These Reincarnators Are Sus! Sleuthing in Another World

Bea had only ever heard his name because her mother sometimes whispered it in her sleep. Sometimes crying. Always tender. A secret kept, because it was a conversation too big for Bea to have.

Sigurd.

When Bea realized it was her father's name, she kept it like a secret too. It was a name she wasn't supposed to know, for a man she'd never met. The only proof she had that he cared were toys he sent with every change of the season.

But just thinking about his name made her happy. He was always there in her daydreams, lingering at the corners of her world, nothing and everything at once. Never quite real, yet just enough of a phantom for Bea to fill in the blanks and imagine.

Was he kind? Was he mean?

What kind of job did he have?

What kind of things made him happy?

…Did he ever miss her and her mother?

Did he know that Bea missed him, even though they'd never met?

Before Bea knew it, she already loved the father she'd never met. And that was scary. Because Bea felt what all children understand before they can speak it—that sometimes the things you hope for most are only imaginary.

But now…

He was real. Just out of reach.

A burst of light shone broke through the darkness, and sang like crystal chimes in the wind. And Bea's father—

He had silver hair. Sharp blue eyes. He raced toward Gerhardt without any hesitation, his sword glowing bright white.

To Bea, whose faith in goodness begun to waver in the darkest hour, her father looked like an angel. But the blood that ran down his face, the cuts and scrapes all over his armor…

The arm that was dangling like it hurt to move.

These proved he wasn't really an angel. He was just a regular person—giving everything he had to save her and her mother.

Bea felt a lump in her throat and sniffled.

"Papa…"

She bit her lip, resisting the urge to call out to him.

Just like Voltus had said, her father's eyes looked fearless. With just one arm, he was fighting for their lives. Gerhardt's swings came down, big and heavy, but it was her father who was stepping forward.

And once he'd reached a certain spot in the throne room…

"Kylian!" Sigurd shouted.

That's when another sword coated in light came flashing down from above.

The forest had slowed down. And through his emerald eyes, Ailn could see that the smoky fog had actually gotten thinner. Maybe that was because Puck had lost one of his obsidian eyes.

But Ailn's instincts told him these woods were more dangerous than ever. Before, the fog had moved like breath: slow, natural, alive, and everywhere. Now it felt shallow. Desperate. Like the forest was gasping.

And that desperation was starting to show in Puck's frantic tactics.

'Your Highness, turn around!'

Camille's voice was shouting behind Ailn.

He ignored it. Through the green-tinted, crystalline vision of the emeralds, he caught a patch of dark fog condensing in his peripheral view. He jumped out of the way just in time—it struck a tree and dispersed, but not before carving a chunk clean out of the trunk.

Ailn heard the quick rustle of a small body fleeing through the brush.

'What makes you think you'll ever be my real brother? You're just a disgusting fake.'

Swiftly yet calmly, Ailn chased after Puck, keeping his eyes peeled for the fog, scanning for movement.

The forest sagged, vines grabbing weakly, roots brittle enough to stomp through. The green shimmer was fading everywhere, yet still pulsing faintly.

Puck's voice echoed through, sharp and taunting, yet fraying at the edges. At the same time, the smoky fog started to curl around Ailn, bleeding into his emerald vision like a warm breath on cold glass.

'You're an interesting one. You're like me and Bea, aren't you? But you're different. You're an impostor. That body shouldn't belong to you.'

He was completely surrounded by the smoky fog. And he had a feeling it wasn't safe to breathe.

Worse, spikes were beginning to congeal within it.

Ailn pulled his coat over his face and twisted sideways, narrowly avoiding the first spike that lunged toward him.

He dashed forward, dodging spikes as they came, weaving through trees—all the while covering his face with his trenchcoat, only lowering it once he'd finally broken through the fog.

That was when he heard a voice.

One that was erased from memory, but which his soul never forgot.

'Hey! You never wait for me! I was getting my shoes on!'

His heart stuttered. That was all it took. A spike caught his side, tearing through his geomisil coat.

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Was it fate that had dragged them all here, or was it just memory?

Whatever part of Gerhardt still lingered chose the broken seat of his bloodline for his final stage. And the knight who turned back seven years ago—never once setting foot in the palace—now leapt in through its shattered roof instead.

It was a huge, cleaving swing, guided by all the holy light he could call forth.

The blow would have killed one of the miasmatic tigers from the northern wall in one fell swoop, and yet Kylian's sword only made it part-way through the dark knight's shoulder.

He grimaced, flaring his aura again to wrench his sword out of the miasma. His holy aura simply couldn't cut through the miasma as sharply as Sigurd's—there was a reason he was called the divine blade.

Within moments, Gerhardt's shoulder reformed—pauldron and all—as his dark blade came sweeping toward Kylian's head.

But with a swift and precise parry, Kylian shunted the shadowy sword aside, creating a gap.

That was all Sigurd needed. He closed the distance in a blink, sword thrust toward Gerhardt's neck—only for it to be caught by the dark knight's bare hand.

Sigurd's aura flared brighter, divine light flooding down the blade and into Gerhardt's flesh. The dark knight convulsed. Its form rippled.

This was their chance.

While Sigurd's divine blessing anchored Gerhardt in place, Kylian broke into a sprint—racing toward Ciel and Bea.

He was halfway to the mother and child before he felt the shift in the air.

