These Reincarnators Are Sus! Sleuthing in Another World

Ailn and Camille had been diverted from the palace. And even if they reached it, they weren't certain of what they would see, or if they'd even be able to help. Really, their mission hinged on being able to sneak through completely unseen.

That hadn't happened.

They'd spent more time running than anything else. Ducking into one courtyard, then sprinting into the next. Their pursuers were too many to face. All they could do was try to lose them, always opting for areas with more cover.

Inevitably, they found themselves constantly retreating to the parts of the Playground where the forest had reclaimed more ground.

They crouched low in what had once been a courtyard. By now the cobblestone and statues had been covered with moss for so long that it had begun to look slimy.

A nearby sculpture of a rotting tooth looked particularly disgusting.

"This approach… is doomed to failure," Camille said. Her breathing was strained, and she sounded as if she were losing hope. "What use could we be to Sigurd…? We can hardly fend for ourselves…"

Ailn didn't have a response. Truthfully, his expectations weren't high at this point either.

As far as he could tell, when they left Bea in Calum, they had a fifty-fifty shot at success. He wasn't sure what wrong turns they'd taken or what mistakes they'd made. But it was hard to imagine a path to victory.

The logical thing to do was cut their losses and try to escape. Ailn knew that. He had responsibilities that went beyond taking care of the eum-Creids.

He leaned back, staring at the sky. "...If we die here, that's the end of this world," Ailn muttered.

Camille arched her brow.

"The situation is bleak enough without you being overdramatic," she sighed. Somehow, she looked a little less hopeless than before. "But this truly might be the end for us."

Suddenly, the sounds of shouting guards could be heard. Both Ailn and Camille tensed as the glow of a lantern slipped uncomfortably close.

They held their breaths, hands reaching for their swords. But soon enough, the light disappeared, as the guards that had neared went off in some other direction.

Letting out a breath of relief, Camille also leaned back against the wall. "We need to move on soon," she muttered.

For a moment, they both looked up at the stars.

"I would have liked to say goodbye to my father and Nicolas," Camille said, wistfully. Then, her voice wavered, and she sounded a little choked. "... I wouldn't have fought with my mother over something so stupid."

Ailn slowly rose to his feet. "Quit acting like we're already dead," he sighed irritably. "You're letting the 'art' get to you."

Their gazes shifted—drawn, almost unwillingly, toward the enormous rotting tooth built directly into the mountainside.

"Besides," Ailn said. "Alera might come through for us."

"... I hope at the very least she's unharmed," Camille said.

They both kept still, listening—half-expecting the echo stone to chime. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking.

What they heard instead made their blood run cold.

A voice was coming from the tooth.

A man. Calling them by name, speaking just loud enough to be heard.

'Ailn. Dame Camille.'

Both froze, gazes fixed on the sneering face which Kylian's voice was inexplicably echoing from.

'...It's me. Kylian. Stay calm. I can explain how I got here. Just give me a moment—I need to create an exit.'

"Did you not say there was a demon which could imitate voices?!" Camille hissed over Kylian.

"I… sure did," Ailn said, hand reaching for his hilt. "Well, I didn't call it a demon actually—"

Camille's holy aura began to flash.

'...Why do I hear aura? If you collapse the chamber inward, I'll be crushed by the rubble. Don't do that. Are you listening to me? Do not do that.'

At the last moment, Ailn got the sense that he should stop her. But it was too late. Camille struck, slamming her holy fist into the already cracked molar.

There was a second flash. A second, sharper blast amidst the sounds of falling rock, as well as uncharacteristic cursing.

Kylian emerged from the statue's caved-in nose, covered in dust, looking vexed.

"For God's sake, if I were a demon, why would I have warned you?"

"Let me witness it, Sigurd!" Gerhardt shouted. "The moment your divine blessing fades! Then I'll know for certain that you died hopeless and afraid!"

The mercenaries joined in, the clamor in the amphitheater rising.

Sigurd steadied his breath. The jeers swelled around him, but within, the noise was fading. What kept him moving was the thought of Ciel and Bea. If they were still in danger—

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

A tendril swept in from the left, aiming for his neck. The knight commander parried, but half a beat too slow. Before he could disengage his blade and recover, a second tendril flung itself downward.

Sigurd pivoted, barely avoiding it, feeling the tendril scrape across his shoulder where his pauldron had been torn away.

The third tendril thrust forward, aiming straight for his heart. Even with Sigurd's mind fogging, he could predict its path—there was a rare chance to meet it head-on and cleave it through. His holy aura ignited—

'Did you wish to see their bodies? Not even I'm that cruel.'

And it faltered. His blade whipped back, and the tendril scored his adamantine plate, cutting across his chest.

No. He couldn't think of them. Not right now. If he did, his aura…

He had to fall back on what never failed him: conviction. The belief that duty mattered. The strength that came from knowing what failure would cost.

