Re:ZERO -Starting Life in Another World-, Vol. 7

by Tappei Nagatsuki

  CHAPTER 5

  WILHELM VAN ASTREA

  1

  —Let us speak of the man named Wilhelm Trias.

  Wilhelm was born the third son of the Trias family, a family of local nobles in the Kingdom of Lugunica.

  The Trias family was an old, storied family granted land along the kingdom’s northernmost border with the Holy Kingdom of Gusteko. This said, its fame as a family of warriors was a thing of the past; by the time of Wilhelm’s birth, it had become a small, weak baronial family, with only a meager fief and a tiny populace to its name.

  In real terms, it was no more than an example of nobility fallen from grace.

  Wilhelm’s brothers were well removed from him in age, and his upbringing had no connection to inheritance of family leadership. Furthermore, he, lacking the aptitude for civil government of his brothers, encountered wielding the sword as his one path leading to a future.

  The sword decorating the great hall of their mansion had once been used by a string of men in the Trias family to gain fame as warriors for the kingdom, but to the present Trias family, it was simply a treasured sword to be admired on a wall.

  Even Wilhelm did not remember what triggered it.

  But when he drew the treasured sword, which he had never before even set hands upon, out of its scabbard, the way he was instantly captivated by the beauty of the steel—that, he remembered distinctly.

  Before he knew it, he’d been taking the family sword on his own to the mountains out back, swinging it from morning till night.

  The first time he touched the sword, he was eight; he became accustomed to the length and weight of the blade, and when his limbs grew so that they were no longer mismatched, Wilhelm was fourteen, and the finest sword wielder of the domain.

  “I’ll go to the capital and enter the royal army. Then I’ll become a knight.”

  And it was at fourteen years old that Wilhelm spoke those words and ran off from home, carrying the brainless dream any boy had thought of at least once.

  The trigger was on the night of a storm when he had an argument with his oldest brother. His brother had begun a “What will you do for your future?” lecture to Wilhelm, immersed in only the sword and minded to associate with brats and scoundrels in the territory.

  Through swinging a sword, he’d felt himself growing stronger and stronger, and that by itself had made him happy. And so, the older brother’s words toward his younger, lacking any ambition for the future, were very strict. He had piled sound argument upon sound argument, and Wilhelm, deficient in words, spoke those words as the prelude to his flying out the door.

  He followed them with his trademark phrase, “You can’t understand how I feel!” and left, and in truth, the result was that Wilhelm left his family with nothing but a sword and a small amount of money.

  It was an unplanned departure, but Wilhelm was able to safely reach the royal capital.

  Wilhelm, triumphant as he arrived, made his way to the Royal Palace with all haste, and records note that he entered the royal army as a common soldier.

  If it were the current era, a stray ruffian arriving in an attempt to pass through the castle gate under such circumstances would have been rightfully and properly turned away. However, at that time, there was a civil war with an alliance of demi-human tribes centered upon the eastern lands of the kingdom—the Demi-human War had long continued, and the urgency was so great that no number of volunteers seemed enough.

  It was then that a boy appeared, selling himself as having fair skill in the sword. He was welcomed with both hands, and Wilhelm entered the royal army without the slightest hindrance.

  Thus, unconnected to setbacks or travails, Wilhelm stepped onto the field of his first battle.

  There, for the first time, the boy came to know the wall called reality. His skill with the blade, unmatched on his home soil, served nothing against veterans of the field of battle, and he was confronted by his own recklessness and conceit.

  Such was the hardship of youth, the baptism of one’s first battle.

  —Yes. By rights, it should have been like that for anyone.

  But in truth, without ever having faced live combat, Wilhelm’s skill with the sword easily surpassed fifteen normal youths put together.

  “What? They really weren’t as tough as I thought.”

  In his first battle, the boy soldier had built a mountain of demi-human corpses, and from atop that mound, he thrust his sword into his attackers.

  No one could behold him and not feel afraid of the bloodstained future that awaited him.

  Wilhelm’s abnormal strength in the sword was multiplied over the days he swung a sword in his homeland. From morning to evening, until his energy gave out, Wilhelm had lived by continuing to swing the sword—every day, from age eight to fourteen, six years without pause.

  Even once he had entered the royal army, his lifestyle of devoting every free moment to the sword did not change.

  Within the same unit, there were perhaps one or two people who reached out to Wilhelm, but he rebuffed their overtures, immersing himself only in the sword for days and months until the boy became a man.

  Unbroken by reality, yet unsatisfied with himself, Wilhelm continued to swing a sword on the field of battle, unable to quench the feeling of gloom within him.

  With his blade, by rending the flesh of others, bathing in their blood, and taking the lives of his opponents, he proved that he was stronger—and he knew that only in those moments did a dark joy sprout within him.

  As knowledge of his skill with the sword spread, the name of the rural-born swordsman who refused all promotion, to knight or anything else, became known in both the royal army and the Demi-human Alliance by the alternative name of Sword Devil—a devil of the sword, rushing across the battlefield, and smiling only when cutting a person down.

