1

Blades of dazzling sheen collided, striking sparks in the dark.

Steel against steel—the human way of life distilled in the raw contact of primordial elements. Time after time again, the tools designed to pierce skin and sever flesh met and parted, like dancers in a midnight ball. Clang. Cling. Clang.

Perhaps their exchange was better described a dialogue?

Certainly, words would have failed to convey in a year what the reverberating ringing of metal could express in only a transient instant. Or no, perhaps there was no culture to it whatsoever, and what unfolded was simply an unfeeling, mechanical, methodical processing of impersonal numbers.

Aside from their worldly mass, those blades bore the weight of their holders’ passions. It was to gauge these masses that they traded blows, and the number to emerge from the subtraction was all that mattered to either of the two.

No doubt such was the true essence of the “culture” they stood for—those madmen and women united in their idolization of the “way of the sword”.

Without a separate signal, the blades disconnected once more, and the combatants drew wide apart. The pause brought no peace, however. In place of the kinetic forces, the battle carried on in the duelists’ locked gazes.

Then——a wry grin spread across the coarse, sunburned face of the man they called Airen the Swift.

A survivor of ninety-nine duels to date, that desperado’s lone open eye gave off a blue glint of bloodthirst and ambition, as he returned his opponent’s silent scowl.

“I have certainly tested your mettle,” Airen declared in his low, coarse voice, with slight amusement over the unexpectedly entertaining battle, before adding, “and found it wanting.”

Airen’s meaning didn’t fail to reach his opponent.

In other words, by his reserve of personal experience in such games of swords, he had judged himself as the winner. His estimate had been nothing short of a prophecy: should their weapons cross paths again, he was certain to claim the life of the enemy. That was a fact, beyond any sliver of a doubt, as if he had taken a gander at the books of destiny themselves.

However—

“...So you missed it, just as I thought.”

Airen’s opponent suddenly broke into a smile.

“What?” Airen’s grin, in turn, faded.

In spite of the ominous forecast, Airen’s opponent hadn’t lost courage. No, if anything, that woman continued to burn with unhampered fighting spirit. So revoltingly open it fumed that the few townspeople left in the doorways of the nearby buildings pulled in and hid themselves.

“You needed all of eight moves to judge my blade?” she went on to ask him. “Too bad, I had you all figured out before the very first swing.”

“What are you talking about?” Airen asked, anger emboldening his voice.

“I faked my style and you fell for it, that’s all,” the woman nonchalantly explained, lowering her sword. “And while you were busy trying to see through my charade, I had a good, long look at your technique—and saw that it’s got a fatal flaw to it.”

“Rubbish!” Airen grunted. “My blade has been tested in ninety-nine duels! Not one of my opponents could come close to escaping the deathblow! Ninety-nine scars run down my left arm, to mark the heads I’ve claimed. And you presume to have bested me? Who are you even, a maid pretending to be a swordsman? What do you think you possess that the others did not? Don’t be absurd! Your strength is nowhere near enough! The next move will indeed decide our duel; in my favor!”

“No. Not at all,” that woman, Itaka Izumi, answered with a bewitching smile and a wink. “There won’t be a next. You see, I’ve already won.”

“Wha—t?”

Airen’s surprised exclamation was drowned out by the light snap coming from his curved longsword, which broke clean in two.

In shock, Airen the Swift stared at his beloved ally, his sole friend in the world, who had seen him through ninety-nine duels, and made his name known across the eastern continent—

——“And that’s not what happened.” Izumi voiced her objection with a weary sigh.

The woman laid on her back on a pile of hay, loaded on a crude cart driven by an elderly Logarian farmer. Following a short distance after the cart, in the saddle of a dull gray gelding, was a large, heavily tanned man. Once a fabled warrior himself, he had now assumed the role of a wandering bard, by the name Waramoti.

“I employed artistic freedom with the details, yes, here and there,” Waramoti replied, at the same time adding notes in his notebook, where the rough outline of a narrative was written. “To make it more engaging, you see?”

“Artistic freedom?” Izumi raised her head. “That’s straight up revisionism! First of all...”

Instead of a dark night, it had been daytime when they had arrived at the town of Brodham. A bit before noon, to be precise. The weather had been sunny, hardly any different from today, and not very suited for dramatic encounters.

