What brings a busy person like you to such a humble place?”

“I came to see how you were doing, among other things.”

“If you came to mock an old man, you'll be disappointed. Funnily enough, I'm doing quite well.”

Kill let out a short, dry laugh and swept the last leaf into the pile. The way he expertly knocked stuck leaves from the broom with a few taps was quite skilled.

Lucy remained squatting and fiddled with her fingers in the dirt. As her finger moved, the shapes of clouds and flowers appeared in its wake.

Absorbed in her doodling, Lucy spoke casually.

“I didn't come to mock you. Or to scold you, or to get angry. I came because I have something to ask you today.”

“What could you possibly ask someone who has already fallen from politics?”

“I was wondering what to do with your duchy, and I concluded it might be good to have Rutherford and Witten govern it jointly. What do you think?”

Lucy spoke calmly, sneaking a glance at Kill's expression.

Goedel Kill, before being a lord, was a man born in the Kill territory, and his affection for his land was exceptionally deep.

The reason he didn't levy excessive taxes on his people and greatly expanded welfare, striving to make his territory as livable as possible, was simply because he was a man who loved his land.

*What kind of reaction would he have if I proposed such disagreeable people as the next lords right in front of him?*

It would have been a relief if he had indignantly snapped at her for spouting nonsense, but sadly, Kill's reaction was completely different from what she had expected.

That is, with a look that said he couldn't care less, he moved his foot and kicked dirt over Lucy's drawing.

“I'm no longer part of that world. I have no interest. So do as you please.”

“I'm talking about your duchy right now. Why aren't you interested?”

“What does it matter to you whether I'm interested or not?”

Kill's lips twitched as he looked up at the sky with a sour face. Then he let out a faint sigh and answered.

“Do you know what doctrine this place follows?”

“The doctrine of the Nameless God... it must be selflessness. To neither be bound nor to bind, to empty oneself of everything.”

“Correct. The Nameless God emptied himself of everything and then discarded even his name. So... well. Since just sweeping is no fun, I decided to try imitating the doctrine.”

Kill squatted down next to Lucy and took a flint and steel from his pocket.

Grasping the flint and some leaves, he carefully positioned himself and struck the steel against the stone. Soon, the leaves shriveled and a small ember sparked to life.

“Letting go was hard at first, but it's not so bad once you get used to it. Erasing the me who was a lord, the me who was the chairman, the me who was a duke...”

When he blew gently on it, the ember grew a little larger. Kill moved the ember to the pile of leaves and blew on it a bit harder.

“After emptying everything, only one thing remained. Me. Just me.”

The flames flared up, casting a reddish glow on Kill's face. He picked up a dry twig and poked at the leaves.

“Looking back on all that I've erased, I don't know why I lived so burdened. I had so much to protect, yet I was busy every day being greedy. Opposing you was part of that. Living a life of conquest over and over, I naturally became a storm, reaching the point where I coveted the throne.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Regret?”

Kill burst into a hearty laugh. It was a bright laugh, without a trace of lingering attachment or self-pity.

“I'm truly sorry, but I have no regrets. Resisting the waves might have meaning, but resisting a tsunami the size of a fortress is utterly pointless.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that because it was inevitable, there are no regrets. The throne was empty, and with no legitimate heir, I possessed both the power and the authority to become king. My challenge for the throne was an unavoidable current, and even if I could go back, I would do the same thing.”

At the provocative statement, Lucy instinctively raised her head and looked at him.

Contrary to his words, the old man's face reflected in her golden eyes showed no ambition at all, only exhaustion.