“Describe what happened between the Evil God’s awakening and when you came to us,” Fremy demanded.
“O-okay. Um, when the Evil God awoke and I received the Crest of the Six Flowers, I was in the Temple of Fire, in the Land of Golden Fruit. I was training with Liennril and…oh, Liennril is the Saint of Fire.”
“And then?”
“I was supposed to have arrived earlier, but on the way, I met some people who’d been attacked by fiends. They were injured and asked me to help treat them…and I thought, ‘But what if I’m late?’ But I couldn’t say no…and then I actually was late. I’m sorry.”
“And when you arrived at the Phantasmal Barrier?” asked Adlet.
“I reached the forest late last night. The barrier had already been activated by then. The king of Gwenvaella was at the fort, and he told me about the barrier. According to His Majesty, some rogue soldiers had commandeered the fort, and the barrier was active for some reason. They had no idea what was going on.”
“And then in the morning, the barrier lifted, and you met up with us,” Adlet finished.
Rolonia nodded.
“Do any of you think there’s anything suspicious about her story?” Adlet asked.
Hans was the one to reply. “Was she really at the Temple of Fire?”
“Let’s check that with Mora later. I don’t think there’s any other part of her story that’s particularly suspicious,” said Adlet.
“True, meow.”
Then Chamo, who’d been silently listening, interjected. “Hey, Adlet, how do you know her?”
Rolonia looked at Adlet, and their eyes met. He nodded with an expression that said she could tell them. “I met Addy two years ago,” she said. “Do you know of Atreau Spiker?”
As Adlet listened to her tale, he remembered the past. At the time, he’d never have dreamed he’d see her again. When they first met, that Rolonia would grow to become one of the Braves of the Six Flowers seemed inconceivable.
When Adlet was ten years old, he’d apprenticed himself to Atreau Spiker, a hermit warrior who lived deep in the mountains. Over the course of eight years, he’d absorbed all of his master’s fighting techniques and knowledge, as well as the skills to make every one of Atreau’s inventions.
Adlet hadn’t been Atreau Spiker’s only student. Atreau had taken on a number of hopefuls aspiring to be Braves of the Six Flowers. Every single one of them, unable to handle his eccentric methods, had ultimately left the mountain—all except Adlet. But aside from those students, the master had also received requests to teach combat skills to elite and famous mercenaries, Saints, and others. They would appear with letters of introduction from ministers or mercenary captains and become short-term apprentices to acquire knowledge and new combat techniques. Atreau had lived like a hermit, but he hadn’t cut off all contact with the world.
It was just over two years earlier that Rolonia Manchetta had approached Atreau with a letter of introduction in hand. At the time, she had been as cowardly and timid as she was now—no, even more so.
“Adlet.”
Adlet had been throwing needles in the mountains day and night when, suddenly, his master came to speak to him. The boy ignored his master, continuing his practice as the man stood next to him. The blisters on his fingers had broken to expose raw, bleeding flesh, but still he kept throwing needles.
“This is Rolonia Manchetta. She’s the Saint of Spilled Blood. For the next two months or so, I’ll be instructing her on fiend ecology and how to handle them. Do not interfere,” explained Atreau, indicating the girl beside him.
Adlet did not greet her or reply. Back then, he’d been different—darker, and hungrier. He cursed everything in the world, his own weakness most of all.
“Tell her your name, at least,” prompted Atreau. Rolonia hid in Atreau’s shadow, watching Adlet with frightened eyes.
“Adlet Mayer,” he said to Rolonia. “Eventually, I’ll be the strongest man in the world. But not yet. Don’t talk to me.”
“O-okay. I’m sorry,” she responded.
“Let’s go, Rolonia,” said Atreau, and the moment he did, Adlet made his move. He hurled a needle at his master and simultaneously pulled out a knife and took a swipe at him.
“Eeek!” Rolonia screamed and sank to the ground beside Atreau.
Atreau flicked aside the needle with one finger and grabbed Adlet by the wrist before flinging him away. The boy didn’t pause for an instant, slashing at Atreau’s ankles. Right before it connected, the warrior sidestepped and kicked Adlet in the face. Blood spurted from his nose.
“A-are you okay, Adlet?” asked Rolonia.
“I told you not to talk to me.” He tried to stand, but his feet got tangled up, and he couldn’t move.
“Don’t concern yourself with him, Saint of Spilled Blood,” said Atreau. “That boy will be gone from here soon enough.”
“Um…er…,” Rolonia stammered.
“I ordered him to do that. He may also use whatever means he pleases. And if he fails to defeat me by his sixteenth birthday, he is expelled from this mountain. One month remains until he must go.”
“Ugh…,” Adlet moaned.
The warrior stepped on Adlet’s face. “Smile.”
Adlet tried to move his lips but was no longer capable of smiling. Hunger and powerlessness had stolen that from him.
Atreau spat upon his student where he lay on the ground. “Trash.” He left him there and walked away, taking Rolonia with him. Adlet punched the ground and screamed.
Rolonia was living in a guest cottage Atreau had built. It was the only place on that mountain fit for human habitation. Atreau and Adlet lived in a cave, like animals. Atreau was constantly by Rolonia’s side, teaching her about fiends and seeing to her meals and necessities. During that time, he ignored Adlet.
Every day Adlet challenged Atreau, and every day he lost. Wounded, fighting back the pain of his injuries by force of will alone, he stood up again and again. Adlet knew his teacher was not a lenient man. If he failed to defeat him in the