Brodham was a small crossroads town in southern Tratovia, where Izumi had sought for a new cart to take her further south, whereas Waramoti had seized the chance to give his horse a rest. Along the street dividing the drowsy settlement, the two had stopped for lunch at a corner canteen. Once they stepped out, ready to resume their journey, a passing swordsman had spotted them.

“You two, are you travelers?”

Airen was a tall man, only a bit shorter than Waramoti. Less muscular, but by no means thin. Outward he was the very image of a ragged vagabond. His clothes were caked with dried mud, sunburned, patched in many places yet still riddled with holes elsewhere. The hems of his formerly red-brown overcoat were torn to shreds, sweeping the ground.

The rest of the man looked no better than his attire. Airen’s unshaven face was adorned with a long scar, which split the right cheek. His black hair, turned light gray for the long-term exposure to the scorching sun, ran long and filthy behind his head, where it had been tightly tied by a slim band.

Regardless, the look on his face was anything but bloodthirsty, and the vaguely katana-like blade he carried on his back remained firmly in its sheath. He was clearly not too negligent of his health either, carrying a bag of supplies, a large bottle of water, and numerous handy tools and accessories on his utility belt.

“Yes?” Izumi stopped and replied.

“I can tell you’re not from around,” Airen told the two. “Have you, per chance, been to Luctretz of late?”

“Well, technically, I suppose, yes,” Izumi answered with a hint of reservation. “Why?”

“Do not be alarmed. I don’t mean to pry,” the man said to her. “I merely thought to ask if you had heard any news on your travels.”

“News?”

“You see, I’m something of a huntsman by trade, and currently in pursuit of a mark. If you’ve seen or heard anything regarding this particular beast, I’d appreciate any information you could share with me. Of course, I’m willing to spare a coin or two for your troubles.”

“Hm, it actually pays off, being a hunter?” Izumi asked.

She was somewhat interested in a similar career herself, and was quite thrilled to have encountered a possible future colleague. The reply she got proved regrettably demoralizing, however.

“No, not at all,” Airen denied with a wry chuckle. “Truth be told, I’m as much a beggar as I am a hunter of beasts. But this is what you could describe a calling for me, so I don’t particularly mind.”

“Right...” Izumi’s enthusiasm visibly dropped. She wanted to get rich as much as she wanted professional achievements. “What kind of beasts do you hunt then?”

“Anything that comes up and causes people trouble. Pretyrons, panthers, swhallots, toaroids, griffins, ghouls, you name it. Most of the time, I end up doing the job of a simple trapper, it’s not particularly exciting. But as said, I don’t do it for wealth or fame, but merely to make use of my skill.”

“I don’t know what half of those are. What about dragons?”

“Ahaha, dragons would be a bit...” Airen grimaced. “Fortunately, there aren’t any in Noertia, as far as I’m aware. If you discount the rumors of the Great Green One spotted in the Edrian Bay. But rumors are only rumors. I wouldn’t put much credit on that one.”

“I see...” Izumi’s enthusiasm took yet another blow.

“Nevertheless,” the man continued, “one might argue that the prey I’m after at present is markedly unusual, and no less mythical than a dragon. If not more so.”

“Really?” Izumi raised her brows. “What is it?”

Lowering his tone on the level of a whisper, as if fearing they would be overheard, Airen answered,

“A daemon.”

The word made Izumi instinctively tense up, which Airen didn’t fail to notice.

“So you have heard of it?” he asked.

The Tratovian government had issued a rare, nation-wide notice a week back, informing the population that a daemon had appeared in Noertia. Any piece of information or reports of a sighting, no matter how dated or undetailed, would be rewarded in gold.

This notice was posted on every billboard in every city, town, and village across the Empire. It also advised against recklessly pursuing the beast, in case it was found.

Clues started drifting in soon enough, but their credibility was often questionable at best. Anyone strange or even remotely suspicious got reported by the superstitious people, either out of baseless paranoia or a need for quick coin, and investigating these imaginary tips kept the guardsmen busy everywhere.

“Well, it does sort of ring a bell,” Izumi reluctantly admitted, knowing that she had no talent for lies.

“Tell me all you know,” Airen requested, his tone accepting no arguments.

—“And that’s not interesting at all,” Waramoti declared, shaking his head.

“What are you talking about?” Izumi raised her head from the hay bed again. “Can’t you tell it’s plot-related! Major foreshadowing! You can’t just omit important events like that because they’re not personally appealing to you! If that guy goes and finds the daemon, and something big follows, it’s really gonna come out of nowhere later!”

