Copyright
Rokka: Braves of the Six Flowers, Vol. 3
Ishio Yamagata
Translation by Jennifer Ward
Cover art by Miyagi
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
ROKKA NO YUSHA
© 2011 by Ishio Yamagata, Miyagi
All rights reserved. First published in Japan in 2011 by SHUEISHA, Inc.
English translation rights arranged with SHUEISHA, Inc. through Tuttle-Mori Agency, Inc., Tokyo.
English translation © 2017 by Yen Press, LLC
Yen Press, LLC supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
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First Yen On eBook Edition: January 2020
Originally published in paperback in December 2017 by Yen On.
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ISBN: 978-1-9753-1163-6
E3-20200108-JV-NF-ORI
Prologue
The Evil God and the Flower
From the putrid muck sprouted a single flower—and that was all.
The Weeping Hearth, where the Saint of the Single Flower once defeated the Evil God, was nothing but mud and the lone blossom.
Massive walls encompassed the westernmost point of the Howling Vilelands—location of the Evil God’s resting place known as the Weeping Hearth. Erected by one of the fiend commanders, Cargikk, the bulwarks of unhewn rock formed two concentric circles. The radius of the outer ring was about three kilometers, while that of the inner stretched some five hundred meters. Despite their crude construction, they were larger and more solid than any defensive fortification that could be found in the human realms.
The area commonly called the Weeping Hearth actually referred to the small, solid red-black zone within the inner wall. Toxins oozing from the Evil God’s body had seeped deep into the ground there. Without so much as a single blade of grass or any animal life, the dead land sprinkled with rocks made for a barren vista.
In that place, there was only sludge and a single flower.
“Aaadlet…”
An unsettling mass of sediment about the size of a horse’s stable lay atop the lifeless earth. It squelched and writhed as if in terrible pain, black as coal, tinged with bloody crimson. Red tentacle-like limbs protruded from within. The five-meter-long appendages reached out, seemingly searching for something, but then, as if resigned, returned to the mud.
“Freeemy…Rolooonia…”
Near the center of the fetid mound was a pair of large lips that would rise to the surface, disappear, then emerge again, only to withdraw once more. The red, full, womanly lips wailed in a hoarse, feminine voice. The uncanny timbre, laced with hatred and bloodlust, called out the names of the Braves.
“Goldooof…Chaaaamo…Aaadlet…Haaans…Mooora…Chaaamo…Freeemy…Nashetaaania…” The mud writhed and droned on and on in that hate-filled voice.
This was the Evil God—the worst calamity ever to befall the human race, and progenitor of fiends.
Every few minutes, the muck would give birth to a strange creature. Each was about the size of a kitten, and no two looked exactly the same. One was a snake with innumerable eyes scattered across its body; another had the appearance of a monkey in the upper half, and that of a winged insect in the lower. Then came a dog with no legs or tail—just a head and a torso. After, a praying mantis with a head and nothing else. Some of them, like the seven monkeys’ arms fused together, didn’t even seem to be living creatures. The eerie organisms emerged from the corruption to wriggle, flounder, and squirm as if in existential despair for having been born so repulsive.
Following these births, the red tentacles would immediately snatch the eerie creatures, throttle them, and then return the deceased to their squalid beginnings. Birthing only to kill, murdering only to give life. The Evil God continued its meaningless cycle without end.
The thing imparted no sense of dignity, none of the beauty that wicked things possess, and none of the nobility begotten by a prolonged existence. Its form was ugly and foul and pitifully small. Barnah, the Brave of the Six Flowers who had fought the Evil God seven hundred years in the past, had described it as “so wretched it inspires despair.”
Beside the Evil God bloomed a single flower—so small it could comfortably fit in a child’s palm. Its six petals, pale purple, were not steeped in the Evil God’s toxin. Softly, gently, as if nestling close to the abomination, the blossom sprouted from the ground. It was said the Saint of the Single Flower had planted it here a thousand years ago. But the true nature of this flower was not recorded in any documents or records. None aside from the Saint of the Single Flower knew if it had any power at all.
Three times humanity had fought the Evil God and defeated it. The first battle had been one thousand years ago, when the Saint of the Single Flower had sealed the deadly being in the Weeping Hearth.
The second battle had been seven hundred years ago. The Braves of the Six Flowers had kept Archfiend Zophrair in check while Heroic King Folmar and Bowmaster Barnah fought the Evil God. Their enemy had retaliated with its tentacles and toxins. Amid the suffocating stench, Folmar’s sword sliced the sordid lump into pieces while Barnah’s fiery arrow burned it. After an hour-long battle, the Evil God raised a hair-raising shriek and fell still.
The third battle had been three hundred years ago. More than a thousand fiends had flooded into the Weeping Hearth as the second generation of Braves charged the Evil God. With Marlie, the Saint of Blades, and Hayuha, the Saint of Time, holding enemy forces at bay, Merlania, the Saint of Thunder, activated a hieroformic gem. She had spent the past thirty years charging it purely for the sake of taking down the Evil God. Scores of lightning bolts streamed from the heavens, incinerating their quarry, and once more it became still.
