Birth of a New King (2)
“Report. This so-called ‘new King’—what kind of person are we dealing with?”
At my prompt, Alessandro Gaspare began his briefing without a moment's hesitation, as if he had anticipated the question. The boy’s name was Kusanagi Godo. He was a mere sixteen years old. He had traveled to Italy at his grandfather's request to deliver a grimoire, only to be swept up in a cataclysmic duel between the Heretic Gods Verethragna and Melqart. An ordinary high school student, through a stroke of either extreme luck or profound misfortune, had slain a god amidst that divine crossfire and usurped the status of a King.
I fell into a brief silence, processing the information. *A greenhorn.* That was my first impression. However, the stage he had been thrust onto was by no means a trivial one.
“Kaoru.”
“Yes, my King,” replied Shinomiya Kaoru.
“What is your assessment?”
Kaoru hesitated for a heartbeat before offering a measured, cautious response.
“Forgive my presumption, my Lord. Since a new King has been born in Japan, I believe our primary objective should be to ascertain his intentions. We must determine if he harbors hostility toward you or if there is room for cooperation. Until his stance is clear, it would be unwise to move precipitously.”
Her answer was textbook—rational, logical, and entirely predictable. I leaned back in my chair and let out a soft, weary sigh. Ultimately, another nuisance had cropped up that demanded my direct involvement.
“No, I think I should go and meet him myself.”
“...I beg your pardon?”
The eyes of both Kaoru and Alessandro widened in unison. For a King to move personally meant the matter was being elevated to a top-tier threat or a subject of profound personal interest.
“May I ask the reason, my Lord?”
“There is no particular reason.”
I turned my gaze toward the window. My daily life was currently a desert of tedious reports and soul-crushing paperwork. Into that stagnant, monotonous landscape, a small pebble had finally been tossed for the first time in ages.
“I simply find myself curious. I want to see what kind of person managed to become a ‘King’ like me.”
I reflected on the other Kings I had encountered over the past three years. Salvatore Doni, the hedonistic battle-maniac; Alexander Gascoigne, the arrogant seeker of arcane mysteries; and even that old wolf, Marquis Voban. Not a single one of them could be described as remotely sane. They were all monsters. My meetings with them had never been anything more than exhausting displays of metaphysical muscle-flexing.
“But this boy is different. He’s a novice who just claimed the throne. He doesn’t yet understand the crushing weight of the title. I simply wish to see for myself what his character is like and through what lens he views this world.”
I turned back to Kaoru and issued my command.
“In the name of the History Compilation Committee, extend a formal and polite invitation to him. Use the pretext of welcoming the arrival of a newly ascended King.”
It was a minor whim—a flicker of curiosity toward a new toy that might break the cycle of my boring routine.
At that same hour, in a hidden chamber buried deep within an ancient temple in Kyoto.
A group of old men had gathered. These were the ones who had once manipulated the History Compilation Committee from the shadows, only to lose everything and go into hiding three years ago following the judgment of the Korean King. Their faces were etched with the shadows of the defeated, yet within their eyes, a faint ember of vengeance still smoldered.
“Have you heard? In Italy... a King of our own Japanese blood has been born!”
The air in the dark room stirred at the old man’s agitated voice.
“The Heavens have not abandoned us! He is our sole hope for reclaiming this nation from that arrogant Korean King!”
“Indeed! Now is the time for our resurgence! We must crown the new King by our own hands and take back everything that was stolen from us!”
As the voices of the hardliners grew louder, a more cautious tone from a corner threw a splash of cold water on their fervor.
“You are being hasty. Japan is currently held firmly in the seventh King’s iron grip. Our intelligence networks have been dismantled, and our every move is under surveillance. Before we can even make contact with the new King, their blades will be at our throats.”
Silence descended upon the room for a moment. But soon, the eldest patriarch struck the floor with his cane and roared.
“That is precisely why we must hurry! We must join hands with the new King before they can make the first move! This is a Great Cause for the liberation of Japan! Even if it costs us everything, we must prepare to welcome our King!”
Driven by his incitement, a fanatical flame ignited in the eyes of the other elders. Forgetting exactly what kind of entity they were truly up against, they decided to stake everything on a hollow hope.
Several days later, Kusanagi Godo stood on a small Mediterranean island, confronting yet another god.
Standing before him was Melqart, the ancient Phoenician God-King, a tyrant and hero of old. A deity revived through his connection with Verethragna, whom Godo had fought just days prior. Like an inescapable destiny, Godo had been dragged into a duel with this god.
The battle concluded within a single day. Melqart’s iron clubs pulverized the earth, and from Godo’s body, the golden sword of the ‘Warrior’—usurped from Verethragna—manifested to parry the strikes. After a grueling struggle, the fight ended without a victor. The god retreated, showing signs of exhaustion, while Godo collapsed to the ground, his body battered and broken. The result was a draw. For someone who had been an ordinary high schooler until very recently, it was a feat beyond imagination, but all he felt was a soul-deep fatigue.
The news of this event immediately rippled through the occult underground of the world.
In a luxurious mansion in Milan, a man who had been receiving reports with a bored expression suddenly had his eyes flash with interest at the final sentence.
“...Ho. I thought he was just a greenhorn, but a draw against a god like Melqart? Not bad at all.”
The sixth King, Salvatore Doni, set down his wine glass and stood up. Gone was the look of crippling boredom; in its place was the pure, innocent ecstasy of a child who had discovered the ultimate toy. He picked up an unremarkable longsword that had been standing nearby like a piece of decoration. It was merely a well-forged steel blade, yet the moment his hand closed around the hilt, the sword began to glow with a silver light, resonating with the King’s divine pressure.
“I’ve decided. I’m curious about him. My heart is pounding just thinking about what a fight with him would be like. It's going to be fun. Hahahaha!”
He swung the sword lightly, laughing with genuine delight.
“To celebrate the birth of a new King, nothing is more appropriate than a festival of blades!”
Into the massive storm brewing around the new King, the world’s most unpredictable variable was preparing to dive in headfirst.
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