The stakes had never changed since he was a boy. Sigurd had always fought to protect the empire. The duchy.

Words from his mother echoed faintly at the back of his head, as he called upon his divine blessing.

'Never forget. A eum-Creid stands strong against the tempest.'

Once again, one of the lion's tendrils lunged straight for his heart, and Sigurd met it with his blade, the divine blessing surging through. Steel and light scraped against flesh and shadow, and once again the lion craned its neck back in a silent roar.

The creature could feel pain.

'We climb to the highest peak to stand vigil. That's what it means to lead.'

The two other tendrils came lashing—a beat slower, and with less force. But Sigurd was already sprinting along the third, skimming it with his sword as if he were carving the thinnest sliver of meat. Holy aura burst at his heels as he rushed the lion's flank. His speed alone brought him within striking distance.

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'Always remember. Your blade is the light which cuts through the dark. This is not a privilege. It is your duty.'

The lion's first paw came crashing down to crush him—perhaps it was even aware that Sigurd only had the use of his weaker arm. But Sigurd slipped to the side. Holy aura flared as he drove his blade down into the paw.

Then he tried to wrench it free—

But the blade stuck. As if the miasma itself had seized it.

Gritting his teeth, Sigurd poured holy aura into the sword, flooding the lion's wound with light. The beast flailed in pain, thrashing to throw him off—but he held fast. He was dead if he lost his sword.

Finally, the blade violently tore free. And the lion's strength hurled Sigurd across the arena, where he crashed into the far wall.

'You must never fall, my son.'

Ciel's mouth went dry. Her tongue felt slack and leaden. Even swallowing felt as if sand were scraping her throat. Her body was fighting her in a way it hadn't in nearly a decade. But she forced herself to her feet.

'Lost, are you? Come then. Follow me.'

The little girl's voice echoed out from the brush ahead. It was leading Ciel somewhere.

"I… have no time for ghosts," Ciel breathed out. "I'm searching for my daughter."

'I'm the one leading, and you'll listen to me!'

Despite herself, Ciel flinched. Her mother was dead. She knew that. But as she leaned against a tree trunk to steady her breathing and bring herself back to calm, she felt her legs threatening to give way.

Her hands were clammy and her heart was hammering.

'Follow along, or I won't help you.'

Closing her eyes, Ciel drew a breath. "Is Bea with you?" she demanded.

'Are you coming or not?!'

Knowing no good would come from responding, Ciel followed in silence. She didn't rush. All she had to do was put one foot in front of the other, listening to the sound of the forest crunching underfoot.

It was a familiar chill. The air in these woods was always wetter… heavier than the rest of the mountain. Thick brush and trees which loomed tall gave way to scattered clearings.

She remembered running through these trees. There were happier times, when she would take naps where the sun cut through. This was the only place she could get away from her mother.

So, why was she now following her mother's voice?

'If you fall behind, that's your fault. I'm not waiting.'

Ciel could tell for certain now. Earlier, she'd fallen for the trick—believed, for a moment, that there was a child running through these woods just out of her view. But the woods had thinned to the point that there were too few places left to hide.

There was no child. Just… the pattering sound of footsteps and a voice, emanating from nothing at all.

The bodiless voice led her to a glade tucked away. Ciel walked through two leaning trees which had formed an arch, growing into each other and tangling at their crowns. As she passed, she shivered.

The trees both drew back, as if beckoning her into a sacred space. The glade's floor was carpeted with forget-me-nots, which must have looked lovely by day. But caught in lantern light, their gentle blue dulled to something almost gray and mournful.

A boy sat waiting for her on a hollow log.

'This spot feels peaceful, so I've decided to claim it!'

"Ciel," the boy called out to her with a sad smile. "Do you remember me, yet?"

He tossed her a fruit.

Sigurd's desperate battle in the amphitheater seemed to be nearing its end. Once again, he crashed into the arena's wall, struck senseless by the lion.

His best efforts weren't bearing fruit. The tendrils were hell to cut through, and even when he reached the lion, its natural limbs struck back without pause.

He'd scored its flesh more than once, but it barely seemed to matter. The lion would rear back and let out a soundless roar—then continue the fight as if nothing happened.

Its body was hazy and shifting. Sigurd struggled to tell if he'd hurt it at all.

…The only visible wound was the gash in its neck. What seemed like a decisive blow had only served to produce the tendrils that would soon kill him.

For a moment, Sigurd lay there, trying to recover his breath. His armor was cracked. His right arm limp. Blood ran into his left eye, clouding his sight.

Against the protests of his body, despite the pain—Sigurd rose. Grinding his teeth, he attempted to force his aura to life with every fiber of his being, grasping at the spark of divinity that flowed through his blood.

And yet—

'I made it swift, Sigurd. Neither suffered.'

…His sword was lightless.

"Looks like he's out!"