“So what?” The bard, who didn’t look one bit like a bard, shrugged. “He’s just a barely named background character. ‘The Swift’—I even invented his title! Who knows if he even has a title of his own? Whether he lives or dies, the audience rightfully has no interest in his fate. Rather, wouldn’t you say that his death is practically guaranteed, for foolishly embarking on such a suicidal quest alone? And what big things could ever follow from the demise of such a nobody? No. It makes better use of his brief appearance to have the man fight you instead, and use this to show the audience who you are and what the tale is about.”

“Zero interest?” Izumi retorted. “Did you even look at him!? He’s that cool guy a bunch of levels above the rest of the party, that everyone wants to recruit! People simply love the ronin archetype!”

“I don’t have enough ink to describe his face better, to the point that anyone could well picture it. Since it’s doubtful we’ll ever see it again. Didn’t you say so yourself?”

“Well, it’s not like I disagree...”

—“Why are you after the thing, anyway?” Izumi asked the vagabond, as he turned to leave westward, along the windy central lane of Brodham.

“Hm?” Airen glanced back over his shoulder, raising a brow.

“Now,” Izumi hurried to explain herself, “I’m not trying to make any pro-nature, anti-killing statements here, but...The odds are, even if you get lucky and find the shape-shifting needle in the haystack, you probably won’t live to tell the tale.”

For a moment, Airen simply stared back at her and Izumi started to regret ever speaking up. But then, instead of arguing with her or asserting his might, the warrior turned to look up to the sky, a wistful look on his face.

“It’s not life that I’m looking for,” he answered.

“Huh?”

“I buried my wife and son,” the man explained. “I buried my second wife and the daughter we had too. I’ve resigned. There is nothing more for me in this world, but to search for my dying place. No redemption. No greater fulfillment. On my travels, I have come across a great many monsters. Some that claimed they were men, and others that were more noble than any man. I cut them down all the same. Don’t misunderstand me, young lady. Though I have nothing left to lose, it’s not an assisted suicide I’m looking for. No, I will keep defying death to the bitter end, if only out of spite. Whether my time is at hand or still far away doesn’t matter. Should I find my end in the creature’s hands, so be it. If not...then I will have won my hundredth duel, and the search goes on.”

—“Aha, now I see!” Waramoti suddenly declared with a nod.

“What?” Izumi frowned at the man on the gelding.

“You wanted me to portray the man in a noble light, because he called you ‘young’.”

“...You have a deathwish too?”

—“Hey,” Izumi called after Airen once more, as the man turned to return to his horse.

“What?” Airen paused, sensing no danger, and looked back once more.

Reaching for the handle of the greatsword on her back, Izumi replied,

“I could break your duel streak right here. If I lose, you can go for the hundred-and-first, or do whatever you please. But if you lose to me instead...then you drop your sword and promise to give family life one more try. How about it?”

Izumi’s confidence—that she would be able to best a veteran combatant in a duel without even going for the kill—was quite absurd.

Airen’s left eye, the eye next to the long scar, remained closed. His right eye, however, was momentarily widened by earnest surprise. He stared at Izumi, and Izumi waited for the answer, her hand ready and gripping the handle of her sword.

Then, the traveling huntsman averted his face, a faint smile returning to his dry lips.

“Forgive me,” he answered, “but I have sworn a gias never again to raise my hand against a woman.”

“Eh…?”

Suddenly realizing why taking a new wife was impossible for Airen, why a life courting death was all he had left, Izumi slowly let go of the Amygla’s handle and saw off the vagabond without another word.

—“And this anti-climactic conclusion is precisely why we need an alternative ending,” the pen-wielding ex-warrior said. “It so happens I have already finished the outline for one: ’Even after being disarmed, Airen the Swift showed no intention to surrender. Thou fool!, he exclaimed, sprinting into a desperate charge. A true warrior cuts not with his sword but his heart! And Airen swung his halved blade as though it had never suffered a crack. Beautiful was the cut, deadlier than a thousands swords of lesser men put together. But surprise awaited the hunter yet again, his unhesitating deathblow stilled by the strange woman’s bare-handed grip! What!? Airen exclaimed, terror and disbelief seizing his heart. What are you, a monster, a daemon in the guise of a woman!? For unbeknownst to Airen, the lady was protected by ancient elven sorceries imbued to her flesh. —Your heart has failed to reach me, she mercilessly declared, before returning his killing blow in kind—‘”

“No one’s going to read that drivel,” Izumi remarked, turning to her side on the hay stack, and closed her eyes for a late afternoon nap.