  It was a name that became synonymous with fright and hatred, and both friend and foe steered wide of him.

  His exploits were beyond counting, and yet, there was no question of promoting Wilhelm to knight.

  He did not associate with others, stoically devoting himself to the sword, rampaging on the battlefield without regard for his allies, leaping into the enemy formation, dancing as he made flowers of blood bloom.

  Such a man could not be worthy of a flowery title such as “knight.”

  In a kingdom with a long tradition of chivalry, Wilhelm’s existence was loathed as an interloper regardless of his many services to the nation.

  And Wilhelm himself never once thought of changing that circumstance.

  He did not think like a knight, with their high pride, regard for the lives of others, and their tendency to polish the nobility of their own souls. When he fought, he killed people; he made their blood flow and smashed their lives to pieces. He, who took more joy in that than anything, was not suited for knighthood, and if it stopped him from being able to enjoy that, he wanted nothing to do with being a knight.

  His longing for battle was warped, but over a great deal of time, the heart of the young man named Wilhelm rotted.

  And it was when he was eighteen—when he had been in the royal army for three years, and when none in the army knew not the name “Sword Devil”—that a gap in that heart was born.

  2

  She had beautiful, long red hair, and from the side, her face was so pretty it made him shiver.

  With the enlargement of the battle lines, Wilhelm was temporarily sent back to the royal capital from the front lines, forced to take leave that he suggested was unnecessary.

  Separated from the battlefield, and the rampant smell of blood, gunpowder, and death, Wilhelm, with too much time on his hands, slipped out of the castle gates with his beloved sword in hand, heading for the lower parts of the capital.

  Since running out on his own family, the treasured sword he had taken with him in lieu of a parting gift of coin had become greatly worn, but over the course of ten years, he was used to that beloved blade like none other. It was not t
hat he could not use other swords, but when he was bent on taking the lives of others, that sword was indeed best.

  Walking all alone, Wilhelm headed down a street in the lower quarter with no sign of life. His destination was the very edge of the royal capital, a run-down district that had been abandoned midway through its construction.

  The capital went from the Nobles’ District through Market Street, continuing through the Commons, and the abandoned district had apparently been conceived a ways back, but construction had been aborted quite some time prior with no sign of resuming anytime soon. The word was it would likely stay that way until the civil war was resolved.

  “……”

  In the morning, the unfinished district had no signs of human life, and if any did exist, it would be scum gathering there for no good purpose. They were cowards that would scatter like baby spiders if a little antagonism hit them.

  Of late, not even those outlaws had come close to the Sword Devil, wholly devoted to the blade, unafraid and unawares when he entered the unfinished district on his days off.

  “Just as well, I suppose.”

  The reason Wilhelm swung his sword in the lower city rather than at the parade grounds of the Royal Palace was so that his ears would be undisturbed by annoying voices, immersing himself into a silent world where he was alone.

  Wilhelm no longer sought to measure his skill by crossing swords with others.

  He turned toward the swordsman he imagined in the back of his mind, counterattacking his unleashed steel. The training he had continued since his youth always had Wilhelm crossing swords with the person he considered his greatest foe.

  “Aren’t you a bad looker?”

  His eyes oozed with bloodlust; his lips were contorted in madness.

  The empty-eyed swordsman with whom he crossed swords every day was his reflection in the mirror.

  —To Wilhelm, his greatest enemy was always himself.

  This was not in a philosophical sense but rather, a realistic view of his might.

  On the battlefield, he confronted his opponents—in other words, he took their lives. Having survived the battlefield, on the edge of life-and-death, there had been none on the field of battle to date that was mightier than he.

  Then what worthy rival was there to cross swords with than he, a man he could not kill no matter how hard he tried?

  Therefore, during his leave, he went to a place devoid of others to immerse in a sword dance against himself.

  For it was only there, in a sword drama none should ever yearn for in reality, that he truly felt what it meant to be alive—

  “Ah, I’m quite sorry.”

  That day, the sight of a beautiful girl was the foreign element wedging itself into the Sword Devil’s world.

  To swing his sword and meet himself in deadly combat—Wilhelm, on his way to the unfinished district with that aim, stopped when he noticed a different guest ahead of him.

  Normally, the heart of the unfinished district Wilhelm used was a completely empty space. The footing was comparatively level, and the breadth made it an ideal place for him—and yet, a foreign element rested in Wilhelm’s place of relaxation, tilting its head slightly toward him.

  “To think someone would come to a place like this, and so early in the morning—”

  “”

  The girl addressed Wilhelm with a little smile.

  But Wilhelm responded to the greeting with a simple slap of his antagonistic aura to drive her away.

  He felt as if he was shooing away an annoying insect. An amateur amid such antagonism would beat a hasty retreat; even a man of skill would likely perceive Wilhelm’s level of skill and do likewise.

  But the girl did nothing of the sort.

  “…What is the matter? Such a scary face.”

  She parried Wilhelm’s antagonism, continuing her words as if it were nothing.

  Wilhelm felt annoyed, clicking his tongue.

