“I guess that thing’s just too big to do it all at once,” Yukinari muttered, joining his hands in front of his chest. He pressed the palm of his left hand against the palm of his right.
“In that case—”
He focused his attention on his power. The construction could be simple. He really needed no more than a cylinder. He had made primers and powder so many times that they were second nature. What this moment demanded was something with the firepower of an anti-tank weapon. If he only planned on using it once, then all he needed was a barrel. He could make it of chrome-molybdenum steel, and he could load nitroglycerin, nitrocellulose, and nitroguanidine into the base. A large-diameter primer could cap it off.
The rounds would be stainless steel, armor-piercing. And the caliber...
There was a collective sound of shock as, the next moment, Yukinari pulled a “staff” nearly two meters in length out of his left palm. No—it was not a staff, of course, even though it was shaped like one. It was, essentially, an oversized .44 Magnum bullet. The caliber must have been three times normal, the amount of gunpowder probably twenty-seven times, and it had a cylinder attached as a barrel. Yukinari had produced it so quickly that it could boast nothing but the utmost simplicity, but as something that was only to be used once, that was enough.
“Try this on for size!”
He pointed the “spear” at the statue’s body, lining it up with a chink in the thing’s armor. Then he took a step back and raised his right hand, before giving the base of the “spear”—that is, the primer—a solid smack.
There was a gunshot—no, an explosion. Next came a screech of metal, and the guardian saint’s torso caved in as a 132-caliber bullet—a massive thing 1.3 inches in diameter—went through the air, through the statue, and out the other side. Crimson “holy oil” poured like blood from the wound—and then the Missionary Order’s anti-personnel weapon fell to its knees as if it were dying.
The knights uttered inarticulate screams, nearly tripping over themselves as they fled. Yukinari turned toward them, picking up Durandall, which he had cast aside. He took aim—
“Yuki!” Dasa came running up, wrapping her arms around the blue armor. “Yuki, Yuki, Yuki!”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, just—stop shaking me,” he muttered as she rattled him with her embrace. By the time she stopped, though, the missionaries were out of range.
And then he was confronted with the shocked expressions on Fiona’s and Berta’s faces.
“Who, or... what... are you?” Fiona breathed.
It was understandable. The “angel” had begun as a man-made human, one of the miracles intended to be trotted out to convert the populace. A tool for evangelism. Behold, the missionaries could say, the wonders of the power of our faith! This rock has become bread. Or, In response to our faith, God in Heaven has sent unto us a messenger to work mighty deeds among us.
Of course, the existence of this creature was a secret to all outside the Church, and the angel itself lacked any will of its own. Even its human form owed much to its purpose as an object of display. Consciousness or selfhood could only make a tool harder to use. Thus, while ten or so “angels” besides Yukinari existed, they were really no more than puppets made of flesh. They only functioned when used by the missionaries—in that sense, they were much like the statue of the guardian saint.
Of all the angels, only Yukinari had a sense of self. Jirina had made him, and the Church had killed her for it; his creation, they said, was an act of rebellion against the highest echelons of the Church.
But Yukinari, for his part, simply gave a rictus grin under his mask.
“That’s a damn good question.”
●
Yukinari and the others loaded the wounded knights onto the huge wagon and went back to Friedland. The remaining soldiers of the Missionary Order were there completing the “conversion” of the people—that is, giving them the Holy Mark. But at the sight of Yukinari in his blue armor, they took fright, and in terror surrendered. All he had to do was show them a piece of the statute he had destroyed. If he had defeated their most powerful weapon, then there was no way the knights, with their reduced numbers, could control this town.
“Th—This is not over!” one of the knights, who had been gathered in the town square, said hatefully. He was one of those who had come to the sanctuary; according to Fiona, his name was Arlen. She said they had been classmates when she studied in the capital. But for all their acquaintance, she seemed perfectly disgusted by him.
“N-Next time, we’ll—we’ll bring something even more awesome! Staggering beyond belief! Five guardian statues—no, ten!”
“So,” Fiona said to him, sounding more exasperated than angry, “you’re going to go back to the headquarters of the True Church and tell them you’re an incompetent who let their ultimate weapon be destroyed by one boy?”
Arlen goggled at her, lost for words.
Fiona whispered to him: “How about we make a deal, you and I?”
“A—A deal?”
“Mmhm. You send back a false report to your superiors. You get to save face, and we don’t get bothered by anymore ‘civilizing’ armies. If you promise not to do anything untoward, we’ll let you knights live here.”
If they simply chased Arlen and the rest out of the village, the Missionary Order would make other attempts to convert the area. Of course, the same went if they were to kill the knights in their custody. If the Friedlanders could convince the men to send a false report, though, it might work out to everyone’s benefit.
But Arlen responded, “Who are you s-slaves to make such offers to us?!” He pointed at the rings that everyone but Fiona wore around their necks. People are quick to show their true colors under duress, and despite his euphemisms and speeches of earlier, it was now clear that to Arlen and his companions, these country people were little different from servants.
“That’s right!” the other knights began to chime in. “You cannot defy us, so long as you wear the Holy Mark...!”
