WETRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator: ZERO_SUGAR

Editor: Reeters

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◈ I Pulled Out Excalibur

Chapter 205

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He Who Remembered (7)

Najin had never put much stock in the idea of an “inborn nature.” To him, a person’s character was shaped by background and upbringing; whatever temperament one was born with played only a minor role in who one became.

He believed so because his own life had proven it. As a child, he scavenged through refuse, stole what he needed, and hesitated at no dirty deed if it meant survival. Looking back, the boy who lived in the underground city was plainly an “evil man,” and he had no wish to deny it.

Whatever the reason, he had killed and drowned traitors as an object lesson, and of the many names given him, the most polite was “hound.”

Most people called him a human butcher, a filthy hound, or a headsman. How had someone so named come so far? His answer would be because he met good people, learned good things from them, and saw a wider world.

Human nature, he thought, was no more than a jar of clear water next to a painter—its hue depends on the colors poured into it. That was what he always believed, yet…

“Use me as a foothold and climb higher. Please, step on me and ascend as high as you can.” Stripped of every memory, even having forgotten himself, the Azure Spear spoke the same words.

Najin had to admit some people were simply born that way. There were those whose lowest bedrock, their innermost nature, was good.

– I don’t much believe in “nature” either, but there really are a few who come out of the womb already broken. Using your paint-water metaphor, sometimes what’s inside from the start isn’t clear water but pitch-black sludge. People can change by environment or the people they meet, of that I agree, but I do think there’s a first color already in the jar.

“A color?” Najin asked.

– Yes.

Merlin wiggled a finger,

– Though I don’t mean it’s someone’s “essence” that will never budge.

Even pitch-black sludge could be turned pure white if you kept pouring in clean pigment, though it took staggering effort.

– A jar born snow white will stain black from a single drop of ink. Keeping it white demands just as much effort.

“So which am I?”

– How should I know? I’m a mage, not a mind-reader.

Merlin grinned impishly.

– Still…

She watched Najin swing his spear, sweat running down his face, and her gaze softened.

– Whatever your nature is, the color you hold now is rather beautiful.

“Spare me the mush.”

– Compliments really do make you squirm.

Leaving Merlin’s teasing behind, Najin kept practicing.

The end was near, yet the Azure Spear’s technique was still incomplete, and it could hardly be otherwise—how could Najin supply parts the master himself no longer remembered? Besides, the case differed from the Helmet Knight’s, who had another pupil—Gerd—who also studied the Perfecting Sword; at the last moment, the knight regained his memory and finished the art.

The Azure Spear could not copy that—no miracle would restore what he had lost.

‘I would love to finish it,’ Najin thought.

Whenever he spoke of it, the Azure Spear only laughed. “Does it matter if it stays incomplete?”

“It feels like a shame.”

“Ha! Then finish it yourself. If it bothers you, build the rest with your own hands.” He laughed, free and easy. “Coming this far is miracle enough. I laid the foundation, so pile your work atop it. Fill the gaps with what is yours.” That, he said with a gentle look, pleased him more.

“It is the last day, then.” Gazing over the barren desert, the Azure Spear murmured, “You said I had three days; tomorrow is the end, so this will be our final goodnight.”

The sun set. In that brief twilight between day and night, they conversed. “Well then, Najin…” He gave his customary farewell. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The hourglass shattered; all that remained within was one handful of sand.

The next morning, the Azure Spear’s eyes were different—not hollow and clear, but hazy, as if half-awake. Even the Star of Requiem could not rouse him; all it did was show him how to read.

He read his own diary for a while, then closed it with a hollow laugh.

“The first pages… I don’t remember them,” he muttered. “I forgot halfway through. Reading seems pointless. Only the last lines say…” He looked at Najin. “I’m supposed to ask you and you would answer. Who are you?”

“Najin, a Free Knight.”

“Who am I?”

“You are the Azure Spear of Londinel, and my teacher.”

His memory did not last a day. Within the hour, he forgot, and each interval shrank. “Who are you?”

“I am your student.”

Question after question; answer after answer.

“Why am I like this? It hurts. I remember nothing, absolutely nothing. Why did I choose this?” he groaned, fear flooding those wavering eyes. The calm of the last night was gone.

Najin started to speak, then stopped. Instead, he raised his spear. A warrior spoke with the weapon he held. What words could not bear, he poured into the spear.