Her story—what was it even about?

She only wanted to forget all that had happened.

Even if she never could.

2

Among countless slabs of polished stone, set up in a vast, walled-off field, stood one markedly newer than the rest. It was a clean-cut block of dark marble, perfectly smooth all around, about the height of half a man and twice the height in width. On the wide surface of it, facing a paved footpath that trailed through the graveyard, was engraved a name, a date of birth, a date of death, and a few words picked with care, universal in meaning, to commemorate the life of the deceased.

“—Do you regret it?”

The stone marked the grave of a man who had been a nobody in life. A nobody, who had come to rule the greatest human nation in the world, if only for one week.

Facing his gravestone were two women.

One of barely twenty years of age, the second nearly twice that—although the outward difference, as they stood side-by-side like a pair of mismatched sisters, was negligible.

The younger of the two, formerly the princess of a distant kingdom, now held the power she had inherited from the deceased, a rank much too great for any one person.

The sovereign of men, an Empress—it was a title she had never asked for, but which she had nevertheless chosen to bear, for the greater good. In an effort to undo the many evils her predecessors had wrought over the history of the Tratovian dominion, she had elected to carry that immense weight, or else perish under it.

The other one, formerly a nobody, still a nobody, carried nothing at all.

Her hands were empty.

No burdens.

No responsibility.

No notion of greater good.

—“Do you regret it, what happened?”

That nobody, Itaka Izumi—didn’t answer the question.

With her own hands she had slain the man they were now reminiscing together and sent him to an early grave. Had he deserved death? Did she feel remorse for delivering it? The question sent her into silent reflection for a moment.

Izumi had been deceived.

She had been pulled into the raging eye of a power struggle in this foreign land, the result of which was the death of the man buried at their feet, among many others. What was worse, he had been the only other person in the world who could come close to understanding what she was going through.

That man had never been Izumi’s enemy. He had shared her uncanny fate, being a human summoned from another world. By all means, as equal tools, they should have been friends in this life. Nevertheless, she had chosen to face him in mortal combat, fully aware that it meant the end of one story.

That man wasn’t Izumi’s enemy—and she had surmised as much from the start.

Do you regret it?

The answer was obvious, yet Izumi couldn’t bring herself to give it.

Of course——she had no regrets.

What was done was done.

Who was right, who was wrong, it was too late to talk about that. It wouldn’t change the past. Regardless of his reasons, the dead man had raised his weapon against Izumi, and she had cut him down for it. Whether his hand was forced or not, whether the conflict was foolish or not, she had done it. Even if there had been other possibilities, other ways to reach a better conclusion, those possibilities were now forever sealed, and outside anyone’s reach.

Therefore, feeling regret was pointless.

Useless baggage in the way of the future.

A hindrance which, if allowed to blossom into a debilitating trauma, would eventually come to cost Izumi her own life.

She knew this.

Still, only a psychopath would claim to not feel guilt for taking an innocent life.

A monster who had no right to remain in the world of decent human beings.

Therefore, Izumi gritted her teeth and refrained from answering.

“You do understand why this happened, don't you?” The young maiden by Izumi's side, Yuliana Da Via Brannan, turned to face the older woman. The light of righteousness ever present in that girl's lavender eyes shone with an uncanny brilliance.

“How many fell by your hand again, and for what purpose?” she asked. “I considered you a friend, I still do. But I have to wonder, am I—is any one of us really even human to you? Though we look so much alike, you’ve never really considered yourself the same as myself, have you? Aren’t we all only like actors in a bizarre play in your eyes? Isn’t that what you’ve been saying from the beginning, yes? Because you’re not one of us, but from another world.”

“That’s...not true,” Izumi retorted, looking away.

“It’s not?”

It was true.

It had been true.

Certainly, in the beginning, Izumi had considered the world of Ortho only as something like a dream, a game, maybe a highly advanced alien simulation, an illusion, afterlife, or something along those lines. Whatever the truth, the people of this world were likely not at all like the people of planet Earth, being quite literally worlds apart, and so it would have been senseless to try to apply the same morals and rules to life here.

So she had believed.

But perhaps there were less differences between her old world and this than she had imagined. Over the days Izumi had spent in Ortho, her impression had slowly started to shift. Or maybe she had seen the truth from the beginning?

