chapter02 · 040-ep35
Episode 35: My First Summoning
Bus back from Akazu to Owari-Seto Station, then onto the Meitetsu Seto Line.
Five stops toward Nagoya.
Off at Owariasahi.
Opened the map on my phone and confirmed the destination. Behind Shiroyama Park, right on the border between the residential streets and the scrub woods, a single D-rank door. The Shiroyama dungeon, Owariasahi. Small-scale, apparently — the kind of place a local dives now and then.
Tried searching "Shiroyama black cloak" on Tritter.
Zero hits.
Tried "Shiroyama Dungeon Strolls" too.
Zero.
"Good."
Perfect.
Fifteen minutes' walk from the station. Up the park's slope, through the scrub woods on the far side.
Nobody in front of the door.
Beside the authentication gate, in place of the stray cat this time, a single crow sat on a stone.
"Hello."
The crow did not respond.
Guild card to the gate, and in.
Floor 1 of the Shiroyama dungeon was an earthen passage.
Tree roots webbed faintly along the walls; every so often, dirt sifted down from the ceiling. A dungeon under a scrub forest is apparently scrub forest all the way through.
Deeper and deeper in, hunting for a side passage with no human presence. No footsteps. No voices. No lamp glow.
Found a dead-end cubby of a room.
This would do.
Bag down. One deep breath.
Today, I would not become the King.
Summoning is not a King skill. It's a Job 【Chuunibyou】 skill. Something that grew onto plain me at Lv100. Last night I reread the status description column about ten times to make sure.
Which means: no King's register required.
I can talk like me.
That alone lightened the load a little.
First, I had to decide what to call.
Right hand out.
【Vault of Tomes】.
The skill I learned at Lv50. Everything I have ever written is stored beyond the void. The thrown-away, the forgotten — everything.
I turned my attention to it, and a translucent list floated up before my eyes.
Stored Volumes
- The Book of the King
- The Executives' volume
- The subordinates' volume
- The weapons volume
- The technique-name book
- The doodle book (elementary school)
- The Untitled Notebook
- The Book of White ...and more
"Whoa..."
There they were. All of them, lined up.
The technique-name book, used for one stretch of second-year middle school, with nothing in it but technique names. The elementary-school doodle book, with nothing in it but dragons and a blond hero.
I tried touching "the weapons volume," and the list opened softly, volume after volume coming out of it.
Right. The weapons volume had stopped fitting in one book partway through, and the count just kept growing.
Closed it, and this time touched "the subordinates' volume." Volume after volume out of that one too. "The Executives' volume," the same.
Seen fresh like this, the quantity is absurd. Me-from-back-then — how many books did you write in three years?
Opening the "...and more" at the bottom felt like it would disgorge my elementary-school free notebooks, doodles in textbook margins from class, all of that — so I decided not to.
One entry above it sat The Book of White.
"Ah — The Book of White."
Seina's notebook.
From the days when Seina and I did chuunibyou, the two of us. Big brother the King, little sister the holy maiden. We'd make the living room into the world and share our lore between us. Whatever Seina chattered about wanting, I wrote it down beside her, and I drew the pictures too. Once Seina graduated ahead of me, it went into the back of the closet and stayed there.
"Man, this takes me back."
Nostalgia.
Written in my handwriting, so it got properly stored, apparently.
I leafed through a little, then looked away.
Today isn't about that.
From the list, I chose one.
The Untitled Notebook.
Nothing written on the cover — just a notebook. Not painted black like The Book of the King, no title either. The one I used for concept-art practice in the summer of second-year middle school.
"—Come."
Weight settled into my palm.
An ordinary notebook, blue cover, corners rubbed a little soft.
I turned the pages.
Pencil concept art ran on for pages. The traces of copying the armored knight from a die-and-retry game's package art, sheet upon sheet upon sheet. Reshaping the helmet. Enlarging the pauldrons. Giving him a sword. Giving him a shield.
Near the end, at last, came the one that made me think, this is it.
A soldier in full armor. The helmet had nothing but a thin horizontal slit at eye level. Pauldrons and breastplate both thick, the faintly rusted texture drawn in with real care.
In his hand, an ordinary longsword.
The right half of the page was packed dense with writing.
【Soldiers of the End】
- Nameless soldiers who serve the King
- Even one can shatter a star (← too strong? but these are the King's soldiers; this much is only right)
- There are tons of these. Tons of varieties too (details later)
Beneath it, a small memo on rank.
