These Reincarnators Are Sus! Sleuthing in Another World

Even as a child, Gerhardt neither revered his lineage nor respected his kin. He saw what they were clearly.

The Blancs were degenerates. Theirs was a bloodline that had been rotting for decades, and the silver-haired murals of their ancestors that adorned their palace walls looked nothing like the family he knew.

His father Hildebert was a drunkard and a gambler. A man too pathetic to even be cruel, he merely existed—breathing up air and gulping up wine, snoring his days away in a stupor.

His mother was a baron's daughter—lowborn nobility, deluded into thinking they'd struck gold by marrying her into a grander house. But Amière was too lifeless for even a petty social climber like her. She vanished to the warmth of mer-Sereia before Gerhardt was old enough to understand abandonment.

So, he ended up like many boys on the cusp of adolescence: filled with contempt beyond his years and no particular direction. Too young to channel a young man's rage, too old to weep like a little boy.

All he could do was fester. He was a lost child, searching for meaning. And like so many aimless Blanc children before him, he wandered into the woods.

"You'll be a great man one day, Gerhardt," Puck had said. "All those feelings in you? They mean something. If you feel angry, it's because you have the drive to change things. If you feel sad, it's because you know you deserve more."

"And my father? He never wanted more than a goblet when he was a boy like me?" Gerhardt asked sarcastically, chucking a thyrel at the trunk of a tree.

"Your father ate too much candy when he was a boy like you," Puck said, a complicated expression rising to his eyes. "He always liked to come and whine about his teeth."

"Then he traded toothworms for jaundice," Gerhardt scoffed.

"Yes," Puck sighed. "Yes, I suppose he did." His eyes drifted sidewards. "The wheel has come full circle."

Gerhardt scooped up another thyrel, tossing it from hand to hand as he gave Puck a curious look. "Tell me. Why do you erase all our memories? Are you afraid one of us might turn on you? Go whispering to the Magic Tower about your immortality so the mages pry you apart?"

"Who's afraid of mages?" Puck scowled. "I'd like to see them step into my woods. I'll show them real magic."

"Then why?" Gerhardt asked.

Puck's expression faltered. "I used to do it because I was told to."

"By who?"

"I can't tell you that," Puck shrugged. "But now I do it for me. I like this part. The one who's always here. A friend—so long as there's a Blanc child who still needs one."

"Strange, wanting all your friends to be fleeting," Gerhardt said, with a miffed expression.

"Friends aren't fleeting," Puck mumbled. "People are."

To the two boys in the forest, the world felt as though it was turning just as it always had—and always would.

But only a few nights later, Marcella would give the order: the Argent Guard was to strike Celine's carriage on the road to the imperial capital.

And just a week after that, Sigurd would storm Amière.

The Azure Knights came by night, because the Argent Guard had only lasted until the afternoon. The city fell by evening. They swept into the palace, seizing it. And one by one, Sigurd delivered his final judgment upon the Blancs.

Gerhardt sat on the ground trembling together with his cousins. Alaric and Marcella had both just been struck down—the first, the family's only true warrior; the second, its strongest bearer of divine blessing.

Neither lasted a minute.

His father was next. Everyone already knew how it would end.

"Raise your sword, Hildebert," Sigurd said coldly.

"Fuck… Fuckin'..." Hildebert drawled, voice thick with fury. "You think I had anything to do with that scornful wench's plan?!"

He muttered to himself, barely lucid. "Lotus-eyed bitch… draggin' us all to Hell..."

"Raise your sword, or die like a dog," Sigurd said again, blade pressed to Hildebert's throat.

For just a second, Hildebert actually looked sober.

"Hol'—hold a moment! Lis'n—goddamn it, listen! I'm no danger t'you! Holy aura? Blessin? I can scarsh 'member how t'muster it!" He threw a hand toward Edith and Godfrey, still cowering in the corner of the throne room, praying they'd been forgotten. "You sphared them, didn't you? Saints, th'only one you've any cause t'fear's Therèze—she's a l'il Marcella, that one—"

"You swine!" Therèze shouted, trembling with fury and tears, but her brother Mirek hushed her in a panic.

"Even my boy's stronger'n me," Hildebert laughed, though his face had gone pale and his eyes flickered nervously to the children.