Maybe treating it as a game had only been an excuse from the start?

An excuse to bare the ugliness she had kept bottled up inside for all her life?

“I gave him a fair chance,” Izumi argued, to hide her feelings. “No matter how you look at it, things would’ve turned out way worse if I hadn’t fought, or had I given up halfway through. I’d be dead now. And you would’ve been—”

“—Don’t say it was for my sake,” Yuliana interrupted her. The girl's gaze was painful to look at, so Izumi avoided it. “Don’t! I can’t accept it! I never asked you to do it, any of it! On the contrary, I begged and pleaded that you wouldn’t! I won’t let you hide behind such a convenient excuse!”

“Then, what should I have done?” Izumi raised her voice, offended. “Nothing? Are you telling me I should’ve let them kill me instead? Would that have made you happy? Since everyone here thinks I’m a monster, maybe I should be put down as one too?”

“Don't say that!” Yuliana stepped closer, shouting even louder. “Of course I didn't want you to die, don't ever even suggest such a thing! I told you to leave! Run! Live your life!”

“And what would’ve happened to you…?”

“It was the battle I chose,” the princess said, turning away. “I would’ve found a way. Even had I failed, I would’ve paid the price myself—me, and no other!”

“That price was too high,” Izumi grimly mumbled.

“And what you exacted was not?” the younger girl retorted. “A death toll nearing hundreds! For the third time! Why is it that you refuse to see any other option but bloodletting? Don't you see, it never would’ve come to that, had you not chosen swords over words from the start? You were manipulated, exploited, yes. Because you gave them a reason, the means! You saved my life, I won’t deny that. You’ve done it many times by now. But wasn’t your own wanton bloodlust the mother of our troubles just as many times?”

Yuliana looked down, unable to hide the grief on her countenance.

“Don’t you see, Izumi?” she said. “You create your own enemies. Everywhere you go. And then cut them down, acting as if you had no choice. Is that the way of the sword that you so admire? Violence to birth more violence? What a thing of beauty indeed! I can only wonder about your homeland, where such lifestyle is valued!”

“...”

Izumi sullenly bit her lip, too angry to respond. Had she ever been that angry since coming to this world, so insulted and bitter? No, even in her home world, had she ever felt this strongly about anything? What had made her so emotional, anyway?

Exactly what had changed?

The future Empress of Tratovia shook her head.

“In all this time I’ve known you, you haven't changed one bit,” Yuliana said. “We may stand in the same place, but we remain worlds apart, it seems. As much I'd wished otherwise.”

“Kh—!”

Leaving Izumi no chance to a retort, Yuliana strode briskly past her.

Left behind, at a loss, infuriated, Izumi felt as helpless as she had during her lonely days on Earth.

True enough, she had argued with the princess before. But this was the first time she had actually gotten angry herself. It was the first clear, honest fight that had occurred between the two of them. And it was the first time Izumi had felt truly defeated and wounded since her arrival in the world of Ortho.

Instead of trying to make up for it, Izumi had chosen another path.

She ran away.

Come the next morning, the summoned champion departed from the capital of Tratovia.

3

“Think she'll miss me?” Izumi asked, looking up at a passing group of black wagtails in the clouded heavens.

“The Empress, you mean?” the man formerly known as Heaven’s Hand, Waramoti, replied, scratching his ear with his fountain pen. “I don't know. I only saw her briefly and could come to no conclusion in regards to her character.”

“You want to be a poet or not?” Izumi lifted herself from the hay stack to look back, irritated. “If you don't know, then imagine it!”

“Ah!” Stirring from his thoughts, the legendary warrior gasped. “You are right. You are absolutely right. Let me think. Her majesty...those eyes of hers captivate me. Such willfulness, for one so young. Like she has been through a great deal, seen many things, horrors as well as heroics. No doubt, deep down that maiden is driven by an awareness of the underlying beauty of human nature, and the desire to protect its essence. Yes, such is the gaze of a monarch if I ever knew one.”

His talking made Izumi vividly recall Yuliana's face from when they had last seen one another. That offended, accusing scowl. But even when angry, she had been extraordinarily beautiful. Recalling it now felt like a dull blade being yanked in a wound.

“Forget it...” Izumi mumbled. “Anyway, I’ve been wondering this for a while now, but why does it look like you’re following me?”

