These Reincarnators Are Sus! Sleuthing in Another World

Gerhardt was already eighteen when he found his way back to a certain glade in the woods. He trekked the Singing Mountains, crossing the valley through the gates of the west.

He passed the abandoned fortress and climbed the ruined city, ignoring the decrepit palace as he entered the forest. When he reached the glade, a boy sat there on a hollow log as if he'd been waiting all along.

"I wasn't sure you'd still be here," Gerhardt said. "Our great friend and guardian."

Puck didn't say anything.

"I harbored hope you might come for us that night," Gerhardt said, voice dull. "I searched for you in the dark."

"...My domain is the forest," Puck said without looking at him.

"Is that truly why you stayed?" Gerhardt asked bitterly. "Because you were afraid?"

Puck was silent for a long while, eyes stuck to the ground, his posture less fearful than lethargic.

"No," Puck finally said. "I was told to wait."

"By who?" Gerhardt demanded.

"I can't say," Puck said.

"So you chose your master's word over the family you said you loved," Gerhardt spat.

"If only… you knew," Puck mumbled.

"Forget it. There's no such thing as loyalty in this cursed city," Gerhardt said, tossing an echo stone into Puck's hand. "I've come for a reason. I have a way to triumph over the eum-Creids. Over Sigurd."

"You can kill Sigurd?" Puck asked, doubtful.

"...I can break Sigurd," Gerhardt muttered, voice low, gaze unwavering. "Will you join me? Or does your 'master' disapprove?"

Puck hesitated. Then his jaw tightened, and something sharper lit in his eyes.

"He can rot," Puck spat. "I'll help you out—but on one condition."

"Tell me."

"I want to be family. Not just… some friend in the forest," Puck mumbled, eyes momentarily flicking away. "Something real."

He looked back at Gerhardt, whose expression had faltered at the word family.

"You'd claim the name Blanc?" Gerhardt mumbled, almost confused.

"Robin," Puck said. "Robin Blanc."

Gerhardt stared at him a moment longer, his hand unconsciously drifting to the crest on his tattered surcoat. He winced, feeling the twinge of a wound which was still raw.

But his gaze stayed steady.

"…Then that's what you'll be," Gerhardt said quietly. "My son."

Gerhardt's glistening form lurched through the throne room erratically, the creature's every whim constantly shaping its limbs anew—into whatever brutal forms it could dream.

The two holy knights were forced to keep their distance.

"Your flank!" Sigurd called out.

A mace came swinging toward Kylian's ribs. No amount of technique could block a blow like that. He rolled hard to the side, foregoing his usual finesse. Wasted energy from imprecision was better than death from precise failure.

"Duck!" Kylian yelled.

A colossal scythe bulged from Gerhardt's arm, too unwieldy even for the hulking creature.

Sigurd sank low as Gerhardt swung it in a huge circle, carving a jagged arc through the stone wall. The sheer weight of the scythe nearly made the creature stumble.

Hearing Bea whimper, Sigurd's blood froze. The fight had drifted far too close to them, and if it went on much longer they'd get hurt. That was no longer a possibility. It was a certainty. Whatever restraint Gerhardt once had…

The light in the creature's eyes was long gone.

This battle was slipping away from them. Gerhardt's frenzy was accelerating. And Sigurd was only slowing down.

The drive to save his daughter and see her face once more had pushed him past his limits. He'd ridden a second wind which was finally flagging—and everything that had miraculously been held at bay hit him all at once.

The wounds. The sheer exhaustion.

The hope in Sigurd's heart hardened as he realized he might not make it out of Amière alive after all.

"Then…" Sigurd muttered to himself.

He held perfectly still, baiting out Gerhardt's aggression. Then the moment the creature lurched, he dashed to the furthest wall.

The head of a flail whipped past his face. Its chain snapped taut, then came whistling back toward Sigurd's blindside in a vicious backswing—only to crash into Gerhardt's own ribs when Sigurd leapt over it.