- Lowest rung: the ordinary longsword (plain, but bear with it)
- Captain: may choose any weapon he likes
- Battalion commander: gets a cape
- Above that: one star on the right shoulder. More, the higher he climbs
- The very top: cape, longsword, and stars on both shoulders (the origin is supreme)
"The origin is supreme."
I read that out loud without meaning to.
"Plain, but bear with it," it says. He wanted to give them cool weapons — but the lowest of the low get made to settle for an ordinary longsword, apparently. Me-from-back-then had his own aesthetic of rank, in his way.
The very bottom of the page was blank.
No chant written. Me-from-back-then apparently finished the concept art, was satisfied, and never thought as far as how to call them.
So then, how do I call?
"I'll call."
The moment I decided it, words surfaced in my head.
I hadn't worked them out. Hadn't remembered them. One line of words was simply there, smooth as if I'd known it forever.
At the same time, the notebook in my hand went slowly warm.
Across the blank space at the very bottom of the page, characters were rising.
Pencil. My handwriting. Second-year-middle-school handwriting, slanting slightly right, full of its quirks. One line identical, word for word, to the one just raised in my head — carving itself into the page as if it had been written there all along.
"Whoa."
A sound escaped me.
Creepy, I thought for a second. I thought it — but ahead of the thought, I was a little thrilled.
One line this time, too, I thought.
"All right."
Notebook in the left hand, right hand out.
Alone in the cubby. Nobody watching.
My heart was hammering. Not from fear. From pure looking-forward-to-it.
A breath in.
In deadly seriousness. Deadpan. In the mood of me-from-back-then at that desk, that summer of second year.
"—Banner of the End, blade of no name. Come forth, my soldier."
Lines of light ran across the dirt at my feet.
They drew a circle. Inside the circle, unreadable characters arrayed themselves.
I knew it.
That magic circle — the one drawn on the first page of The Book of the King. A circle drafted with ruler and compass, unreadable writing at the center that even I can't read.
And there it was now, glowing up out of a dungeon floor.
Something rose from the center of the circle.
First visible: the crown of the helmet.
Then the pauldrons. The breastplate. The arms. The waist. The legs.
A soldier in full armor stood inside the magic circle.
A little taller than me. Armor of dulled iron, scarred here and there. Behind the horizontal slit of the helmet, too dark to see. In the right hand, an ordinary longsword.
Identical to the concept art.
Down to the rusted texture — identical.
The soldier slowly raised his head.
The slit of the helmet fixed on me.
And then.
With a great clash of metal, he dropped to one knee.
"—My King."
A low voice. A young man's voice, a little muffled inside the helmet.
"Soldier of the End, one. Before you."
"Wh— wha—"
He talked.
"HE TALKED?!"
My voice rang through the little room.
The soldier's shoulders jumped.
"Wait — you can talk? It doesn't say anywhere in the notebook that you talk!"
"...Y-yes."
The soldier bowed his head, at a loss.
"The soldier is the King's sword. And a sword is a thing that answers its master."
"So cool..."
I said it with zero filter.
That line isn't in the notebook. It isn't — and he comes out with exactly the sort of line me-from-back-then would have written.
The soldier, still on one knee, tilted his helmet slightly.
"...Um. My King."
"Ah — yes?"
"Your... manner of speech is, a little... not as the tome records it."
"Ahh..."
Right.
The King this soldier knows is the King of the notebook. The one who says "I" the old way, and "thou," and "Before the kalpa's dawn I came, and past its end I remain." That King.
The present me is just Ichinose Saku. School uniform, bag at my feet, screaming things like "HE TALKED?!"
"Sorry — right now I'm not the King. I mean, I am. Sort of. How do I put this. Day to day, I'm like this."
"...Day to day, like this."
"Yeah. When I become the King I talk the part properly, but right now I'm plain me."
The soldier was silent for a while.
Then he bowed his head, deep.
"...As you command. That the King would show this form to his soldiers. It is an honor beyond our station."
"No, that's overselling it."
"It is not oversold."
The soldier's voice trembled, just a little.
"No soldier has ever heard the King's untransformed voice."
Is that so.
Put that way, it got a little embarrassing. The good kind.
To try it out, I cast 【Appraisal】 on him.
Soldier of the End (Recruit) Affiliation: Tehom Rabbah Difficulty: —
"Oh — it even shows an affiliation."
No difficulty displayed. Because he's an ally — or because it can't be measured.
"Um — for now, stand up. Kneeling that whole time can't be good for the knees."
"Yes."
The soldier stood.
He held the longsword upright before his chest. Something like a salute.
Cool.
Unbearably cool.