Izumi had come across the ex-warrior while looking for a way out of the Imperial capital. Naturally, as a human from a comfortable 21st century metropolis, Izumi didn’t know how to ride a horse or care for one. With not a single copper coin to her name either, renting a carriage was beyond her. Trying to hitch a ride, she had run into Waramoti, who had kindly offered a helping hand. His great familiarity with the city and its services had become her salvation.

But perhaps accepting the man’s aid had been a mistake, after all?

Their paths should have diverged on the doorstep of Bhastifal, or so she had assumed, but for some strange reason, the former military hero kept riding after the hay cart mile after mile, town after town. After so long, it started to look less coincidental and more alarming, not least because they had once been mortal enemies. That enmity turned out to have been a misunderstanding in the end, but who was to say the former defender of Tratovia’s Throne had no hard feelings left?

“Now you’re asking me?” Waramoti replied, as though he had been expecting the question for some time. “It probably looks like I am following you, because I am.”

“Huh?”

“It was not a coincidence we met at the capital either. I sought you out.”

“W-what? Why?” Izumi frowned, concerned.

“What do you mean, why?” Waramoti replied. “A champion summoned from another world will end the Covenant and bring about an Age of Chaos—everyone knows the prophecy. Of course, everyone else thinks it is only a fairy tale. But here you are, a champion summoned from another world, in the flesh. In other words, if only I follow you, I am bound to obtain material for a riveting legend, one that no other poet yet knows. This shall become the core of my magnum opus, which will make my name known across all land.”

“…Are you serious?”

“Never been more serious in my life. Released from the Divines’ grip, I also went on to quit the Guild, and am now perfectly free to pursue my passion. Which brings me here. Of course, I aim to be a perfectly impartial observer, recording what I see, the way I see it, and that is all I mean to do. So please, do act as if I’m not even here.”

“That’s impossible,” Izumi said. “Why don't you just write about yourself? You’ve seen your fair share of adventures, haven’t you? I’m not a legendary warrior or a hero, at least not yet. Or anyone worth being remembered...”

More importantly, having the hulking ex-warrior tail her day after day was something of a nuisance, and Izumi wouldn't have minded getting rid of him.

“No, no,” Waramoti answered, shaking his head. “It would seem—how should I say—narcissistic, somehow? No one is a prophet in his own land, and neither may any bard be his own muse. No, I shudder to even think of it. I believe, as an artist, that certain humility and openness of mind is required to reach true greatness. Besides, I don't think my doings have been anything too remarkable. War is ultimately terribly boring, and way too common a topic among poets. One needs to be different to stand out.”

“Then maybe write about our great new Empress instead?” Izumi suggested. “She's been through everything I have and more. Besides, one could argue that her role in it all was more heroic than mine.”

“I thought about doing that,” the man answered, “but I think I shall return to her majesty’s affairs another time. Right now, I am only too keen on getting out of the capital, after being tied there for so long. The stiff air at the court makes me constipated. I want to see the world once more and feel the breath of the wild on my face, while I can.”

“And now I want to play Zel**...”

“A board game or a card game? I have my trusty Mill deck in the saddlebag, if you’re interested.”

“Never mind.”

“Oh, now that I remember,” Waramoti changed the topic. “Could you clarify one little thing for me?”

“What?” Izumi sat up and yawned.

“Where exactly is it that you are headed and why? Because even after so many days on the road, I fail to see any real purpose to this road trip of yours. There’s nothing where you’re headed, you have next to no supplies, you know no one, you don’t have any money...You should have been able to live the rest of your life in luxury at the Imperial court, being friends with the Empress, yet you appear in a desperate hurry to leave. Why is that?”

“And why do I have to explain myself to you, anyway?” Izumi asked in return.

“Not to me,” the bard corrected. “The audience. Personally, I can’t say I care that much, but since I am composing a ballad about you, I feel this matter should be cleared upfront. Preferably in the first paragraph and not after ten-odd pages.”

“You’re writing a song about somebody you don’t even personally care about? Just for fame? You’re one awful bard, you know that?”

“Not just for fame,” Waramoti corrected her. “It is an artist’s lofty duty to depict world-changing, life-changing events, and his personal preferences should not factor in the matter. But, well, even if I care not about your motivations and would be all right with never bringing it up, I do need to eat too. If the first part of this song won’t sell, I will not be able to compose another. Therefore, certain sensibilities must be met in the effort to keep the audience invested. So, in plain words—where the Hel are you going?”