A cold pit of dread settled in Gerhardt's stomach. His father met his gaze…

Yet Hildebert continued to beg. "You think a stumblin' sot like me'd lift a finger for revenge? Go'on, extinguish our line! I couldn' care less! I'll scurry off like a dead rat, long as I'm left to rot in peace…"

"Enough," Sigurd said. His sword drew just a nick of blood from Hildebert's neck.

The drunkard wobbled back, silent, realizing his words had meant nothing to the young knight commander.

He drew his sword—his trembling hand excruciatingly slow, as if to extend his life by a precious few seconds. Until finally, with a slurred scream, he charged, his overhead blow sloppy and wild.

Sigurd didn't even need to meet his blade. He stepped aside and cut the drunkard down before he could find his footing.

Hildebert collapsed. He gasped for breath. The blood pooled around his body. His eyes still darted desperately through the room, as if they could flee on their own, until they finally stilled.

His young son watched these pathetic final moments. And the self-loathing Gerhardt felt deep inside crystallized, becoming the shape of his soul.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

In the present, a thick heat swept into the amphitheater, like the air itself was boiling. The shrieks of the sylphs had turned into a nothinged hush. The terrified mercenary's shouts were all instinctively stifled, as if making a sound would cost them their souls.

The amphitheater was quiet. Everyone felt it at once. Something had entered the world that did not belong.

But the man in the miasma himself felt as if he were in a dream. Light and shadow had inverted, and he could see through the darkness.

No… he could see because of it.

All the cowardly bandits who once fancied themselves knights were fleeing at the first hint of defeat, just like they had seven years ago. And up in the parapets, the only man who had come close to loyalty—Sir Voltus—had already fallen.

Gerhardt still remembered what it felt like to be abandoned by his family's so-called knights—cowering away in the palace, keeping that final vigil. And he came to a decision.

His body unraveled itself thread by thread, particle by particle. The process was cool and soothing…

As if he were being cleansed.

Then he reformed himself in the center of the amphitheater—in the arena where he'd intended for Sigurd to put on a spectacle as the knight commander met the end of his life.

Instead, Sigurd had made a fool of Gerhardt.

…So be it. The stage was his now. He breathed out.

His sigh swept through the amphitheater like a plague, every single mercenary who failed him—who failed Amière—staggered, clutching their throats. Sigurd and the other holy knight mustered their divine blessings to protect themselves. The second rushed to the parapets to save the life of yet another betrayer.

Then the wind shifted. A particularly shrill shriek came warbling out of one of the sylphs, followed by more loud cries. They all fled in one direction from the amphitheater.

Whatever Gerhardt had become… it was enough to terrify even these agents of divinity. The pain he'd always lived with turned sweet. The hate he carried didn't leave him—it lifted him.

And for the first time, the terror that always gripped him was a weapon in his hands. Gerhardt no longer feared the dark. He was the dark.

Camille's holy aura went out. And Ailn, who'd already been dodging in the dark, heard the branch whipping through the air—he ducked.

But judging by the loud thunk and grunt that followed, Camille didn't.

His heart dropped. The branch reared back for another strike, but Ailn slashed through it before it could land.

"Camille!" Ailn readied himself to catch her.

Yet she stayed standing.

"I am—perfectly able—" Camille gasped.

"No, you're not," Ailn muttered. The way she was speaking told him everything—she'd just suffered a concussion. The remaining willows groaned forward. Ailn didn't hesitate.

She was heavy in plate, but he hauled her over his shoulder, gritting his teeth. His vision was poor, but he started sprinting anyway, banking on sheer speed to keep them safe for a few moments.

Then, having no idea if it would work, Ailn manifested his emerald eyes.

He could see.

Everything was cast in green, shimmering faintly, like light passing through a jade lamp. And somehow he could see the forest's movement—an ashy fog all around him, breathing against the crystalline green of his vision.

And through all of it, he caught the glint of Camille's sword tangled in roots and undergrowth.

"How can you even see…?" Camille mumbled. "Huh? Your eyes…"

Ailn ignored her.

Two willows tried to trap Ailn, their roots rising in unison. He feinted forward, drawing their strike. Their roots slammed down just shy of him and Camille, and he hurdled over them.

