These Reincarnators Are Sus! Sleuthing in Another World

The Blancs' Playground was just up ahead. But Ailn and Camille were pinned in a narrow alley of aging rowhouses, having just finished fending off a large patrol group that had caught them from behind.

"This is… getting pretty bad," Ailn said. His breaths were heavy. "More of them are showing up."

"Then we're hemmed in on both sides…" Camille muttered in a low voice.

There were more guards filtering in from the lower city. As for why, Ailn couldn't be certain. But there was a high possibility it was because they'd been discovered. If so, then the Argent Guard was using the city's structure itself to trap them—clamping down on them like a vice.

Crouched against the cracked egg sculpture, Sigurd drew a slow breath. A torch flickered in its iron sconce, fastened to a column about twenty feet away. The archers were likely still nocking their next volley.

He felt along the ground and found a loose piece of rubble. Then, peering over the sculpture's edge, he hurled it.

A metallic crack rang out. The torch fell from its bracket, its flame hissing and flaring as oil sloshed onto the ground. Within a second, it sputtered out.

Sigurd dashed for the nearest column. There was the whistle of a single arrow through the air, and he heard it strike the pillar just as he slipped behind it. Only one archer had been bold enough to loose a shot into the dark.

The impact had been too loud for a typical arrow hitting stone. Back against the pillar, Sigurd reached behind, grasping for the arrow and ripping it out.

It had struck deep. But it pulled free effortlessly. He couldn't see the arrowhead, but he immediately knew. This was adamantine—the same material as his armor, and it would pierce right through.

He wouldn't let that daunt him. Sigurd broke into a sprint, running alongside the columns toward an elevated gallery which overlooked the far end of the colonnade. Arrows cut through air, biting into pillars as he ran past.

The archers were growing desperate as he approached, their aim increasingly erratic. He flew past their range, too close to hit, flashing his holy aura just long enough to find the gallery's stairwell.

As he darted up, panic broke at the top of the landing—frantic movement, men arguing, the scream from an archer who leapt down rather than face him. But just as Sigurd reached the top, he shuddered, slamming flat against the wall, his body moving before his mind could catch up.

A spear skimmed past his face.

Instantly, Sigurd seized the spear shaft with his off-hand, drawing his sword in the same breath. He didn't stab—just swept the blade across the man's abdomen as he passed, rather than risk a lodged sword.

Only three stood atop the gallery now, two clad in plate armor, the third in a leather gambeson, armed with shield and spear.

The two swordsmen advanced to flank him, their steps heavy and cautious. The spearman held his ground behind them, waiting for an opening.

The first swordsman came in high while the second closed in low, ducking beneath the clash, half-swording as he drove his blade toward Sigurd's armpit.

Sigurd blocked the first blade while twisting his upper body away from the second. The spearman's thrust immediately followed, aiming for his face—clearly thinking Sigurd had been staggered.

But Sigurd knocked the first swordsman's sword aside, caught him by the elbow and heaved him toward the oncoming spear.

The spear shattered on impact. And with a sudden glow, Sigurd's sword extended, piercing the first swordsman's throat and driving straight through the spearman's chest.

Sigurd turned to the last one, who stood frozen. That hesitation was all he needed—he moved to end the battle. But in the pale glow of his holy aura, he barely caught movement in the darkness of the lower floor.

He'd made a mistake.

He should've released his aura immediately.

The glow vanished, and Sigurd sprinted to the other end of the gallery as arrows keened through air, piercing the wall behind him. He'd veiled himself once again in the dark, but he was exposed.

Leaping from the gallery, Sigurd cushioned his fall with a short burst of aura, which revealed his location to the archers anew.

The battle was no longer his to dictate.

The bell tower wasn't very tall, but it was tall for a four-year-old. Bea had never climbed so many steps. Its musty interior offered a break from the wind, and compared to outside it was warm enough to make her yawn.