The back of my nose prickled, just a little.
The summer of second year. My own room, the die-and-retry game's package at my side, sheet after sheet of copies — and the one that finally felt right, drawn onto that notebook page. I can half-remember even the feel of the pencil that day.
That soldier is here. Now.
"Hey — can I watch you fight?"
"As you will."
Out of the cubby, down the passage.
The soldier walked half a step ahead of me. The armor rang out — clank, clank — in an even rhythm.
The first thing to come at us was a huge boar.
Boar Fang Difficulty: D
Tusks as thick as my arm. Snorting hard, pawing the dirt with its forelegs.
The next instant, it charged. The earthen floor thundered.
"Please."
"Yes."
The soldier stepped forward.
Fast.
At a speed that belied the armor, he swung around to the boar's flank, let the charge slip past his half-turned body, and in passing — one flash of the longsword.
The armor gave a single scrape of sound. Nothing else.
The boar ran three strides past the soldier, then slid apart into two clean halves and returned to sand.
One blow.
With an ordinary longsword. By the lowest-rung soldier there is.
"SO STRONG!"
The notebook says "even one can shatter a star." Obviously, at my current level that much power shouldn't be available. Whatever gets summoned has its strength held down to match my level.
Even so — a D-rank monster, one blow.
The soldier turned and re-set his longsword before his chest.
"You're incredible, you know that? Insanely strong. And insanely cool."
"...This is the greatest of honors."
The soldier's voice lifted, just barely.
The helmet hides his face. It hides it — but he was probably delighted.
For about thirty minutes after that, the two of us worked the passages.
The soldier was strong. Not just strong — earnest. Say "please," and he goes straight at it. Say "hold on," and he stops on a coin. After every kill, without fail, he turns back and re-sets his sword before his chest.
Watching him, my hands began to itch.
Partway through, I fought alongside him.
"—No inscription, no meaning — cut, Nameless."
The black katana settled into my hand. The soldier's helmet flicked a glance this way.
Where the passage forked in two, the sounds of kicked earth came doubled.
Two Boar Fangs — bursting out of the right path and the left, practically at the same moment.
"Right one — you good?"
"Yes."
"Then I've got left."
Both boars lowered their heads in unison.
Here it comes.
The ground-shudder climbs up through my soles. The roots in the ceiling sway, dirt sifting down.
The soldier planted himself before the right-hand one.
He didn't dodge.
He laid the longsword flat and caught the thrust of the tusks head-on. A screech like pain deep in the ears; the iron feet gouging the earthen floor as he was driven back one full step.
And there — he held.
Incredible.
In the one instant I spent admiring it, the left one was on me.
Sideways jump. Tusks thick as my arm skimmed past my flank. The reek of beast slammed into my nose on the wind.
The boar that missed did not stop. It turned at the very edge of the passage wall and broke into a fresh run.
What waited ahead was the soldier's back, pinned in place holding the tusks down.
Bad.
"Behind you!"
I shouted and ran. Ahead of the boar, I slid in front of the soldier's back. Planted my feet, held Nameless low.
Come.
The charging tusks closed to right in front of me. I waited to the very last, slid half a step aside.
The boar's bulk went rushing past my shoulder.
Onto its neck, I laid the blade.
Laid it, that's all. After that, the boar did its own running — and cut itself apart, all on its own.
A heavy weight lingered in my wrist. The boar went sliding to a stop just short of the soldier's heels, and there became sand.
I looked back.
The soldier still had the other one's tusks pinned under his sword. The boar thrashed its head, and the iron feet gave not one step.
Circling around the soldier's flank, I had the locked boar's flank right before me.
Stepped in. Drove Nameless into the base of its neck.
The strength went out of the boar's body, all at once. The longsword holding down its tusks lost its counterweight and eased a little lower.
The second one, too, became sand.
In the quieted passage, the soldier re-set his sword before his chest.
Somehow, I stood Nameless upright before mine as well.
The soldier's helmet tilted, ever so slightly.
This is fun.
Diving alone is fun too — but fighting shoulder to shoulder with someone is a different flavor of fun. I thought it when the five of us dove Moriyama. I thought it again today.
Back in the cubby, I checked the time on my phone.
Six-thirty. Much later and I'd be late home again.
The soldier stood at attention in the middle of the room.
I had to send him back.
The way to call him back wasn't written in the notebook. But I could tell, somehow. Same feeling as when I called him — run it in reverse.
"Thank you for today. I had a really, really good time."
"Yes."
The soldier took a knee again.
At his feet, that magic circle rose. Lines of light climbed slowly up from his boots.
