The name of the person who had climbed to the same summit as I had was Marshall de Logres, the Duke of the North.
The first words he spoke to me were:
"How about we have a match?"
A challenge to a duel.
He had appeared out of nowhere, and the first thing he said to me was a challenge to a duel.
I found it so absurd that I had been about to ignore him and leave.
"I have always wondered. Which is stronger: a mage or a knight?"
That single remark stopped me in my tracks.
Which was stronger, a knight or a mage?
Which was stronger, the sword or magic?
A childish yet common topic that never failed to come up in taverns.
And that childish topic had come from the Duke of the North’s mouth.
The man who had risen to the summit through the sword had asked me such a childish question.
I did not know why that childish question had made me stop walking.
But I gave a hollow laugh at his question.
"How childish."
"Men are naturally drawn to childish things."
Even at my indifferent answer, he simply smiled and nodded as though he had expected as much.
"That is why I came to seek an answer from you. I would like you to resolve the dream I held when I was young."
Childish.
Why had he held such a dream?
Why would a man who stood at the pinnacle of every swordsman’s admiration harbor such a dream?
Was it merely the rashness of youth?
Then he would not have carried that dream with him until now.
So why was that man still holding on to that childish dream?
"They say magic is a gift dragons gave to humanity. And the sword is the answer humanity found as it walked forward."
"What are you trying to say?"
"It is a truly childish question. That is precisely why I wished to know."
Magic and swordsmanship.
Both were weapons and arts of mankind, but their points of origin differed.
Magic belonged to dragons.
There were many theories: that dragons had pitied humans and passed it on to them; that humans had analyzed, interpreted, and recreated dragons, bringing the authority of dragons down into human hands.
But it was a fact that magic had begun with dragons.
Magic could thus be called the shadow cast by dragons.
But the sword belonged to mankind.
Because swordsmanship was something humans had created for themselves.
It was the answer born when humans, who had possessed nothing, had accumulated and accumulated their efforts to protect themselves from outside threats—the tower they had built.
In other words, swordsmanship was a fire humanity had obtained on its own, without learning from dragons.
Then—
If magic was the shadow of dragons, who had possessed everything from the beginning, and the sword was the path walked by humans, who had possessed nothing from the beginning—
Could weak humans, who had been given nothing from the start, escape the shadow of dragons, who had been given everything from the start?
Could humanity reach dragons?
That was the question he had come out of nowhere to ask.
A question not even the skeleton sprawled beside me—the one who had also climbed to the summit by the sword—had ever asked.
But there was no one who could answer it.
Because—
"There are no dragons in this world."
There were no dragons.
The dragons who had possessed everything from the beginning no longer existed in this world.
That was why no one could answer his childish question.
Those who could have proved his question had already vanished.
And yet, had there not already been tales of knights who had hunted dragons?
"And tales of knights who hunted dragons do exist."
It was a question with an answer already laid out.
It might have seemed hollow to him, after he had come all this way for his youthful dream.
A problem that already had an answer, one he could have resolved without climbing all the way up here.
"Congratulations. You have found your answer."
It was a waste of time.
Though the phrase “waste of time” should not have existed for me, who possessed infinite time.
I did not know why I had stopped walking, but I did not particularly wish to find out.
"I know," he said.
But he did not look disappointed.
"I know there have been humans who hunted dragons. But... those dragons did not use magic, did they?"
I gave another hollow laugh.
He was right.
The dragons that had fallen to humans were not creatures that wielded magic.
But that was not why I laughed.
Such pointless obsession.
I found his fixation on something so strange ridiculous.
"Is it really that important for a dragon to use magic?"
"Do not shatter a man’s dream like that. A dragon that does not use magic is not a dragon."
What exactly was this “man’s dream” supposed to be?
A dragon that wielded magic.
Did he believe one had only truly defeated a dragon if it was that kind of dragon?
"Then you will never have a way of knowing the answer."
"Why not?"
"Because I am only half of one."
I could not give him an answer to his question, because I was not a true dragon.
Though people called me the last dragon remaining in this age.
Something other than dragon blood flowed through my veins.
"Wake up from that childish dream already. Dreams are only dreams. Those childish dreams one has when one is immature, when one is young... is it not enough to have them only as a child?"
How long did he intend to keep dreaming like a child?
Was it not already more than enough to do childish things when one was young?
Having met countless children, seen their brilliant colors, and watched them depart, that was what I thought.
Childishness was enough in childhood.
"No."
But he shook his head and refused.
Like a child clutching a toy in his hands, unwilling to let it go.
He held on to that childish thing without letting it leave his grasp.
Why?
I could not understand what he was thinking.
The absolute being who could awaken his dream remained only in stories.
No one could resolve his question for him.
So why did he seek to resolve that dream?
It was childish, and not even important enough to need resolving.
But to my question, he said:
"When you are a child, you can only have one sweet a day. Only after you become an adult can you buy a whole pile and eat as much as you like."
He shook his head.
He simply wished for the dream he had held in those childish, immature days.