  This was an opponent upon whom such hostility was ineffective—in other words, someone completely unrelated to the martial arts. At the very least, someone upon whom violence was effective would have shown some reaction to Wilhelm’s antagonism.

  But to someone unconnected to such things, it was simple coercion. Depending on the opponent, someone might even receive it with a simple narrowing of the eyes.

  In the case of the individual before him, she was a shining example of the latter.

  “Woman, what are you doing here on a morning like this?”

  He hurled abuse at her, but she had yet to release Wilhelm from her gaze.

  The girl made a little “hmm…” at Wilhelm’s words, then said, “I would like to ask you the very same thing, but that would be a bit too mean, yes? Your face says you have no sense of humor.”

  “There are many dangerous men in this area. I cannot approve of a woman for walking around it alone.”

  “Ah, are you worried about me?”

  “It is possible that I am one of those dangerous men…”

  Wilhelm replied sarcastically to the girl’s lighthearted comment, making a sound with the hilt of his sword to announce the presence of his weapon. But the girl did not turn an eye to Wilhelm’s action, pointing behind her as she said, “Over here.”

  The girl, sitting on a stairway, shifted her finger to a building opposite that against which she leaned. As it was a place Wilhelm could not see from his position, his brows furled at being invited to come closer.

  “It is not that I do not wish to see, but…”

  “Never mind that, come on, come on.”

  Wilhelm’s cheek twitched at the tone, like that used when coddling a child, but he calmed himself and went over to her. He walked alongside the woman higher up on the stairway, leaning forward to peer at what lay on the other side.

  “……”

  On the other side, the hot rays of the morning sun were shining on a broad, yellow flower garden.

  With Wilhelm at a loss for words, the girl lowered her voice and confessed her secret to him in a whisper.

  “They stopped maintaining this district quite some time ago, yes? I thought no one would come, so I planted some flowers. I came over to see the results for myself.”

  Wilhelm had walked that way many times, but not once had he noticed the presence of the flower garden, even though all it would have taken to see them was for him to stretch his back a little higher and broaden his vision.

  With Wilhelm’s mouth remaining closed, the girl looked at the side of his face and asked, “Do you like flowers?”

  He turned to her, seeing the small, gentle smile her face made as he stared.

  “No, I hate them,” he replied in a low voice, curling his lips.

  3

  From then on, Wilhelm and the girl continued to encounter each other from time to time.

  On his days off, Wilhelm would walk to the unfinished district in the morning, only to find her having arrived ahead of him, bathed in a quiet wind as she gazed at the flowers.

  Then, when she noticed that Wilhelm had arrived, she would ask him, “Do you like flowers now?”

  He would deny it with a shake of his head, immersing himself in swinging the sword, acting like he had forgotten her very existence.

  When his sweat flowed and he raised his head, finishing his deadly struggle with himself, he would see the girl still there.

  “You really have a lot of time on your hands,” he’d always say in a sarcastic voice.

  He thought that, bit by bit, the amount of time they spent speaking gradually increased.

  They always spoke after he’d swung his sword, but he began to exchange a few words before swinging his sword as well, and the conversations after he swung his sword also became a little longer.

  Gradually, he went to that place at an even earlier hour, sometimes arriving to the flower garden before the girl. “Ah, you are so early today,” the girl would say, a regretful smile coming over her.

  —It must have been three months since me
eting her like that before they’d exchanged names.

  The girl called herself Theresia, adding, “For now,” sticking out her tongue a little.

  When Wilhelm replied with his introduction, she pouted when he said, “I’ve been calling you Flower Girl until now.”

  He thought that exchanging names meant intruding onto each other’s circumstances to some small degree. To date, their exchanges had been harmless and inoffensive, but their quality steadily began to change.

  One day, Theresia asked him, “Why do you swing the sword?”

  Without a moment’s concern, Wilhelm replied, “Because it is all I have.”

  As was typical, Wilhelm’s return to military duty was greeted with days filled with the scent of fresh blood.

  In due course, the civil war with the demi-humans had intensified; over and over, he casually carried out his missions, slipping past an enemy’s magic into his flank, slicing him from toe to chin.

  He rushed overland, broke through the wind, flew into the enemy camp, and sent the general’s head flying. He returned to his own camp with the head impaled on the tip of his sword, and bathed in gazes of acclamation and fright, he exhaled.

  Suddenly, he realized that on the battlefield below his feet, even as blood flowed, there were flowers blooming, swaying in the wind.

  And now, without being conscious of it, he took care not to tread upon them.

  “Do you like flowers now?”

  “No, I hate them.”

  “Why do you swing the sword?”

  “Because that is all I have.”

  It was his ritualistic exchange with Theresia—when they spoke about flowers, Wilhelm was able to reply with a small smile. But when they spoke of the sword, somehow, it felt painful to give his stock reply.

  Why did he swing a sword?

  I have nothing else, he thought day after day, and there, his thought process had ended.

  When he seriously pondered the question in search of an answer, Wilhelm turned back all the way to the day he had first held a sword in his hand.