The armored legs dissolved into the light.
"My King."
The soldier raised his head.
"May I say one thing?"
"Sure. Go ahead."
"That I was the first you ever called, I will tell them all — as the honor of the Soldiers of the End."
"All?"
"All the soldiers. The captains, too. The battalion commanders, too."
The light had climbed to his waist.
"And the honored Executives as well. All of them have waited so very long for your call."
"Huh?"
The honored... Executives.
"The Third Seat and the Ninth Seat in particular were most anxiously awaiting. The Tenth Seat has been keeping a journal. The Seventh Seat's subordinates, every time Your Majesty's form appears on—"
"W-wait, hold on!"
"Yes."
"The Executives... all of them... huh? They exist? Where?"
Wrapped in light, the soldier tilted his helmet, slightly.
Behind it, probably, a puzzled face.
"Outside the universe, all of them are. Because the King so wrote it."
The light climbed past the crown of the helmet.
"Then, my King. We await your next call."
The magic circle vanished.
In the cubby, only I remained.
"Huh."
The word sank into the earthen walls.
"They're all... there? All of them...?"
Nobody answered. Naturally. Right now, the only one here is me.
Outside the universe, all of them.
Because the King wrote it.
Wrote it. Definitely wrote it.
On the chronology page of The Book of the King. That the King dragged planets, one after another, to the outside of the universe, and there his subordinates live. Winter of third-year middle school, in the gaps between exam study, written while staring at the world map in the social-studies data book. He'd wanted a map of the universe too, got halfway through drawing it, got bored, and quit.
And it exists.
Really, truly exists.
No — not just that. That chronology had more written on it. That the King was born from nothing. That he laid to rest trillions of timelines. That he devoured the gods. That in the first timeline, there was one hero, and one alone, who swore him loyalty.
Is every bit of it — has every bit of it become "things that happened"?
The Twelve Seats, too.
First Seat, the knight who was once a hero. Second Seat, the old butler of threads. Third Seat, the dragon of black and white.
All of it.
Every one.
All of that — scribbled in the margins of notebooks during class, hidden from friends at break, added to at midnight with a grin under the covers — at this very moment, outside the universe, alive.
I sank down into a crouch.
Hugged my knees and stared at the earthen floor.
My dark history exists.
What was supposed to live only inside notebooks. What almost went out with the burnable trash, and didn't. What I decided to graduate from because I was becoming a high schooler.
Outside the universe, it exists. Properly. Lives, properly.
And on top of that — it's watching me.
"Watching?"
I raised my face.
The soldier had been starting to say it. Every time Your Majesty's form appears on—
Appears. Which means — it's being watched. Not just today. Probably the whole time.
The day Job 【Chuunibyou】 came up at the Guild and my friends howled with laughter. The night I fumbled my True Name under the covers. The day I nearly died in Kanayama. The day I said "Thy end is not this day" at Nanyo. The day I shouted two lines in Chikusa.
Every bit of it.
"AAAAAAAAGH!"
Hands over my face, I rolled on the earthen floor.
Embarrassing. Embarrassing enough to die. The most embarrassing thing in my life so far.
More embarrassing than having the notebooks read back to me. The one who wrote it all — watched the entire time by the very people he wrote about.
And among those people are—
No.
Do not remember that now. What I wrote on the Twelve Seats' pages, in the girls' sections — absolutely do not remember that now.
If I do, I probably won't recover.
I lay there rolling for a while, staring at the ceiling.
Tree roots hang down from the earthen roof. Dirt sifts down, patter, patter.
But then.
It drifted into my head.
That soldier, just now.
He was cool.
Talked properly, fought properly, and on his way out said "We await your next call."
There are tons like him, outside the universe. Captains. Battalion commanders. Distinguished people with stars on their shoulders. And past all of them, the Twelve Seats.
Every one of them, written by me.
Every one of them, waiting for me to call.
"I'd kind of like to meet them."
It slipped out, quiet.
It's scary. Insanely scary. Especially the Third Seat, the Seventh Seat, and the Ninth Seat. Also the Seventh's subordinate girls.
But I would like to meet them.
The ones me-from-back-then worked so hard, so desperately, to imagine.
I got up and brushed the dirt off my uniform.
Picked up my bag, returned the blue-cover notebook to the void.
Before leaving the cubby, I looked back once.
Nobody there.
But probably — being watched.
"Um."
On impulse, I waved at the ceiling.
"See you."
No answer came.
But somewhere outside the universe, I had the distinct feeling somebody fell out of their chair.