She'd started her climb a little drowsy. Now that she was halfway up Bea was already huffing and puffing. Her legs ached. And she wanted someone to carry her who wasn't Robin.

"Your legs are still too stubby, huh?" Robin mused. "You can only act so grown up, you know."

The boy picked her up, and Bea let him. She wasn't going to reach the top of the bell tower otherwise.

Robin carried her the rest of the way, stopping at a doorway near the top. There were a few more stairs, but they didn't take them—they went outside instead.

Immediately, Bea was shocked awake by the wind, louder and colder than ever. She was afraid she might be blown away by it.

It was scary up here. They were in a little walkway which wrapped around the tower, just under the bell—like a ring around a finger.

There were torches all around, and there were guardrails, but…

Despite herself, Bea began to cling to Robin for dear life.

"You see the city below?" Robin asked. "This is my favorite place to watch it. Though I haven't always been allowed up here."

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Bea barely worked up the courage to look down.

All she could make of Amière below were drifting lights. Bea guessed they were lanterns, held by people trying to see in the dark. From up here, they looked like little fireflies—except they moved in slow, looping paths.

It was pretty. But it was a little boring. Even if she weren't so scared, this wouldn't be that fun. And Bea just couldn't understand why Robin had brought her here.

"Are you feeling alright, Bea?" Robin asked worriedly.

Bea shook her head, even though she knew it wouldn't matter. "I want… to go inside…"

"Well, if we go inside you'll miss the show—" Robin trailed off. "No. I'll be honest. This is more for me than for you. There's something I want you to see."

"O…okay…" Bea said softly.

It wasn't as if Bea had seen a future where she fell from a bell tower. And for all the things that disturbed her about Robin, he didn't seem to intend any physical harm.

But the sheer drop in front of her felt realer than anything she'd ever felt. Even she knew. There was no amount of thinking that would make it less terrifying. There was nothing she could tell herself to trust Robin's young arms, holding her over this precipice.

Suddenly, Bea saw a little flash of white down below—a distinctly different color from the bright orange of the lanterns.

"Looks like things are starting," Robin said, sounding a bit excited. "I don't suppose you know what those white flashes are, do you, Bea?"

"No…" Bea replied.

"I guess you were never taught about it, then…" Robin muttered.

Bea's face scrunched up in confusion. There was another flash of white below.

"You know Bea, both your mom and your dad come from very special families," Robin explained. "They've got this power called the divine blessing which—well, you can see it below. Can you guess what the divine blessing does?"

"I don't… I don't know…" Bea said.

"You can heal with it," Robin said. "Or you can hurt with it. That's what it comes down to."

Biting her lip, Bea caught another flash below, this one brighter than the previous ones. "Then… Then people are… being healed…"

"Hmm," Robin hummed. And he said nothing else.

Those in the throne room stood by, watching not Gerhardt but Voltus. The typically jovial knight stood in the center of the room, his expression unusually serious, as he held an echo stone.

The room was silent. Though the crowd was composed of rowdy mercenaries, they waited patiently, their excitement evident only in their eyes.

The artifact chimed. Voltus pressed the dial.

'Sigurd… is halfway through the Blancs' playground,' a miserable voice said. 'Seven have already lost their lives, that I know of. And I am bowing out. '

"I told them!" Emily snickered. "Those dumb bastards really thought they could kill him! If it were that goddamned easy, none of us would be here!"

The confirmation of their comrades' deaths had a perverse effect on the room.

It began to burst with grins.

To an outside observer, it might have almost seemed like Sigurd was their hero, arriving in triumph. A faint smirk broke through even Gerhardt's brooding, like the first sight of sun after rain.

"...The vow of a friend, the promises of family—worthless," he chuckled. "Only an enemy never disappoints."

The odd one out was Voltus, who looked ill at ease gazing at the echo stone he held in his hand. His brow furrowed, his jaw tense—his usual cheer reversed, as if to temper the room's rising mood.

This didn't escape Emily.