Staggered, the creature swayed for a moment, its head hanging low. It made no move to defend itself.

Sigurd and Kylian recognized the opportunity at once.

It was perhaps their last.

"Kylian!" Sigurd yelled. His voice was breathless and hoarse. "Shield me—one final strike!"

His holy aura ignited, blindingly bright. "If it fails, see to their safety!"

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Sigurd's sword cut through air, lightning through the dark. A flurry of bright, holy ribbons burst from its edge.

They swept across Gerhardt's body, etching glowing lines that hissed and steamed. Yet the creature didn't so much as flinch. It was only a breath before it reacted to Kylian darting in low, summoning its weapons to dice him.

It seemed it had learned from when Kylian slipped past the effective range of its tendrils. As many as five arms coiled from Gerhardt's body, a host of axes sweeping through the air in a lattice-like barrage.

But ribbons of light still veiled the creature's vision.

Kylian moved through the storm with measured instinct—deflecting, twisting, pivoting—pouring everything he had into simply staying alive.

Five seconds of distraction was all Sigurd needed.

A single arc of steel, orichalcum and light swept through Gerhardt's neck.

Desperation and obsession swept over Ailn. It was the same feeling that overwhelmed him when he'd stared too long into Noué's basin.

This wasn't the time for this.

He couldn't let Puck unravel him. He'd have all the time in the world to wallow in cryptic misery later.

The voice called out again.

'Did you forget about me?'

Dozens of miasma spikes congealed above Ailn like storm clouds just beneath the canopy. Cold sweat ran down Ailn's back.

He took off in a sprint, weaving between tree trunks as cover, eyes constantly gauging whether those would spring to life and assault him too.

'...Are you trying to replace me?'

The worst part was Ailn couldn't tell when the voice was truly echoing his past life, or simply taunting him. His side throbbed where the spike had struck. The fog continued to creep in at the edge of his thoughts.

If Puck could summon the fog from anywhere in the forest, this fight should have ended a long time ago.

But what if he couldn't?

…Maybe there was a limited range. When Ailn and Camille were fighting the willows earlier, Puck hadn't used it to surround them.

And yet Ailn hadn't caught sight of him anywhere. The brush was thick, but Ailn's emerald vision had always been able to pick out the form of a young boy darting around the bushes.

His form… He'd already seen Puck partially disperse into black mist.

Ailn pushed his eyes to their limit, and the shimmering brush and thicket began to truly look like an emerald labyrinth.

He watched the forest's breath, trying to find any pattern at all that would help. Where was the fog leading?

He looked up. The canopy. It was swirling up.

Puck hadn't hidden himself in some moss-covered nook. He was following Ailn.

That's when Ailn heard it. Up in the trees. He'd been so focused on his vision, he'd missed it. Heavy breathing—literal gasping. Puck was running out of breath.

He charged the closest climbable tree at an angle, planted one foot on a thick root, then pushed off the trunk to grab its lowest hanging branch with both hands. He kicked against the trunk again for leverage, hauling himself up.

"Agh!" Puck's eyes widened at the sight of Ailn climbing toward him.

He jumped to the ground, and when Ailn followed, he dissolved into a swirl of smoky fog, the silhouette of a young boy still barely visible—like a connect-the-dots puzzle that hadn't been filled.

The fog pattern darted ahead, faster than Ailn would have expected, moving in quick bursts. Then it would slow, condensing in place, and Ailn would hear his ragged breathing.

He felt like a persistence hunter chasing a wounded deer. Puck was faltering—increasingly forced out of his fog-like form until he finally abandoned it altogether.

Puck's exhaustion got the better of him. Now, he was just a kid out of breath, trying to run away. And despite himself, Ailn felt the creep of pity.

"It's over, Puck," Ailn called out wearily. "Your pretend family's done."

