These Reincarnators Are Sus! Sleuthing in Another World

"I tell you, I hate coming down here," Tarn muttered with a dry chuckle. "Feels like that so-called son of Gerhardt's is gonna spring out of the dark and gut me."

"You give credence to ghost tales now?" Alera said, arching a brow. "Unbelievable. Cutthroat mercenaries terrified of a little boy."

"Easy for you to say. You've never been on the receiving end of one of his pranks," Tarn said. His face had gone pale just recalling it.

The pair descended into the palace's old wine cellars, Tarn leading the way through. Voltus calling upon the guards to form patrol squads had given Alera an excuse to leave the fortress.

"This is the closest thing we're going to get to an armory in this decrepit old place," Tarn frowned, holding up a lantern. "You really do have the devil's tongue, getting me to abandon my patrol…"

"Why stay on cleanup?" Alera asked, letting her voice drip with venom. "I don't see why we can't join the fun. Two crossbows and a brisk jog to the amphitheater—who's going to say no?"

"Maybe one of us'll get the killing bolt," Tarn laughed.

And Alera laughed along. Even though it churned her gut.

At that moment, as if it had been listening into their conversation, their echo stone chimed.

'Sigurd eum-Creid is fully surrounded in the amphitheater. See to it his friends provide no succor. The pair of them were last spotted nearest The Reverie Garden.'

"Succor?" Tarn gawked. "Voltus must be the only blowhard in the entire empire who talks like that."

"He needn't repeat himself," Alera muttered, tone sharp with irritation.

She knew it couldn't be anyone but Camille and Ailn. But there was nothing she could do to help them directly. At best, she could join one of the patrols and form an opportunity for sabotage. But waiting felt intolerably passive. There was no guarantee they'd be the first group to find the pair.

The best thing she could do now was trust them. They hadn't come here by chance. And now that she was deep in the enemy's camp, she had no intention of turning back.

…Even if the mercenaries would rip her apart limb from limb if they ever figured out she was a traitor.

A cowardly thought crept into Alera's mind. If she wished to save her own life, all she had to do was avoid them. Her treachery would never be revealed to the Argent Guard. Just like seven years ago, she could scurry into the safety of plausible deniability, and the silence of her comrades.

Comrades. The word sat in her gut like spoiled meat. And she stayed silent, throwing out the occasional smirk or dry laugh as Tarn continued to fantasize about Sigurd's death.

Finally, they reached the wine cellar which the mercenaries had converted into an armory.

The stone walls that once held rows of wine bottles now bristled with hanging swords and crossbows. Spears were lined up against the back wall, while quivers stood where the casks once rested.

"Alright," Tarn said with a grin. "Let's go and join the fun."

"Indeed," Alera nodded, with a smile.

The moment he turned away to draw a crossbow from its rack, she moved. It was a smooth motion, drawing her sword and driving her pommel in a single breath.

"Sorry, Tarn," Alera murmured. "Truly."

He crumpled, unconscious, and she caught his echo stone before it hit the ground.

"This is Alera," she said, speaking into the echo stone. "Tarn and I confronted the quarry. Tarn was knocked unconscious—they were no match for my blade, yet I failed to fully subdue them and they fled toward the western quarter."

The lights shone bright in Sigurd's face, their soft buzzing blending into a single, ominous drone. His enemies stood above him, sneering—but silent. They let their moment of triumph speak for itself, not even bothering to lift their crossbows as Sigurd slowly bared his blade.

Despite his best efforts, he had landed exactly where they wanted him. And the worst of it was he still didn't know where Ciel and Bea were. Or if they were here at all.

He could only hope that he'd been legitimately tricked—that they were still in Venlind safe and sound.

"You look tired, Sigurd," Gerhardt said.

The boy from seven years ago had grown into a hulking yet haggard man. Sunken eyes, face coarse and unshaven—a tattered surcoat bearing the Blancs' twisted emblem, the lion's head on the coiling serpent.

It was the look of a man who'd kept his pride and lost his dignity.

No. It was the look of someone who never had his chance to claim either. Despite Gerhardt's imposing frame, Sigurd knew that he was only eighteen. The same age Sigurd had been when he marched on Amière.

"So, this was your aim," Sigurd said, as he gazed wearily at the crossbows trained on him. He knew he was already dead. "Where… Where is Ciel?"