"The hell's your problem?" she muttered, a dissatisfied growl in her voice. "Watching you grimace is ruining my mood."

Ignoring Emily, Voltus addressed Gerhardt.

"Several of the watchmen in the lower quarter believe further intruders yet linger within the city," Voltus said.

"Then call more men from the fortress," Gerhardt said blithely. "Have every patrol converge on the palace. One way or another, they'll be caught. And Sigurd will have no chance at escape."

He stood from his stump, suddenly invigorated. His posture was tall and confident, his gaze finally sharp with purpose. "There's only one guest who matters to me."

Beckoning the mercenaries to follow, he strode out of the throne room in long, deliberate steps. "Let's be sure to greet him. The stage has already been prepared."

Sigurd was being corralled.

He sprinted through a maze of tall hedges and statues—all parts of the human body—in the center of which stood a massive, grasping hand.

It was a slower path to the palace, but it was better than being in the open, vulnerable to arrows. There were no high vantage points for archers to perch. Only a few men dared to give chase.

Turning a corner, he reached a dead end, where a solitary statue of an eyeball stared at him in reproach. Spinning around, he traced his way back to the last fork in the maze, turned down the other path and found only a stone face, its expression caught between laughing and weeping.

This entire branch was a dead end.

He never took a wrong turn twice, but his pace was still maddeningly slow. He eyed the top of the hedges. They were wide enough, but he doubted they could hold his weight.

In sheer frustration, he flared his holy aura and leapt—trying to clear as much of the maze as he could in a single bound. He heard a shout.

"Loose!"

His blood froze, and his head flicked in the direction of the command. Sigurd's holy aura surged along his right side, flowing almost as if it were an extension of his cloak. Already airborne, there was little else he could do.

Most of the volley flew wide. A single arrow grazed his cheek before he tumbled back into the maze.

A battle cry rang out from around the corner—along with the metallic clink of armor.

He didn't bother with finesse. Manifesting his aura long before he turned the corner, Sigurd drove his fist through steel, grimacing as he crushed the man's rib cage. A second man was just up ahead.

Refusing to slow his pace, Sigurd surged forward, his aura bursting beneath his heels as he closed the gap. He crashed into his opponent, knocking the man's flailing sword aside with his pauldron—drawing his own in the same breath, and slamming the pommel into the man's throat.

Suddenly, he heard a voice from behind.

'Got you!'

Flinching, Sigurd twisted fast, hitting the ground hard as he raised his sword. There was no one there.

For a moment, he'd thought the guard had somehow survived his last attack.

'Right there! Hit him!'

This time the sound came from above—an absolutely nonsensical location.

'Loose!'

He didn't know what was going on. But it didn't matter. Artifacts were capable of plenty of tricks. He was near the end of the maze, about to reach the palace. All he needed to do was continue on.

But as he ran, voices rang out in every direction. From behind, from around the corner of a hedge, from right beside him, foes seemed to threaten every turn.

A sharp thought splintered his focus, and a cold weight settled into his gut. If they were capable of conjuring voices, then…

No. It didn't matter. The sound of Ciel sobbing wouldn't leave his mind. The thought of Béatrice waiting for a father who never came was unbearable.

He broke free of the maze, cutting through the courtyard into a corridor which led straight to the palace's outer wall. The open gate yawned before him. Unbarred. Undefended. And even as he ran beneath the arch, Sigurd couldn't shake the sense that it was an invitation.

No torchlight greeted him as he entered. The space was surprisingly empty, and the path sank gradually into what felt like a shallow basin. This wasn't a courtyard.

A low buzzing sound rose around him. Cold light crept in, the basin getting brighter, and Sigurd's gaze flickered to the walls—the light was coming from mounted artifacts, all triggering in unison.

It became all too clear where Sigurd was. He was standing in the center of an amphitheater. And looking down from the gallery was Gerhardt, along with everyone who'd been trying to kill him.

All wielding crossbows.