The legends say that both times the Evil God fell, the Crests of the Six Flowers had shone brightly, and at the same time, all of the fiends had stopped in place and wailed at the sky. The grief-stricken moans of the fiends traveled far, beyond even the borders of the Howling Vilelands. According to the tales, although the Six Braves had only moments earlier been fighting for their lives, when they saw the fiends contorted in grief, they felt pity for their foes. And even when the surviving Braves departed the Howling Vilelands, the keening never ceased.
According to what some say, once the fight was over, the crest of each Brave began gradually fading, and after about six months they had disappeared entirely.
One of the Braves who had returned alive, Marlie, the Saint of Blades, had an analysis of their nemesis to share: The Evil God was the master of the fiends but did not give them any particular orders, and likewise, the fiends did not
look to it for direction. The Evil God most likely lacked a conscious mind. If it did possess one, it was equal to that of an animal or even less. Nothing more than a manifestation of pure hate for humanity, with no purpose beyond wishing their death and destruction.
On the other hand, it was not unusual for fiends to be sentient. Some of them were even smarter than humans. The commanders giving orders to the rank and file belonged to that class of cognizance.
The monsters’ allegiance to the Evil God was absolute. To a human it would be unthinkable to so fully serve a thing with no conscious will, but fiends were different. They devoted everything to their service of the Evil God and lived only to grant its desires.
Marlie wrote that loyalty to the Evil God was the meaning of the fiends’ existence, and without it they could not be.
Marlie, the Saint of Blades was generally correct—with one exception.
One fiend did possess its own will, its own ambitions, and lived not for the Evil God but for itself. Its name was Dozzu. Around two centuries ago, it had left the Howling Vilelands for the realms of man. Over the course of two hundred years, it had laid its plans, making the preparations necessary to fulfill its ambitions before eventually returning to the Howling Vilelands. Close by Dozzu’s side was the fiend’s one and only comrade, a girl it had personally nurtured: Nashetania.
Chapter 1
Reunion
“I wish to hear all your thoughts,” said Mora.
It had been fourteen days since the Evil God’s awakening. After escaping Tgurneu’s scheme, the group of seven had proceeded to the Bud of Eternity, the safe zone within the Howling Vilelands. There they waited for the severely injured Hans and Mora to heal.
There was hardly a fiend to be seen around the Bud of Eternity. They seemed to be lying in wait farther west, in a place called the Cut-Finger Forest. The vast woodland covered about two-fifths of the Howling Vilelands, and it was so named because a thousand years before, the Saint of the Single Flower lost a finger on her left hand in an attack there.
As they waited for the pair’s wounds to heal, the group discussed various topics—first on the list being who might be the seventh. Each of them presented what clues they had found, and they reviewed their speculations and arguments many times over, but in the end they reached no conclusions. They couldn’t even guess how the fake crest had been created.
They had discussed in further detail their fight within the Phantasmal Barrier. After finding out Nashetania’s true identity, Adlet had passed out, so he asked his allies what had happened while he was unconscious. They told him Hans, Mora, and Chamo had chased Nashetania in circles, but near dawn she had escaped the barrier and disappeared. They considered why Nashetania had turned traitorous and how deeply the fiends had pervaded human affairs, but they found no answers there either.
However, Fremy had provided inside information about the fiends. Apparently among Tgurneu’s subordinates were some known as “specialists.” Rather than ordering them to evolve themselves to be stronger in battle, Tgurneu instructed them to focus exclusively on the unique abilities they each possessed. Certain fiends might specialize in pursuit, while others acquired the ability to invade the body of a Saint and block their powers. One was skilled at interrogating humans. Another fiend had an extremely powerful sense of smell; and there was the creature that had gained the ability to give birth to a child through intercourse with humans. Fremy wasn’t informed as to the powers of every single one of these specialized weapons, but she told the party all she knew about their abilities and appearances.
After that, the group discussion continued to several other points. By the time the night ended, they had exhausted their supply of talking material. But then suddenly Mora asked for their opinions on a certain matter.
“What do you want to know, Mora?” asked Adlet.
“I suggest each of us share right now whom we suspect,” she replied.
“I told you before, we’re not going to throw accusations around.”
“And I understand that. But telling us not to have suspicions won’t change the reality that we do. Knowing everyone else’s misgivings could help us avoid false accusations, don’t you agree?”
The suggestion made Adlet uneasy. But Fremy said softly, “I don’t think it’s a bad idea.”
“Meow-hee, I don’t think there’s meowch point though,” said Hans.
“Of course, we will kill no one until we find definitive proof,” assured Mora. “This is ultimately just for possible reference in the future.”
“Well…I guess we don’t have much choice,” said Adlet, deflating.
“I suspect Goldof.” Fremy was the first to speak. “He served Nashetania. He’s the most obvious suspect.”
“Oh? Chamo suspects you, Fremy,” Chamo cut in. “It’s so obvious. You were our enemy until just a little while ago. Chamo hasn’t forgotten that fight, you know.”
“I’m sure. Anyone else?” Fremy seemed unbothered by Chamo’s remarks.