Emily's jeers were particularly loud. "I want to see your face twist, you bastard! I want to see you piss yourself when that aura won't come out!"

'Shield your people—'

'Sustain their hopes—'

'Carry their faith—'

'Our blood is their tomorrow—'

The precepts which always sustained him had become a hollow litany as merciless as the jeers. None of it moved his heart. Everything he'd fought for. Everything he'd believed. Everything he'd been taught to hold sacred.

'Give everything, Sigurd—'

Sigurd was tired.

The lion stalked forward. And Sigurd closed his eyes, reaching for a memory. Not of his mother. Not his siblings, nor even Ciel. To those in the stands it must have seemed he'd given up.

"Guess that holy blood's thinner than we thought!"

"Come on, brightboy! I've got money on you dying tired, not pathetic!"

"So, that's it, then…" Gerhardt muttered. "He's broken."

Sigurd desperately tried to remember what his daughter looked like.

The girl with strawberry blonde hair who he'd only ever seen from afar. Who everyone called Bea—except for him. Who'd smiled when she got her first stuffed animal, and hugged it like it meant the world.

But the image was too hazy. A single memory, hardly a glimpse, was too fragile no matter how he held it close. Without realizing it, he'd already lost her smile.

The lion's tendril lashed out, aiming to kill. The crowd's roar rose to a fever pitch, cheers and jeers and laughter blending with the howling winds.

At that moment, Sigurd heard neither crowd nor precept. He heard the ache of his own heart.

'I want to see her.'

The man bound by duty finally chose for himself. And in doing so, he seized destiny.

The pain, which should have extinguished his aura for good, roused it to life instead. His aura flared white, its crystal chime answering the winds. It burst forth, filled with the faith that his daughter was still alive… and waiting for him.

The tendril shot for his throat—and was cut clean through. The second came, and then the third, lashing out to either slice the man or break the blade. He cleaved one in half, and the other recoiled the instant it brushed his aura.

The lion brought its paw down to crush him. Sigurd met it with his blade. He nearly buckled from the sheer weight of the blow, but his aura held, burning through the lion's flesh.

Finally, it snapped at him in desperation. The tendrils were gone, but its head still hung limp, and its bite was weak.

Sigurd drove his sword into the roof of the lion's mouth, meeting unexpected resistance. He could feel the miasma attempting to seize his blade—the lion tensing its body to hurl him into the wall once again.

He let his aura surge through the steel. The miasma erupted from its throat like smoke from a furnace. With a final push, he drove the blade through its skull.

The beast bucked once before it crumpled, twitching pitifully on the ground as it began to fade.

The jeers had faded to silence. All that remained was the wind—and the faint, crystalline chime of Sigurd's aura.

"...What a bitter taste," Gerhardt said. His voice was low, his eyes hollow. "If you'd died there, I would've been free."

Like a missing puzzle piece, the sight of Robin filled the nauseating void that had always been in Ciel's head since she was a child.

In glimpses and murmurs, the memories came back. Of a childhood spent wandering the forest, because only the whispering trees ever had kind words. Of the comfort that always came to find her even in the dark.

Of her first friend. The strange young boy who cast no shadow.

"...Puck," Ciel breathed.

"Robin, right now, actually…" the boy replied. He patted next to him on the log. "Come sit with me for a moment."

Ciel stiffened. And she slowly shook her head.

"I see," Robin said. He didn't look too surprised by his answer. He merely kept his sad, knowing smile.

"Where's my daughter, Puck?" Ciel asked. Her voice didn't shake. "Where is Bea?"

'And what right have you to make demands of me?!'

The voice came booming from beside Ciel, imperious and loud as a young girl could be.

This time, though, Ciel refused to flinch. Her skin still prickled. Her heart still thrashed. Her fingernails bit into her palms.

She had no time for games. Especially for any this cruel.

"Answer me—" Ciel started.

"You're braver than you used to be," Robin said, ignoring her. His voice was fond with memory as he closed his eyes. "Funny thing is, even back then you were braver than Marcella ever was."

Then he frowned. "But she turned out… like that."

This time the voice came from all around Ciel. And it was no longer a child's.

'Hide in the forest. See if I feed you again.'

'You're weeping over a bruise I'll heal tomorrow. You should be thinking about what you did to deserve it.'

'Is it your father you take after? The filth you spit—who else would know what I said, if not me? Don't you dare stand there like my keeper.'

Quiet. Bitter. Tired. Arrogant and lilting, even when adrift in a fugue. That was her mother's voice, just as Ciel always remembered her.

'I wonder every single day what I did wrong. And then I remember—I chose to keep you.'

A breath stuttered out of Ciel, a half-sob caught between her teeth. She held the rest in. Her past hurt didn't matter right now.

"What do you want, Puck?" Ciel asked, her voice low and each word deliberate. "Tell me."

"...I want us all to be together. You, me, and Bea," Robin said softly. "A little family. What do you think?"