It seemed a special tone had to be sounded in order to release the rings.
“Are these the collars you were talking about?” Yukinari walked over to a young child—one of those he had met at the orphanage—and touched her neck.
“Sorry. I just need you to hold still for a second.” Then he touched the ring she wore. No sooner had he done so than it turned to a dust like sand that drifted to the ground.
The knights of the Missionary Order could only gape.
“So now we’re all equals here, right?
“We... We could never...!”
Arlen and his knights were deeply unsettled. An unpleasant smile came over Fiona’s face.
“Well then,” she said, “what do you propose we do?”
Epilogue: Who Reigns Over That Land
It had been about ten days since the arrival of the Missionary Order. It had been decided to build a house—a sanctuary—for the “erdgod” once more, upon the ruins of the old one. This would be no improvised hut made with whatever was at hand; it would be a sturdy structure of brick. But because building it would demand a certain amount of work, the effort was undertaken not by the townspeople, who all had jobs to do, but by a group of temporary laborers under the watchful eye of a master carpenter.
“Come on, don’t slack, now!” The baldheaded, muscular carpenter lost no opportunity to fling invective (or was it encouragement?) at his workers. “A god’s going to live in this house. We wouldn’t want to disappoint him!” Most of the men wore dark looks on their faces, but they worked silently.
One, however, could be heard to say, “Why should I be reduced to such...” It was Arlen, muttering to himself as he toiled. He might have believed he was keeping his voice down, but the master carpenter saw and heard all.
“Why? This ain’t yer capital, and you ain’t in charge of anything here.” He gave Arlen a jab in the head with a beefy hand.
Arlen and the others had ultimately found themselves with n
o choice but to accept Fiona’s “suggestion.” They reported to their Church superiors that they had successfully slain the local erdgod and converted the populace, and that they would be staying in the area. And they would—but of course, not as knights of the Missionary Order. Fiona and the rest of the town could hardly allow that. Their weapons had all been confiscated by the villagers, and the former knights were set to menial tasks wherever they were needed.
The twenty or so knights who had fallen victim to Yukinari and Dasa’s attacks were permitted to focus on resting and recovering—but they were, in a sense, hostages to keep Arlen and the others in line.
“If you have the energy to run your mouth, you’re not working hard enough! Move those hands!”
“...Yes, sir.”
Arlen apologized, then heaved a sigh and went back to work.
●
There are things we understand even without putting them into words. But sometimes, if we don’t put them into words, we can’t move on. That is what ceremonies and rituals are for: to allow us to turn toward the future, a future different from our past.
“Lord Yukinari...”
In the parlor of the Schillings residence. Fiona’s father, Hans, and their butlers had said they would be happy to attend, but Fiona had turned them down on the grounds that she and Berta were most suited to making this particular case to Yukinari.
Which case?
“...Please, stay in this area and protect the town from demigods and xenobeasts.”
It was a plea he had heard many times from Berta’s lips. But now she was not begging him in the midst of a crisis, but asking him formally as he found himself in the Schillingses’ parlor for the second time. And that gave the words a distinctly different cast.
“I dedicate anew my body, my heart, my soul—everything I am, to you. Please...”
“Uh, but...”
“Yukinari,” Fiona said from her place beside Berta. “Consider this a request from me, as well.”
Yukinari was silent.
“We’ve managed to throw the True Church off the scent for now, but if they get wind of the truth, there will be reprisals.”
“Can’t you just make an excuse?” Yukinari said. “Tell them some dirty, rotten erdgod made you do it?” He indicated himself with a wry smile.
“I suppose it’s possible,” Fiona murmured with a frown. “You know, we are building a new, proper sanctuary.”
“That really isn’t the problem.”
“Is—Is Berta not enough to satisfy you? If you need... something more, then as I told you—I’m available as well.”
“Okay, stop right there.”
Women and money were the two traditional means of winning a man to your side—and Friedland didn’t have much money. They needed some way to convince Yukinari to stay. And Yukinari, at heart, was really just a teenage boy. It was hardly as if he was unhappy to have the attentions of two such beautiful young women as Fiona and Berta. But...
“I admire your resolve, I do. But don’t you get it?”
“Get what?”
“I’m not human,” Yukinari said, as forcefully as he could. “You saw it yourself.”
“Yes. We did.” The two women nodded.
“And you’re not worried about... you know. Offering yourself to something like me? Didn’t anyone ever teach you to value yourself?”
“You look human enough,” Fiona said. “And supposedly, there even used to be marriages between humans and erdgods. Although I’m not sure if it’s true.”
“What,” Yukinari asked after a pause, “beautiful maidens and horrible beasts?”
It was true that in his “previous world,” Yukinari had known of a number of myths and legends that spoke of the same sort of thing. And this world he was in now, with its erdgods and xenobeasts, certainly seemed full of creatures that would be right at home in those stories. Maybe the people of this world would have less of an objection than Yukinari himself to becoming the spouse of something not human.
