New Calendar year 1377. Summer.
Summer in Avalon was as muggy as being stuffed inside a steamer.
Esper sat in the signless tavern across from the Adventurer's Guild.
At a window seat, she had half a cup of watered-down ale and a plate of corned beef with tomato sauce before her. Her black hair had grown quite a bit longer than a year ago, its ends now reaching past her waist, loosely tied back with a cheap leather cord.
Her hairpin was still there, though its color had faded slightly.
The last trace of youthfulness had faded from her eighteen-year-old face. Her disguised brown eyes were half-closed, as if she couldn't summon the energy for anything.
Her clothes had changed. She wore a black robe over a grayish-white homespun shirt. Hanging from her waist was an iron shortsword she had bought from a second-hand weapon shop, which had already begun to rust.
On the Adventurer's Guild's registry, the rank column next to the name "Esper" read "C," and next to that was a line of small print.
External Member.
This meant she refused to undergo the Adventurer's Guild's physical examination or provide more detailed identification, operating only as a mercenary whose whereabouts could not be tracked.
In Avalon, a city famous for its legends of adventurers and stories of knights, Rank C was practically at the bottom of the pecking order.
Even though the lowest rank was Rank F, it didn't change the poor treatment Rank C adventurers received. It was even worse for external members; almost no one respected them. After all, adventurers of this type were mostly fugitives or members of foreign races.
Esper didn't care.
From clearing giant rats out of the sewers to escorting caravans across the Plains of Holy Remains; from finding a noble lady's lost cat to destroying rock lizard nests in the mines—her strength was more than enough for these tasks, yet she never accepted any commissions above her adventurer rank.
The guild's receptionist had probably noticed something. Every time the girl with the chestnut-brown bun handed over a commission sheet, her amber eyes would linger for an extra half-second, the curiosity hidden beneath her smile practically overflowing.
Esper never responded to that curiosity.
Accept a job, complete it, hand it in, get paid. Occasionally, she would sit in this signless tavern for a while, drink half a cup of watered-down ale, eat some corned beef with tomato sauce, and then return to rest in an old building she rented on the edge of the red-light district.
That building cost three copper coins a month. Its windows wouldn't close properly, the door lock was broken, and it let in the wind in winter and the rain in summer.
But it only cost three copper coins.
And so, the days passed.
Whenever her bloodlust flared up, she would head into the wild to find some wild beasts to feed on, skinning them afterward to sell the pelts and roasting the meat to eat.
She lived aimlessly, with no goals.
—Then, the street outside the tavern suddenly grew noisy.
Avalon's streets were always noisy, and Esper's ears had long since learned to filter it out automatically.
But this time was different. There was a certain collective excitement in the clamor.
Esper glanced outside.
The crowd was surging in the same direction, everyone's gaze directed toward the palace square.
“The Commander is back!”
A half-grown boy dashed past the tavern entrance, screaming at the top of his lungs.
“Commander Constantine is back! He's going to pull the sword!”
Several patrons in the tavern stood up at once, and the landlady leaned halfway over the counter, a rag for wiping glasses still clutched in her hand.
“Really? Wasn't the Commander up north suppressing bandits?”
“He just got back! The entire Holy Spirit Knights have deployed, and the square is already packed!”
Esper finished her last piece of beef, stood up from her chair, tossed a few copper coins onto the counter, and followed the flow of people out of the tavern.
Over the span of a year, the Holy Sword had become a famous attraction in Avalon.
The chain cordon around the black rock had been replaced with sturdier stone pillars and iron railings, and outside the railings, vendors were even selling Holy Sword commemorative badges and blessed bread.
The number of people trying their hand at the sword had dwindled from dozens a day to just a few a week as the hype died down.
Today was different.
There were more people in the square than on the day Esper first arrived in Avalon.
The knights of the Holy Spirit Knights lined up in two rows inside the railings. Just seeing them stand there made Esper feel a wave of nausea.
It was fine. She could bear it.
In the very center of the railings, a man stood before the black rock.
Tall. That was Esper's first impression.
He was more than half a head taller than the surrounding Holy Spirit Knights, with shoulders as broad as a wall.
His silvery-white full plate armor was heavier than that of the ordinary knights. His short, dark brown hair clung to his broad forehead, and his face was upright and resolute, resembling the classic protector archetype found in novels.
Constantine. Grand Commander of the Holy Spirit Knights. Peak Rank Seven.
Esper stood on her tiptoes, her gaze passing over the shoulders of the people in front of her to land on Constantine.
The surrounding crowd cheered, shouting his name.
Some were even crying; a middle-aged woman clutched a handkerchief, tears streaming down her face as she mumbled, “The Commander can definitely do it.”
“He's even more beloved by humans than I thought...”
Esper naturally knew of Constantine, the most devout of the Holy Spirit Knights.
His piety was not an act; he believed in the doctrines of the Church of Radiance from the bottom of his heart.
Protect the weak, relieve the poor, uphold justice, serve the light.
And so, he had killed many demons.
“...”
Honest, valuing life, never abandoning anyone before him—such were the words used to describe him.
But that was just the impression she had of him.