He stomped once, leaving his footprint in the sand.

The trembling Azure Spear lifted his head. While his master watched, Najin began to move. He knew little of the spear—he was a swordsman, not a lancer. All he had studied were the Helmet Knight’s fundamentals and the Battle Ram technique of the Golden-Horn Order—thrust-oriented skills. They pierced what blocked the way and did not command space.

The Azure Spear’s art was different. Londinel’s spearwork ruled not merely a point but a line, even an entire space, designed for one beset by many foes; that was the spear Najin wielded.

Each swing drew wind along the tip. Grains of sand danced, and once lifted, they glided where the spearhead led.

“Now it’s sand in the desolation,” Najin said while moving, “but…”

Kirchhoff once told him that, whenever the Azure Spear swung, blue petals scattered, so lovely that Kirchhoff shaped his Sword Aura after them.

“What is an Azure Hydrangea?” The words Najin spoke were Kirchhoff’s words to him, and three hundred years ago, the Azure Spear’s words to Kirchhoff. “A single hydrangea floret looks paltry—small and plain—but a hydrangea never blooms alone. Dozens of blossoms open at once and burst into fullness.”

Sand whirled. Najin laced aura along his weapon. It was no different from Sword Aura at heart. His aura glittered like starlight, and the grains caught it, shining like stars.

“Why is Londinel’s emblem an Azure Hydrangea? I think it is because its meaning lies not in one great bloom but in the many small ones that join together.” Najin had reached the state of Germination. He had yet to Flower, but could sense its outlines. “Because knights like you exist, Londinel can be beautiful.”

The star-lit grains sprouted. “You are the Azure Spear, Knight of Londinel. You asked why this happened to you and what worth there was in trading your memory.” Najin swept the spear wide. “There is a knight you once saved. His name is Kirchhoff, and in the Outland, no one is ignorant of him.”

The Swordmaster of a Forgotten Kingdom—the last Knight of Londinel, Kirchhoff.

“He remembers Londinel though all others forget, and he swings his sword for its sake. Thus, Londinel is not lost.”

Sand scattered with a whoosh.

Watching the petal-like grains, Najin gripped the shaft harder, gathering every flow he had woven. He did not know the technique’s name. How could he, when even the Azure Spear had forgotten? From its shape and Kirchhoff’s tale, he could guess, for the clue already existed: an Azure hydrangea.

A skill like a hydrangea, binding countless blossoms into one. Najin’s aura was not blue and there were no petals, but that did not matter.

He yanked the spear, as though clutching the very wind.

Every floating grain rushed toward him. They clashed, broke, flew apart and crashed anew, sparks of starlight bursting like fireworks.

The petals had not fully blossomed, but the starlight overflowed. Imperfect yet faithful, Najin panted and planted the spear in the sand after a final circle, legs braced so his stance held.

“And so,” he said, smiling at the Azure Spear, “your devotion had value.”

The Azure Spear’s eyes shone with the starlight Najin had raised. Gazing into that glow, he asked, “What…?” He pointed to the lingering traces of spear-work. “What spear is that? Beautiful. It’s a sight worth holding on to. I would emulate it. Truly beautiful…”

Najin answered, “A spear that fought against oblivion. Your spear.” He picked up the weapon the Azure Spear had once dropped and offered it back. “Let me teach you now. Take the spear.”

The Azure Spear grasped it in silence and copied Najin’s motion.

Memory meant nothing while he swung; in those moments, he was the Azure Spear.

He swung again and again. Blue flowers bloomed at the tip. On the barren desert they opened—one, two, ten, dozens, hundreds.

Germination, Flowering, and Full Bloom, the blossoms filled the waste. Toward them, the Azure Spear thrust his weapon. To a first-rate warrior, the weapon is an extension of the hand, so he reached for the flowers.

He gathered them, binding every bloom into a single hydrangea; a blue hydrangea flowered in the heart of the desert.

Looking upon it, the Azure Spear laughed, long and content. “Ah.” He lifted his gaze from hydrangea to desert, from desert to sky, and lastly to Najin. “Najin.” He looked at his pupil, searching for final words, but not for long. He spoke a farewell much like the one he always used. “Go forward. Toward tomorrow.”

Those were the Azure Spear’s dying words.

The last handful of sand in the broken hourglass scattered on the wind.

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