"It's more… real than anything… you have!" Puck snarled through his gasps.

That's when the sound started.

Puck's last-ditch effort.

One voice screamed. Then another. A whole chorus, rising so violently it felt like thousands were screaming at once, loud enough that Ailn thought his ears might burst.

The screams from the forest carried even into the throne room. For Bea, those sounds of anguish were worse than the darkness.

And they were affecting her mother too. She'd started to stir in her sleep—flinching, even, whenever Bea tried to gently wake her. Her lips would whisper soundlessly. Her breath was shallow. Her shoulders were drawn inward, and her face scrunched up in a way Bea had never seen, even when her mother cried.

Ciel was having a nightmare.

"Don't cry, mama…" Bea whispered, stroking her mother's hair and trying not to cry herself. "Papa's… papa's gonna save us."

Although the truth was, she didn't know what was going to happen anymore.

Ever since Gerhardt had crept up on them and stolen them away to the throne room, her visions had vanished—like someone had blown out the candle she used to see the future. The threads she always followed were all tangled up in her hands, and her heart was tangled up too.

Bea sniffled.

"We'll be home… soon…"

Her voice cracked. "Nnh… h-hic…"

Bea's little heart was full of too many feelings all at once, and she couldn't fully stifle her hiccuping sobs.

"I'm here, little honey bee…" Ciel mumbled in her sleep.

Neither Sigurd nor Kylian could spare a thought for the distant screams. The creature that was once Gerhardt still stood without its head. The moment it was severed, the head simply rolled off the neck and fell into yet another sprouting arm.

Whether they were heralding Gerhardt's monstrous rebirth—or mourning what he'd become—it made little difference.

Despite its decapitation, the creature hardly faltered.

This battle was lost.

Only the Saintess could possibly destroy this creature. No, perhaps if Sigurd was at full strength… but what did that matter now? Regret would only hinder his resolve.

"Take them!" Sigurd barked.

With a grimace, yet no hesitation, Kylian sprinted toward the mother and child, while Sigurd rushed Gerhardt. There was no chance of victory. And there was no chance of surviving. That meant every ounce of his holy aura went toward one single task. Stalling.

There were no parries—only strikes. Prudence was cast aside, elegant footwork replaced with reckless momentum. He couldn't give up ground. He couldn't waste even a single heartbeat. For a few desperate seconds, he drove Gerhardt stumbling back.

Kylian went dashing past, Bea and Ciel in his arms.

…Sigurd still hadn't truly seen her.

She'd hovered at the edge of his vision, shivering next to the throne, only ever briefly lit by the glow of holy aura.

Glimpses of strawberry blonde hair. Still the same color he remembered from when she was an infant.

But she'd gotten so big. The last time Sigurd had gazed at her from afar, she'd barely been able to walk.

He forced the thought away.

He couldn't waver. He had to focus.

It was six arms against one, yet Sigurd's sword moved like a furious blur. And with a roar, his orichalcum blade thrust through the area where Gerhardt should have had a heart. Sigurd sent his aura surging through, knowing it wouldn't be enough.

Gerhardt's form convulsed. Yet the creature stayed calm. It reformed every arm. It set its head back into place. Then, one hand at a time, it gripped the sword still buried in its chest—ignoring the divine light burning through it.

Sigurd threw all his strength into wrenching it free—even what little remained in his wounded arm. Yet it wouldn't budge.

A seventh arm sprouted from Gerhardt's body, a jet-black spear simultaneously forming in the new hand, rising, poised to pierce Sigurd's heart while his sword remained uselessly buried in the creature's torso.

It was over.

He found comfort in the thought that his life had been given in their stead. Bea and Ciel would endure, and in time, find happiness. A kind he was never meant to know. Instead he'd be their shield—

… In the end, he hadn't done any better than his mother.

Before his life ended, Sigurd took one last indulgence, stealing a final glance behind to see his daughter's face.

She was crying.