"Is that not what it means to be an adult? To finally do to your heart’s content what you could not do as a child?"
Perhaps because it was a useless dream, childish and of no help whatsoever, he wanted all the more to see it through.
That small dream he had held in his reckless youth.
Could he reach it now that he was an adult?
It was so utterly childish.
"You are simply insane."
"What an honor. To hear that from the last dragon."
His shameless way of speaking.
The way he spoke so seriously about such a childish dream.
It was all childish.
"I am not a real dragon."
"If you use magic and have horns, what else could you be but a dragon?"
"What on earth do you think a dragon is?"
"Something really huge and cool that breathes fire, uses magic, and has horns."
I did not know.
Why had I not dismissed him, even after hearing such a childish dream?
Why was I also arguing so childishly?
It was so absurd.
"You laughed."
"I do know how to laugh."
"No, not one of those hollow laughs. Did you not truly smile just now?"
Yes.
Perhaps I had smiled then.
The dream held by a swordsman who had reached the same realm as that fellow had been so childish and immature.
That skeleton had not entirely lacked such traits either, so perhaps swordsmen were all simply that sort of people.
That childish dream had caught my interest.
That dazzlingly childish color had drawn my attention.
I had become curious about the story he had painted.
And so, to put an end to the childish dream he had held in his immature days, we fought for perhaps seven days.
And thus, for the first time in five hundred years, I gained a human friend.
#
He became my storyteller.
And I became a fan of his stories.
I liked the stories painted by a man who had dreamed such childish dreams.
It was an emotion I had never felt in five hundred years.
I had never expected that what would sprout amid my emptiness would be such dazzlingly childish stories.
"I do not understand why you like such childish stories."
"After living for about five hundred years, even stories this childish do not seem so bad."
"Dear me. Then I will never understand it."
Sometimes I went to visit him.
"My apologies, but I am busy right now."
"I am not busy."
"Dear me, there are no vacations here."
Listening to his stories and turning them over in my mind became a hobby of sorts.
And it continued, even until he found his partner.
Then, one day—
"Are you not going to marry?"
Marshall suddenly asked.
"Marriage?"
"Yes. I have never heard you say that you loved anyone in all the five hundred years you have lived. You do not have an heir, either, do you?"
Love.
Love, was it?
"It is only childish."
"Has your taste changed already?"
Love.
I watched him say that with a complicated expression.
I had never been in love.
No, I had never even considered it.
Because before I could build a bond with anyone and come to understand what love was, they all left me.
All because of the blood running through my body.
Dragon blood inspired awe in others toward me.
But at the same time, it built a wall between us.
And the time we stood in was different.
So the time we could spend together became scarce.
"I have no interest in such things."
"Perhaps that is how it is for a long-lived race. Still, it would not be bad to experience love at least once. You are still young."
"...I am about five hundred years old. I am older than you, Marshall."
"But you live forever young, do you not?"
"Marshall."
I interrupted him.
Though I had never once interrupted one of Marshall’s stories.
I was surprised at myself for cutting him off.
And with it came an unpleasant feeling.
I did not know.
Watching him trade jokes in that flippant yet earnest manner, an inexplicable irritation rose within me.
Why?
It had never happened before.
In any case.
I did not want to hear Marshall speak of love.
As a fan of his stories, I sincerely wished for his happiness, but... somehow, this unpleasant feeling deeply bothered me.
"I would not know."
And then—
"Do you know what a taxidermied dragon is?"
Dragons, whom I might have called my kin, now remained only in stories.
And I, only half of one, had been left alone in this world.
A life that everyone admired, yet one that drew a line between me and them as living beings.
A life everyone looked up to, but no one truly looked at.
There were many colors, each different from the next, but there was no color that would be preserved beside me.
There were not many left who stood in the same place as I did.
Marshall was human and would have the limits of a lifespan.
The skeleton was undead and might live long, but we could not share a true connection.
"What meaning is there in a life with wings that can go anywhere, if there is no one who can fly beside you?"
I had unbreakable wings that could fly anywhere.
These wings sprouted from my shoulder blades, so I could fly anywhere, forever.
By myself.
Only me.
Only I could fly.
"I want to fold my wings."
I wanted to fold the wings that could fly anywhere.
I wanted to become someone who could not go anywhere.
How wonderful it would be if I could go nowhere and grow old together with someone.
But my blood did not permit even that.
"Forget it. I was merely complaining."
"So you know how to complain too."
I would simply fold away this unpleasant feeling neatly.
And read Marshall’s stories.
Only as one fan.
#
And when Marshall met his second wife and had his second child—
Unlike Cassian, Marshall did not reveal his child to the world.
It was all the more incomprehensible because Marshall was a steadfast man who had withdrawn from politics and shut himself away in the north.
Why would he not reveal his second child?
I was curious, but I assumed he had his reasons. I did not ask, nor did I visit the north for a while.
Then, one day—
"Ash, could you come for a moment?"
He suddenly called for me.
He had never called for me unless I went to him first.
Why was he calling me now?
"Was there not something you were hiding?"