In the center of the square, Constantine waved to the crowd, his face showing little expression.
Then, he turned around to face the Holy Sword embedded in the black rock.
Thousands of people fell silent at the same time; even the wind seemed to stop.
The sunlight shone directly onto the black rock, where a gray aura flowed along the blade's surface, shimmering faintly.
Constantine took a deep breath, reached out with both hands, laced his fingers together, and gripped the hilt.
Rank Seven Vow Power surged from his body, pouring down his arms and into his palms as they pressed against the metallic surface of the hilt.
One could obtain magic by circulating the magic circuits engraved within the body. At the same time, by tempering the mind and offering faith to a belief, one could obtain Vow Power—a strength originating from the soul.
Though fundamentally different from magic, it served the same purpose in most situations.
The moment the Vow Power made contact with the sword, the aura stirred.
The gray mist peeled away from the surface of the blade, crawling up the sword to wrap around Constantine's fingers and wrists.
It was very light, very slow, as if testing something.
The crowd let out a hushed gasp.
Constantine's arms tensed, and he pulled upward.
It moved.
A section of the blade slid out from the crevice in the stone. A gray aura erupted from the exposed blade, its brilliance forcing those in the front row to squint.
Halfway out!
The crowd erupted.
Screams, cheers, and cries blended together. The middle-aged woman clutching her handkerchief fainted on the spot, caught by those beside her.
Some shouted “Hero,” others shouted “Long live the Commander,” and some fell to their knees to pray.
However, Constantine's face flushed red.
He was straining, but the gray aura on the sword suddenly froze when it was half a foot out, as if an invisible hand were gripping the blade from within, preventing it from going any further.
Constantine grit his teeth, the veins in his neck bulging as he shifted his entire center of gravity backward, pressing his boots against the surface of the rock—
The sword slipped back in.
The gray aura peeled away from Constantine's fingers, shrinking back onto the surface of the blade and returning to its state of slowly flowing mist.
Losing his grip on the hilt, Constantine fell flat on his backside.
The cheering in the square came to a screeching halt.
Open mouths forgot to close, raised fists forgot to lower, and those kneeling in prayer forgot to stand.
The lingering ecstasy of the previous moment remained in the air, but it had frozen solid, turning into something heavier than silence.
Awkwardness.
Beads of sweat began to roll down Constantine's forehead.
The Holy Spirit Knights subtly averted their gazes from the center.
The silence lasted for about five seconds.
“Pfft.”
The sound wasn't loud.
Yet in this silence, it was as clear as a pebble tossed onto a placid lake.
Esper covered her mouth with her hand.
Too late.
Her shoulders were shaking.
She was holding back a laugh.
The people around her turned to look.
A dozen pairs of eyes landed on the black-haired girl simultaneously. Some frowned, some glared, and some gaped as if looking at a lunatic.
Esper clamped her hand tighter over her mouth, but the laughter leaked through her fingers like water, completely unstoppable.
Tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes, purely from trying to hold it in.
The grand commander of the Holy Spirit Knights had pulled the Holy Sword only halfway out, and then it had slipped right back in.
Right in front of thousands of people, under the gaze of the entire Holy Spirit Knights arrayed in formation, right after that middle-aged woman had fainted—it slipped back in.
“Pfft—haha.”
The second sound escaped. It was louder than the first.
This was the first time in a year she had laughed so happily.
In the center of the square, Constantine slowly turned his head.
He had heard it.
His eyes, which seemed to be questioning his very existence, passed over the dense walls of people to land on the black-haired girl whose shoulders were shaking.
Their eyes met.
Esper's smile froze on her face.
Constantine stared at her. Beads of sweat still clung to his temples, but his face remained devoid of any other expression.
There was only a sense of helplessness and resignation.
Then, he looked away, turned around, and walked toward the ranks of the Holy Spirit Knights.
His steps were steady, his back straight, and his shoulders unbowed, though the tips of his ears were red.
The silence in the square was finally broken. Whispers rose from all directions like a tide.
“So close...”
Only halfway.
“Halfway... That really is close...”
Sure, as if halfway counts as “close.”
“But the Commander is already the closest, right? It's been over a year, and barely anyone has been able to make the sword budge.”
...That was true.
“But he still couldn't pull it out...”
Esper lowered her hand from her mouth, her laughter finally fading.
She gazed at Constantine's departing silver-armored back, at the Holy Sword that had quieted down once more, and at the gray aura flowing slowly over the surface of the black rock.
Even though that guy was terrifyingly strong—making the nausea he induced far more intense than anyone else's—for some reason, Esper felt as though she didn't dislike him.
Maybe it was because his expression had been too pitiful.
The sword had accepted half of him, but only half.
Esper leaned back behind the wall of people, shrinking herself into the gaps formed by the shoulders and heads of those around her as she slowly squeezed her way out.
The attention drawn by her laugh was already dissipating. People's interest had shifted to discussing Constantine, and no one spared her another glance.
“...”
But she couldn't help but wonder.
If someone who, by all universal standards, was undoubtedly a good person could only pull the Holy Sword halfway out...
...then what kind of person would it take to draw it completely?
Rate on N.U.