Leaning back, looking up at the sky, Izumi answered,

“To see elves.”

“...Elves?” Waramoti repeated, unsure of whether she was serious or not.

“That’s right,” Izumi nodded. “I want to see real pointy-ears. Moreover, I want a whole harem of busty, blonde elf girls, and to forget my troubles with them. If I can’t score myself even one gorgeous, high-level elf follower, then my coming to this generic fantasy world will have been for nothing! Yes. I swiped a map from the palace library, and apparently all the good elves live on an island down in the south. So that’s where I’m going, even if I have to walk all the way.”

“...I can’t write this down.”

“What, I thought openly perverted protagonists were in fashion these days?”

“Among the unenlightened masses, perhaps, pub-goers, and customers of low-end brothels, but telling such tales will not cement me as a visionary and a maker of high art ahead of my time.”

“Your hopes on that front were dashed from the get-go, I think.”

“Nonsense,” the bard wasn’t disheartened by Izumi’s remark. “I never gave up a fight as a warrior, neither will I do so as a poet. No matter how difficult it is or how long it will take, I will eventually seize my spot as the greatest storyteller this world has known since Roendhal himself.”

“Well, good luck with that,” Izumi told him, not feeling like arguing any longer.

But Waramoti wasn’t that easily distracted.

“Give me a better reason,” he told her. “If your aim is to go to Alderia, you are guaranteed to die on the way. Surely your entry-level perversions are not the reason to throw away your own life?”

“Guaranteed to die?” Izumi stirred again. “Why’s that?”

“Because no human has ever set foot in Alderia,” the ex-warrior answered her. “The inhabitants of the cursed island have little love for our kind. Even should you prevail through the marshes of Henglog, the elves will kill you on sight, no questions asked.”

“They wouldn’t just summarily kill an old woman, would they?”

“A man, a woman, a child, they care not. In their eyes, we people are no different from rodents.”

“Hmm, S&M-play could be fun too,” the summoned champion contemplated. “A dominating elf archer lady stepping on me with a look of deep contempt in her eyes, calling me a pig, as her panties show...Hmm. I wonder if they wear high heels too?”

Waramoti gave the woman a narrow look.

“You know what?” he slowly said. “You’re starting to...get me excited! Why have I never thought of that before!? Suddenly, it’s as if my eyes have been opened to a whole new venue of eroticism, and I am filled with almost uncontrollable intrigue! Now I see! Truly, this is an endeavor worth undertaking, even with one’s life on the line!”

“Now we’re speaking the same language!”

So united with a shared interest, the two odd travelers continued southward under a merry air. But though she would not disclose it then or there, Izumi did have another, slightly more grounded reason to seek the land of the fabled aldervolk. A reason that couldn’t quite be called a personal interest, but more a compulsion of existential singificance.

That reason was in her own body.

That body, while outward retaining its human configuration, had been altered on a cellular level. In the dreaded forest of Felorn, Izumi had discovered an unorthodox access to longevity, with the sap of a Cinthardia tree suspending her flesh and blood in their present state, never to change. She had become quite close to undying in the biological sense. However, it was not fabled immortality that she found.

Locked in an unnatural state of stasis, unable to age but also incapable of renewal, Izumi had become particularly fragile even by the standards of her feeble kind. Waramoti didn’t fail to notice how the woman’s fingers and arms were bandaged in many places. At the end of each day, she would take a sip of a strange concoction that had been brewed by someone more skilled in alchemy, and it was obvious that the woman had developed various pains and sores that bothered her at night and showed no signs of passing. Without external magic or medicine to heal her, even the smallest of cuts would not close in their due time, and any injuries could become a risk to her very life.

It was no hedonistic quest for pleasure alone that drove Izumi to seek the way to the elven land, the elves being known in legends for their highly advanced knowledge of medicine and arcane arts. If only she could learn and master a rune of true healing, Izumi could overcome her debilitating vulnerability.

Without such, sooner or later, she was going to fall apart.

Either way, for a good purpose or one less so, finding the elves or failing in the effort were both likely to mean death for the earthling. It was not an uplifting adventure she had embarked on, but more a hopeless pilgrimage for an unlikely miracle. But though he could see the dark dread behind the woman’s carefree attitude, Waramoti allowed himself to be fooled, and made no effort to change her mind. Neither did he turn back himself, but kept true to his self-proclaimed ideal as an artist.

As a recorder of destiny.