Gerhardt had dispersed into mist, reforming right above Kylian in a taunting echo of Kylian's opening maneuver. The miasma twisted around his hands, forming twin jagged blades pulsing with shadows.

Both blades crashed down, but Kylian sidestepped the blow, ducking under Gerhardt's swift yet reckless backswings, slipping to the dark knight's blindside and cutting low across its heel.

The moment of imbalance exposed Gerhardt's flank, and Sigurd was already in motion, slicing clean through one of Gerhardt's arms like butter.

In an instant, both of Gerhardt's arms warped into tendrils, lashing wildly at the both of them.

Roughly as Kylian had anticipated. He'd caught the tail-end of Sigurd's fight in the amphitheater. He fell into a defensive rhythm, his blade catching each flaying strike just enough to redirect them.

Both knights weaved and parried through the flurry of slashes looking for an opportunity. Sigurd's aura began to hum louder and glow brighter.

"Now!" Kylian shouted. He knocked one of the tendrils off-course and darted forward. The second skimmed his cheek, and Gerhardt finally drew blood. But Kylian was already inside his reach.

His blade punched into Gerhardt's rib. Sigurd closed in from the flank. Two clean slashes—one high, one low—severed both tendrils before they could pull back; an upward thrust drove through the dark knight's jaw.

Kylian heard Bea's terrified squeak, and noticed Sigurd subtly stiffen.

But there was no time for hesitation or regret. Their holy aura ignited in unison. A radiant chime rang out, and the whole room flashed bright.

The dark knight's knees buckled.

There was a hissing noise. Its armor softened—then glistened like black wax—while its cloak began to sag.

The pale glow in the dark knight's eyes was starting to dim. Neither holy knight's aura let up. But the remnants of Gerhardt's limbs stirred. Sigurd flinched.

"Draw back!" he shouted. "Now!"

Two new arms burst from Gerhardt's ribs. Where there should have been hands hung jagged cleavers, both swinging wide and swift. The tendrils returned, joining the frenzy.

What stood before them could hardly be called a man. And every failure to finish the fight would only make the creature in front of them stronger.

They couldn't let this go on.

It had to be destroyed swiftly and utterly beyond mending.

"Dammit!" Ailn growled, half from pain and half from sheer frustration.

He'd screwed up. He really screwed up. With that one unforced error, the hunt had flipped. The spike bit into his side. It wasn't deep… but he could feel it invading his body.

'Catch me if you can, Ailn. I'll help you remember what you lost.'

Puck's echo rang out with the kind of bitter glee usually reserved for no-good adults. And hearing it in a child's voice made it all the worse.

Ailn dashed off in the last direction he'd seen Puck heading. If he didn't keep moving, he was going to be skewered.

His senses sharpened. He caught the faintest tremor rippling through the fog, gathering near some distant branches.

Was it more spikes? No…

He drew his sword, slashing before he ever saw the vines lashing out. But the sudden movement aggravated his injury and pain shot through his ribs.

'So... hypothetically... if someone close to you forgot about their history report and needed help with an all-nighter …'

His head throbbed.

Focus. He had to focus. Where? Where was he?

If he were Puck, where would he hide? The spikes came from the glade. Did he head back to the bell tower?

'I… I had that nightmare again.'

Ailn's eyes snapped upward. Congealed spikes rained down. He dove forward and they struck the ground behind him. More came from the same spot, so he rolled behind a tree trunk.

He tried to gather his thoughts, but they kept scattering like clouds.

Should he cut his losses and try to get back to Camille?

He wasn't even sure if he could get that far.

Ailn had underestimated how much strength Puck had left. And Puck took advantage of that complacency—letting Ailn wander in, and trap himself.

The uncertainty that spikes could come from anywhere at any moment kept him second-guessing every move.

'You always get stuck in your own head. Sometimes I wonder if you'd ever even notice if I was gone.'

Ailn took in a sharp breath.

He tried to ignore the cold, hollow something opening up in his chest—like he'd just stumbled across his own heart long forgotten in the back of a freezer.

'...Why didn't you ever find me?'

Holy light cascaded over Gerhardt, unraveling the darkness and burning through shadow. The miasma hissed, evaporating off his body—no, his body itself was evaporating.

And yet…

He was unkillable. Unstoppable. Invincible. When their blades sliced through his body, or the divine light poured into his soul…

He felt nothing. He was numb. Their attacks were little pinpricks, dissolving as the miasma drank the pain. They could slash him to pieces, and he'd still rise more complete than before. What was the divine blessing compared to this?

Gerhardt felt good. Because he was being remade.

He wasn't simply healing—he was becoming.

Something immortal. Something which never felt pain.

It was only a matter of time.

Were two whips not enough? Then let there be three—however many it took to scourge his enemies. If he was too craven to wield blades, then all he needed was to fashion his fingers into claws, his fists into hammers which could shatter their faith.

If he were still but a man, Gerhardt would have screamed. Yet the pain never reached him. It drifted somewhere far away, dulled and at the edge of sensation. The miasma surged to fill the lack and refine him.

If only the Blancs had accepted the miasma sooner. If only they'd been given the chance.

They could've been kings and princes of the dark, instead of jesters pretending they could ever be holy.

They were never meant for honor. They'd never deserved dignity.

The night Sigurd marched into this throne room and cut down Gerhardt's kin, not a single noble died.

Only pigs had been slaughtered.