He was pushing his emerald eyes to their limit—to the point that they ached. But there seemed to be a natural path of least resistance in this forest. The trees were thinning out as he made his way through.

"Your Highness—" Camille started. "I can fight!"

"Camille!" Ailn interrupted her breathlessly. "Need you! But later! Hit your head again and you die! For now, rest!"

There was something strange about the path they were taking.

The woods were clearing out… and yet the smoky fog was getting thicker. The forest's breath was all leading in one direction.

…And they were headed right toward it. Had he messed up?

Suddenly, Puck's voice echoed through the woods.

'There's no reason for me to hurt the two of you. I just want you to leave me and my family alone.'

There was something seriously wrong with this evil, immortal child.

'The Blancs will keep to themselves and never mess with the eum-Creids ever again. That should be enough for everyone.'

"Bea… That child is a eum-Creid!" Camille muttered angrily. "She's our kin!"

Puck's voice snapped back.

'And she came to Amière instead of Varant! Bea made her choice.'

"He can hear us… anywhere in the forest?" Ailn panted.

"Do you believe he'll yield if we best him in words?" Camille asked, sarcastically. After a beat, though, her face turned scarlet, as if she'd suddenly realized the indignity of her position. "What sort of carry is this…?!"

Ailn knelt without a word and eased her down from his shoulders, careful not to jostle her.

'These are my woods. You ought to consider what that means before you challenge me. I only act cruel to be kind.'

Cruel to be kind. He slowed down, breathing heavily. Something pricked Ailn at the back of his mind.

There were two rows of trees on each side that almost seemed to be bowing—ushering Ailnand Camille onward. It seemed they'd been dancing in Puck's palm this entire time.

He'd led them here.

…And Ailn realized this might just be their lucky break.

'I'm giving you a choice. Die here in the forest... or walk away with your memories erased.'

"You can't just trust us to keep a secret?" Ailn asked.

'I can't trust anyone. I've been burned before."

"Me and you both," Ailn said wistfully. "Alright then. What does erasing our memories entail?"

"What are you—" Camille started.

Ailn shushed her by pointing to his emerald eyes. She looked back in confusion, but said nothing. That was all he could give her. No explanation, just the suggestion that he had something special up his sleeve.

'Come into my glade. Give me a visit. We'll talk. And then you'll leave. No pain. No loss. Just a day you won't even remember."

"So, we'll have a heart-to-heart." Ailn said. "...Find out if we see eye-to-eye."

It was just after Bea had rang the bell. After she'd asked the sylphs for their help, and a little bit before Gerhardt would transform.

Bea was up in the belfry, squinting at the amphitheater and trying to understand what was happening.

All the lights went out a little while ago. But every so often there'd be white flashes of light. They were too fast, the people down there too little for Bea to tell who was winning, or even who was who.

What she did know was that the sylphs had hurt themselves a lot trying to help her. She heard their howls of pain, and they made her want to cry.

"I'm sorry Miss Sylph…" Bea whispered. "And all your friends."

Even though she'd only seen her father from afar, she could finally see him in her visions. She had the information she needed to prevent his death.

All she'd known before was that the fuzziest paths left to the future brought her to this bell tower. This was where everything converged. If she did nothing, her father's heart would have been pierced by an arrow.

But for some reason, if she rang the bell, that future wouldn't come to pass. Once she did ring the bell, the sylph came, and Bea realized she'd need the sylph's help.

That's when the sylph lady went to find all of her friends. It took her a little bit, but she came back with them just in time to stop all of the arrows.

That stopped the worst outcome from happening. And Bea hoped that by now, everything would have become less fuzzy.

"All I see in the near future is a lot of darkness…" Bea said, tilting her head. "That's never happened before…"

Bea pondered what this could possibly mean.

That's when she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Her heart jumped, filled with a big, tangled feeling that was halfway between hope and fear.

Was it Robin…? It didn't sound like him.

For some reason… Bea thought it might be her mother. Even though her mother shouldn't be here, and should be safe back in the fancy room in the fancy city.

"Bea?" A female voice called up the stairs, gasping for breath. "I know you're up here, Bea!"

Bea started to tremble violently.

Because the one climbing the last flight—the one smiling up through the trapdoor into the belfry—was Emily.