"Ciel's dead," Gerhardt said. "And so is your daughter, Bea."

Sigurd's blood ran cold. Bea. Ciel's nickname for her. He clenched his gauntleted fist, swallowing hard.

"That's a bluff," Sigurd said hoarsely. "She's your kin. It beggars belief."

"She betrayed our kinship the moment she lay with you," Gerhardt said, his voice flat. "She wished to be a eum-Creid. I honored that."

"...I heard the strange echoes in the maze," Sigurd said. Desperation edged into his voice. "They were never in your possession—it was some artifact's trick."

"Did you wish to see their bodies?" Gerhardt asked. "Even I wouldn't be that cruel."

His gaze held steady. There was no glee in his voice. "I made it swift, Sigurd. Neither suffered."

Sigurd couldn't stop himself. He broke into a sprint, aura bursting from his sword and flaring beneath his feet. A ten-foot wall separated audience and arena, yet Sigurd vaulted it in a single bound, his blade crashing down to cleave Gerhardt in two.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Compared to the small flickering lanterns which dotted the city, the amphitheater's pale glow was eye-catching—almost disorienting. The amphitheater had slowly come to life, its lights rising like the start of a play.

Bea could finally make out people. But from the top of the bell tower, they almost looked like toys.

"Your father's down there, Bea," Robin said. "I know you wanted to meet him."

"Papa…?" Bea asked.

Her heart was beating so fast, racing with anticipation at the same time that it ached. She'd dreamed of meeting him for so long, imagined it more times than she could count.

He'd pick her up. Ask her name. And smile. She couldn't put a face to it, but she always thought about his smile. She wanted to know what it looked like.

Sometimes her fears took over. The blank face in her mind would turn away in disgust and indifference. And she'd have to watch him walk away.

But… she never thought the first time she saw him would be like this—from so far away, she could barely make out the color of his hair.

"His hair's like… Uncle Ailn's," Bea said softly.

"That's eum-Creid hair," Robin said. "Silver as starlight, even from here."

"Yume Craid?" Bea echoed.

"It's your family, Bea," Robin explained. "Your mom's a Blanc. And your dad's a eum-Creid. And for a loooong time, both of these families didn't like each other."

He smiled and ruffled her hair. "Which makes you... sort of a walking miracle."

"Why… why didn't they like each other?" Bea asked.

"Because adults are stupid, Bea," Robin said. "All they do is hurt each other."

Bea didn't think that was quite right. Kids could hurt people too. She hurt her mom when she ran away.

"They're doing it right now, even," Robin said. "I'm sorry, but I want you to watch this."

The tiny figure in the center of the amphitheater started moving. It jumped to reach the stands, and it glowed.

There was a white flash, bright even against the amphitheater's lights. And there was a blasting noise which Bea could hear over the wind.

"They're using the divine blessing to hurt each other, Bea," Robin said. "Your papa's trying to kill your uncle. And your uncle's trying to kill him, too."

There was just the howl of the wind for a while. Robin held Bea quietly, giving her all the time she needed to respond.

"...That's because… all those people wanna hurt papa," Bea said.

"You're right," Robin said. "And they want to hurt him because he hurt them. And he hurt them, because one of your grandmothers hurt him by killing your other grandmother."

He paused, softening his voice. "Do you know why your mama has no family, Bea?"

Tears welled up in Bea's eyes. And her voice cracked. "...I don't wanna hear you talk anymore. You're just a liar."

Then she closed her eyes, not wanting to watch what was happening in the theater, and trying her best not to cry.

Two blades surging with holy aura clashed, and the blast that followed shook the air.

Gerhardt flinched, staggering backwards—surprised that Sigurd could still produce so much energy.

The knight commander of the Azure Knights was wrathful, but that didn't mean he was lacking in technique. Sigurd let loose a second overhead strike the moment his feet hit the ground. His blade was fast, furious, and precise. Gerhardt could barely hold the blow.

But Gerhardt wasn't alone. The mercenaries swarmed Sigurd, grabbing both of his arms.

A clean slash from Voltus knocked Sigurd's blade from his hand, and it flew into the arena behind.

Yet still, Sigurd broke free. With a burst of aura, he threw three men off as if they were light as children. He lunged forward at an astonishing speed, his fists smashing through two more who stood in his way.