"That is why I am calling you."
The reason he called was his child.
The child he had steadfastly concealed even amid countless rumors.
He was going to show that child to me?
Why?
Why did he want to show me his child?
Why show me the child he had hidden until now?
"Why?"
"Because you listen well to stories."
After saying something I could not understand, Marshall ended the conversation. Thinking only that it was strange, I flew to the north.
And there, I saw the child Marshall had wished to hide.
When I saw Ian, I could not help but be surprised.
"Marshall."
"What do you think? Speak freely."
"He has no color."
The child introduced to me as Ian de Logres had no color.
Just as Marshall possessed a childish color—
The color every person possessed.
It was not dead.
But I could not see the color that should have been visible in someone who was alive.
"I see. So it was not only Alfredo and me who could see it."
Marshall nodded as though relieved.
"Ian is empty right now. He is not dead, but..."
"..."
"He speaks as though he is reciting predetermined answers, and he has never directly made anyone do anything. I do not mean that he lacks the initiative expected of a Logres."
An empty story.
"Nor do I mean that he has no convictions. He is simply empty. He has no color that is his alone."
A pure white canvas with nothing written upon it.
Though he was no infant, the story written upon Ian was blank.
Perhaps that was why my gaze was drawn to that story with nothing written on it.
There was nothing there because no brush had touched the blank page.
Yet it was a story upon which anything could be written.
But because he could become anything—
Because he could change into any color—
Was that why Marshall had not revealed Ian?
"Until he finds his own color, I have no intention of letting Ian out into the world."
That was what Marshall said.
Did he mean he would allow Ian no color until he found one of his own?
But there was no guarantee that Ian would find his own color merely because time passed.
"But what if he cannot find his own story?"
"If he cannot find it..."
"Then perhaps Marshall’s story—"
"That will not do."
Marshall shook his head.
"His color belongs to him. I will only help him paint it. His color must not become mine."
"But there is no guarantee that he will find it simply with time."
"Then I will simply wait."
I could say nothing to Marshall, who declared it so firmly.
Because I could see stubbornness in his eyes.
The same childish, boyish stubbornness I had seen before our fight.
"And what if the color Ian finds for himself turns out to be a poor work?"
To be capable of becoming every color meant he could become a bad color as well.
Would it not be better, then, to have him paint Marshall’s story instead?
But—
"And what if it is a poor work?"
"Pardon?"
Marshall smiled faintly, as though wondering what I was so concerned about.
"There is a fan who reads childish stories like mine. There are people who fall for childish stories. If there is someone who will read it even after it is dismissed as a poor work, then it is not a poor work."
"..."
"And if no one reads it, then I need only read it myself."
At those words, so calmly spoken—
"It is not a masterpiece made by someone else that I want to see. I want to see the poor work Ian writes himself."
Ha.
I see.
I merely gave a hollow laugh.
Was that laugh one of mockery for steadfast Marshall?
Or was it mockery for myself, who had fallen for the story of Marshall—not Logres, the Sword Master and Grand Duke of the North, but Marshall, with his immature and childish thoughts?
Yes.
If I thought it would be a poor work and tried to disparage and erase it, then what would that make me—the one who had fallen for Marshall’s childish dream?
And so we parted ways.
That is right, Ian.
This was my first meeting with you.
Though it seems you do not remember it.
Your color, which you found and painted yourself—not Marshall’s, nor anyone else’s.
I saw you after it had been painted for the first time at the entrance ceremony.
And I saw it for the second time in this infirmary.
It truly was childish.
Chivalry, was it?
Chivalry.
It was childish in a different way from Marshall.
And even clumsy.
And rather disappointing.
The talent you showed was genuine.
It would have been even more interesting if my color had been added to it.
So I was a little disappointed that you refused.
But I do not think that kind of childishness is so bad.
I am not sure whether I like it enough to become a fan, though.
Perhaps it is because this is only the beginning?
It must be.
The story written in that color is still only at its opening, is it not?
So please, write it boldly and without restraint.
I may fall for that story and become the second fan of Ian’s story.
I do like such childish stories, after all.
#
After the headmaster left, I had to receive more visitors.
They had come to visit me in the infirmary.
Dolnesia led the group, which included the club members and even Dante.
It seemed Iris and Haede could not come because they had other business.
The people who had gathered upon hearing I was awake did not exactly flood in, but there were enough to fill the infirmary.
I was just about to be touched, thinking perhaps I had not lived my life in vain after all.
But I soon had no choice but to break out in a cold sweat.
"Ian."
For some reason, her tone was incredibly sharp.
Especially Dolnesia’s and Isabella’s.
It did not seem these two had come merely to visit me.
But what on earth had brought them here?
"What is this ring?"
"What ring?"
What were they talking about?
Why bring up a ring all of a sudden?
"The ring you gave Iris."
The ring I gave Iris?
...Ah.
I remembered.
The Holy Maiden’s Ring.
It was filled with holy power, so I thought it would help Iris, who needed to awaken as a saint. I had given it to her through Haede.
But why was that a problem?
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