“…Speaking frankly, I suspect Goldof as well,” Mora said next. “His service to Nashetania doesn’t prove he’s the seventh. However, I sense nothing that suggests he’s truly devoted to our victory.”
Goldof silently listened to the three speak. With listless eyes, he gazed vacantly at the ground, hunched over where he sat. He had been like that ever since they had arrived at the Howling Vilelands.
“Goldof, if you aren’t the seventh, should you not contribute more to the group? You must show us with your words and your attitude that you’re not the traitor. It can’t be pleasant to be suspected like this.” But Mora’s concern didn’t reach him. His heart was still closed to her words, if he even heard them at all.
When Adlet had first met Goldof, he had been far different. He’d been a strong, loyal young knight, slightly arrogant on occasion—or that was the impression Adlet had gotten, anyway. But once Nashetania had left them, it was as if he’d become an entirely different person.
“What do you think, Goldof?” asked Adlet. But the youth kept his silence.
Chamo raised her hand again. “Yeah, so Fremy’s suspicious and all, but Chamo thinks Rolonia’s weird, too.”
“Eeep!” Rolonia, who had been listening quietly thus far, yelped with a hint of hysteria. “Wh-wh-why…might that be?”
“Hmm, well…’cause who knows what you’re really thinking, you know? It’s just fishy.”
“I…I see…I-I’m sorry. I’ll, um…try harder,” Rolonia said, trembling like a leaf.
“Oh, but maybe it really is Fremy, after all. Yeah, my money’s on Fremy,” Chamo declared flippantly.
Mora sighed. “What about you, Hans?” she asked.
Hans put a hand on his chin, considering for a moment. “Me…? I’ve got my doubts about Adlet an’ Chamo, meow.” All present, aside from Goldof, looked at Hans with surprise. “I’m not thinkin’ about who’s fishy. What’s important to me is who we’d have to worry about most if they was the seventh. If one of us is the seventh, the most dangerous’d be Adlet and next’d be Chamo. That’s why I suspect ’em.”
Adlet was a bit impressed. That’s one way to think about it.
“So what about mew, Rolonia?” Hans passed the question on to her. Rolonia examined the faces around her, seemingly reluctant to speaking.
“Just say it,” Fremy advised her. “Chamo just said she doesn’t know what you’re really thinking, didn’t she?”
Very quietly, Rolonia said, “I suspect…Goldof. It’s…for the same reasons as Lady Mora.”
Three of the five so far had chosen Goldof. The situation didn’t bode well for him, whether he was a real Brave or the impostor. But still he showed no sign that any of this had affected him.
“What about you, Adlet?” asked Fremy.
“I won’t say. I’m the leader. If I announce who I suspect, it’ll damage trust,” Adlet said flatly.
“Well, meowbe that’s fer the best,” said Hans.
All eyes turned to the final
member, Goldof. He raised his head, and his empty gaze wandered over the others.
“Goldof,” said Hans. “Whaddaya think? You’re listenin’ to our talk, ain’tcha, meow?”
“…I’ve been listening,” Goldof said after a pause.
“So who d’ya suspect, meow?”
“…Nobody.” His declaration confused them all. Should this have been taken as a confession that he was the seventh? “I don’t…care who’s the seventh. I don’t care…at all.”
“Goldof. That attitude is the very reason Rolonia and I are suspicious of you.” Mora was finally getting angry. “Why will you not think about who the seventh might be? Why will you not tell us what you know about Nashetania? Do you really want to protect the world?!”
“…Protect…the world?” Just for a moment, life returned to Goldof’s eyes. He looked at his palms and then clenched his fists. “Yeah…Mora…I’ll…protect the world. I have to…protect it…I’ll…protect the world…That was why I…” His fists began trembling with a strange creaking sound. His grip was so tight the bones in his hands were grinding together.
“That’s right, Goldof. You’ll keep everyone safe. Are you with us again?” Mora put her hand over Goldof’s, but he coldly shook her off. Then, once his head dropped down again, he wouldn’t reply no matter what the others tried.
“Well, that was pointless,” said Fremy.
“So it seems. I’m sorry,” Mora apologized.
“Enough about this,” said Hans. “I care meowr about Tgurneu.”
“Right,” Fremy said. “The Cut-Finger Forest is ahead of us. Tgurneu is probably waiting to ambush us there.”
Even once the conversation turned to other matters, Adlet kept watching Goldof. I’ll protect the world. For some reason, Goldof’s claim had not felt promising to him. In all honesty, though Adlet hadn’t said so, he suspected Goldof, too—he just didn’t seem to be a part of the group.
Even amid the paranoia smothering the party, they’d still been building a sense of unity. Hans, Adlet acknowledged, was sharp and skilled. Despite his remarks just now, Adlet knew the assassin trusted him. Chamo was a handful, but Adlet had discovered she was surprisingly tractable sometimes, and even cute. Mora had betrayed them once, but her desire to protect her family and her allies was real. He was glad to have Rolonia with them, since she trusted him from the bottom of her heart and would always back him up. Fremy was always at odds with him, but still, in his eyes, she was the most important of all.
Rokka: Braves of the Six Flowers, Vol. 3 Page 1