Gerhardt reflexively slashed. But Sigurd's gauntlet met the blade and knocked it aside—then crashed into Gerhardt's face like a mace.

For a moment, everything went black. When he came back to his senses, the mercenaries had seized Sigurd yet again.

Enraged by his own moment of weakness, Gerhardt's holy aura burst to life. His glowing fist struck Sigurd across the chin. A second drove deep into Sigurd's stomach. He rained blow after blow until the man hung limp. Then, seizing him by the throat, Gerhardt heaved him back into the arena as if he were garbage.

Cold sweat clung to Gerhardt's back as he caught his breath. A moment's carelessness had almost cost him.

"You nearly ruined everything, Sigurd," Gerhardt growled. "All this preparation would have been for naught if I killed you so hastily. Pick up your sword. Come at me again, and you'll be buried in arrows."

Sigurd was fast to respond, but slow to get up. With ponderous steps, and a hollow expression, he walked over to his sword and lifted it—gripping it with his left hand, while his dominant arm dangled limply.

"I thought I should honor your life's work," Gerhardt said dryly, as a mechanical chug echoed from the far end of the arena. "It's only fitting that you die as a eum-Creid is meant to."

Sigurd's gaze drifted toward the lifting gate, which finished their ascent with a loud clang. And from it, something emerged which should only have existed past the northern wall.

"There was a time when Astrid pled with her father for a menagerie," Gerhardt reminisced. His expression darkened. "And now the only creatures she ever sees are glimpses of rats, scurrying through rotted walls. If she saw so much as a stray dog, she'd scream."

He closed his eyes. "We were all such despicable little wretches back then. Don't think I don't understand, Sigurd. While you were being raised to fight beasts, we were begging to own them."

A lone creature made of shadows stalked out of the gates.

"...I wished for a lion."

All Béa could see was the darkness behind her eyelids, and the wind drowned out any noise.

But now she knew—her father was no phantom.

He was real. He was down there, in the amphitheater, surrounded by people trying to hurt him. And if the future didn't change, he would die.

"I know you may never forgive me, Bea," Robin said. His voice was shaking, as if he were the one who was hurt. "You don't have to watch any more. I've seen this play enough times for the both of us…"

His tone softened. "Your papa's not as good of a person as you thought he'd be. Maybe he was, once. I remember when Gerhardt was kinder."

He said words that hurt. And he showed her things that hurt. And then he acted like he had nothing to do with it.

"...Do you want the pain to go away, Bea?" Robin asked.

"Don't… Don't trust you…" Bea said.

He reached out to stroke her hair comfortingly, but she smacked his hand away.

"Stop… talking," Bea said.

She did want the pain to go away.

Her hurt and anger were swirling together, threatening to twist into hatred. All the courage she'd felt that brought her to this city, to this bell tower, to find her father—all of it wanted to flip over into regret and self-loathing.

A big part of her wanted to nod.

But Bea bit her quivering lip. She covered her ears. And she didn't cry.

The whisper in the back of her head was talking to her. Reminding her that goodness is a habit. That sometimes pain is a rock you trip over when you run toward happiness. That you do the right thing for its own sake.

So many of the world's cruelties crashed upon her all at once. But the thoughts of all those thinkers who tried to live good lives protected her like a shield—the whisper of her past life, a guardian angel at her side, hugging her.

"Then… we can try again later," Robin said, sadly. "That offer is good any time. Alright, Bea? I'll never get mad at you. I—"

Robin's voice broke off, abruptly.

"Bea, I'm going to bring you back inside the bell tower, okay?" Robin said. He seemed distracted. "I have to go somewhere for a little bit. Don't do anything dangerous. Please."

He walked back over to the inside of the tower, and met Bea's gaze even though she was glaring at him. "I think I'm gonna have a really nice surprise for you soon. You miss your mama, don't you?"

Bea's glare softened, scrunching up into an expression which showed just how much she longed to see her mother.

"You might just… get to see her sooner than you think," Robin said, with a warm smile. "I'll make all of us happy. I promise."

Bea didn't realize it, but that very moment her mother was headed her way. Deep inside the mountains which surrounded Amière, Ciel and Kylian raced through tunnels known to few even within the Blancs, desperate to find a happy ending in all the chaos.