SML Ch 77

Chapter 77

Clutching the golden mirror, its edges glowing pure white, Serna fixed his eyes on Reynald’s figure climbing up along the skeletal horse, gripping bone after bone as he made for the Dullahan’s neck.

“My prince, the mirror! Isn’t it already charged? If our lord falls from up there—!”

“He won’t fall! Your lord isn’t so weak! We wait until Sir Reynald gives the signal!”

So Serna retorted, but his heart pounded anxiously. Each time that black smoke coiled into spearpoints and hurtled toward Reynald, a scream nearly tore from his throat.

Yet Serna held faith. He knew how uncanny Reynald’s movement was in battle, how sharp his instincts. Wasting the mirror now would mean nothing left to save Reynald when true peril struck.

And yet… how can he be so calm?

Serna’s palms were slick with sweat, his mind circling ceaselessly. He was not marveling at strength alone, nor merely at those extraordinary instincts that let Reynald dodge unseen attacks. It was the man’s serenity—utterly unruffled even so near death—that stunned him.

Does he not fear death at all? Else how could he move like that, so unwavering?

One slip of his hand, a single spearhead of smoke striking a vital point—that alone could kill him. Volant’s restless stamping revealed how the youth too quailed at the thought.

But Reynald himself—he ascended as if fate had already assured him life.

I… I have always feared death. My brother thinks I’m afraid of ghosts and spirits—but the truth is simpler: it is death itself I dread. And so, I seek curiosity about everything else.

That was Serna’s secret: his curiosity was armor to shield against the unknown fear. When he’d approached the Swines earlier to barter, villagers thought him fearless. But no—he had been afraid. He only wanted to know them. To strip away the shroud of mystery, to make dread smaller. Reality was always less terrifying than the imagined.

But his teacher was not like him. Reynald sought no comfort in explanations, borne by neither curiosity nor dread. He simply sought solutions; chose the best path; enacted it without hesitation. Failure did not enter his mind, nor did fear.

Serna often wondered. Does Sir Reynald even know what fear of death feels like? Would he, if chance took his life, simply close his eyes calmly, believing it unremarkable? That serenity, so plain as to seem almost indifference to himself—how could one ever follow such an example?

He shook the thought away. His mind wandered terribly at times—an uncorrected failing.

No. Of course he fears death like any man. That’s why he gave up command, came here to his provincial land to live peacefully. That was cherishing his life. He just has the misfortune to keep attracting monsters in place of the rest.

Besides—this was hardly time for idle speculation. Reynald had already reached the horse’s severed neck. Any moment, he should find and smash the glowing core hidden within. Victory was near.

“Hold just a bit longer! The beast will soon collapse!”

So called the knights and youths, their spirits rising at the sight. They pressed hard against wolves’ snarling jaws, the tide turning at last toward mankind.

And Serna—he raised the golden mirror, sunlight faintly streaming through clouds to fall upon it. Light broke a crack through the black canopy above. So too in the moss-maze, such signs had marked the mirror fully linked to the sun: its highest state.

Good. Now—once Sir Reynald strikes the core…

But the moment relief stirred, Arun’s voice cut in.

“Serna.”

“Brother? What is it?”

Arun’s face was grave as he gripped Serna’s shoulder. He pointed behind.

“Look there. The Swines. What do you see?”

“The Swines…?”

Serna blinked. Indeed, throughout the battle, the Swinefolk had not joined either side. They only huddled behind the humans, babbling and flailing, seemingly aimless. He had not counted on their support in the first place—only that they not betray them.

“See closely. They are…praying.”

Serna froze. Praying? Swines? Monsters—even these odd ones—keeping some religion of their own?

But it was true. Drawing closer, Serna saw: the Swines had placed a crude black-carved figure of a bat at their center, chanting harsh sounds and prostrating as before some unseen force.

“What are you…?”

Against his reason, Serna called to them. He expected snarls, teeth bared if they hid treachery.

Instead—

“Kwiik! Kweek!”

They turned with strange excitement, pointing from their wooden idol to the skeletal horse.

“Eh? Huh? You mean…this figure’s tied to that beast?”

The Swines nodded furiously, squealing insistently, gesturing. They looked almost desperate. He could not understand—but perhaps, Serna guessed, they feared the horse.

“Don’t worry! Sir Reynald will finish—wait… why is it taking so long?”

Now he noticed. Reynald had entered the broken neck. Yet still the horse stood, not collapsing. It should be quick work to find the core. Why the delay?

Doubt gnawed him as he tightened fingers on the mirror.

Then—the Swines began shrieking louder, gesturing wildly at both his mirror and their idol.

“What? What now?”

One especially frantic Swine rushed him, pointing at the sunlight caught in his mirror, then jabbing toward the bat carving again and again. They seized his sleeve.

“You dare lay hands on my brother?!” Arun roared, wrenching Serna out of their grip and shielding him.

But even as his brother’s hand fell on his shoulder, Serna felt a sudden convulsion of intuition.

The doll. It had moved.

Now perched atop Arun, it stared silently at the Swine idol.

Was that coincidence? No. Reynald’s strange clockwork servant never acted without reason.

“Doll,” Serna called.

[…….]

“These Swines—they want me to shine the mirror on that idol, don’t they?”

[O]

“And…if I do, will it help us? Help Sir Reynald?”

[…O?]

The doll’s gesture was crooked. Ambiguous. Just like when it had answered Reynald before. A hesitant “yes” that even it seemed unsure of—but yes nonetheless.

Perhaps it would waste the mirror, lose their chance to aid Reynald. But Serna’s gut told him otherwise. Somehow, inexplicably, this crooked answer was the path.

“…Fine. Let’s see.”

He raised the mirror to the crude carving.

Sun broke from the heavens, the mirror throwing its beam. And—Serna started in shock.

The idol, though shaped crudely as a bat—reflected no such form.

Instead, the mirror showed a hooded figure, body shackled round with chains.

And as the light struck, the figure writhed. The chains shattered, exploding into fragments. A binding spell broken.

“Kwiik!”

The Swines squealed in victory, frenzied with joy. They knew. They had known all along. This idol was not a “totem” but an artifact bound in sorcery.

And at that revelation, Serna lifted his gaze.

Through the clouds, bathed in the opened shaft of sunlight—

A black figure was falling.