“Listen. The Church made me. I’m—”
An artificial human. An “angel,” a tool for proselytization. In other words, his very existence was meant to be a secret; and as if this were not motivation enough to hunt him, the Church would still want revenge for the deaths of the prior Dominus Doctrinae and the head of the Missionary Order. If the Church found out he was here, he would not be surprised if they sent every knight in the Order to Friedland.
“Let me try to put this another way—alright, Yukinari?” Fiona said, her tone suddenly growing more familiar. “I’m really glad I met you. I hated the old system of sacrifices; I really wanted to do something about it. But I—” For a moment she stopped, hesitating. But then she went on: “I didn’t have the courage.”
“Courage?” he asked.
“Yes. To plot a future different from our past.”
There was a long pause. “I don’t...”
“I believed it had to change. But changing something that’s gone on so long—there are a lot of challenges in that. And if you get it wrong, you could even make things worse. Those were my reasons—my excuses—for not doing anything.” Her tone carried a note of self-recrimination, yet her face was bright. “But you broke down all those old, frozen things. Maybe you didn’t mean to—maybe it was just chance—but I don’t care.” Fiona had bowed ever so slightly, looking at the ground, but now she looked up at Yukinari’s face. “I wonder if maybe that’s what gods are.”
“How’s that?”
“They kind of follow along—take the things humans just happen to do, and find meaning in them. They exist as gods, and even if they don’t do anything—well, that’s where the meaning comes from.”
“I think you’re confusing gods and pets.”
“It’s possible,” Fiona smiled. “So stay here, Yukinari. With us. Please?”
“Um, p-please add me to the—the list of people who want you to st-stay here,” Berta said. “I want you to stay with us, Lord Yukinari—and I want to stay with you.”
Yukinari said nothing, then let out a long sigh.
A god. A pet. It didn’t matter. What they were saying resonated with him far more strongly than any appeal about “the good of the town” or “the good of the people” ever would have. And so...
“...Alright.”
Fiona and Berta looked at each other in astonishment, their faces shining.
He followed this up with a feeble attempt at pretext: “I was just thinking I couldn’t drag Dasa all over creation forever, anyway.” Then he turned to his partner as he noticed her intense stare. “Erm...?”
“Yuki,” Dasa said sullenly. “I knew... you were a... womanizer.”
“Hey, all that stuff about offering themselves or whatever, that’s their words, not mine.”
Dasa wrapped both her arms around Yukinari’s left arm, silent.
“Dasa?”
“But I want you to be able to be free, Yuki.” She looked at her feet as she spoke. “Don’t be... burdened by your promise... to my sister.”
“Dasa...”
“Otherwise, I would surely...”
Surely what? he wondered. But she didn’t finish her sentence, only tightened her grip on his arm. He let out a breath and put a hand in her silver hair.
This seemed to prompt Fiona and Berta to begin discussing some kind of order between themselves.
“So I guess that means starting tonight, we can just take turns in Yukinari’s bedroom?”
“Oh! In that case, I’m—”
“Hey, you,” he said. “Better cut that out, or this conversation is going to go south fast.”
“You think?”
“Oh, I don’t think. I know.”
Fiona gave him an inquiring tilt of her head. “Is that your command, as a god?”
“Yeah, I guess. I command you, as the god of this land—drop that talk for now.”
Yukinari let the words out with a sigh, acutely aware of Dasa, her look swiftly darkening, beside him.
Afterword
Hello, hello. Your humble author, Sakaki, here.
Welcome to Bluesteel Blasphemer, my first work for Hobby Japan in a while.
This book is what you might call an “Other-world Chea-rem,” as in “an average guy gets transported to some other world with a cheat that makes him the strongest character around while all the girls who show up instantly fall in love with him and he winds up with a harem.” This is a kind of story that first really came into its own with web novels.
Now, typically in these stories, convention demands that the main character be the strongest thing in sight. And you need some excuse for that. So the protagonist is incarnated as a hero, or occasionally a villain, or sometimes a leader in the army despite having no physical capabilities. There are lots of variations.
You might be tempted to classify this work of mine, which I’m writing from my usual undisclosed location, in this “Other-world Chea-rem” genre. Such stories, however, typically feature characters who have no real fighting ability and forge ahead based entirely on an abundance of nerd knowledge. There are even ones where bar cooks or members of a high school cooking club aggravate the people in this other world with their food.
The whole “strongest” routine might be an innovation, but the enjoyment of this type of story can be traced back to books like G.I. Samurai, although that doesn’t focus as much on individual capabilities. In terms of movies, you could look to things like The Final Countdown, which features F-14 Tomcats shooting down Zero fighter planes.
In light of all that, I thought, How fun would it be to fight monsters or sword-wielding knights with modern weapons like guns?
But here we run into a problem. Guns need gunpowder to be anything more than a bludgeon, and you would expect gunpowder to be awfully difficult to come by in these other worlds. Even the Self-Defense Force unit in G.I. Samurai finds itself unable to keep up supplies; at the end of the movie, they have to abandon their tank, while in the novel, an inability to get fuel forces them to limit the use of their generator.
Bluesteel Blasphemer Volume 1 Page 15
