"Originally, I was planning to head to Gaul to aid the Western Roman Empire and the Holy See in quelling the 'Bagaudae uprising.'"
Siegfried spoke with Avia, whom he had not seen for several years. The young man merely listened quietly, without so much as a furrow of his brow or a flicker of surprise on his face.
Seasons had changed, the sun and moon had turned countless times, yet the feelings Siegfried had upon parting from Avia had never faded. He had long worried whether the young Hun who carried the Rhinegold would be met with misfortune.
Over these years, the silver-haired man had continued to accumulate achievements as the famed Dragon-Slaying Hero.
At some point—he couldn't say when—he had become a name known far and wide in these lands. Though he constantly explained that he was not the only one who slew the dragon, nor even the one who did the greatest share of the work, his fame surged forward like a battering ram, unstoppable.
In the blink of an eye, he had become an object of reverence.
"You must be Siegfried, the one who killed Fafnir. Truly, a great hero."
"No, not just me. I had a friend—his name was Avia."
"Hm? And who might this man be?"
"A Hun."
Siegfried did not believe in dividing people into high and low, noble and base—only in judging whether their deeds were of justice or evil.
"…Hahaha, you do joke, sir. Those people are barbarians. Still, with your protection, our land will surely be safe."
"Indeed, indeed. You are the true hero of justice."
Through the years, Siegfried had visited the Rhine more than once. At every hour—morning, noon, evening, or through the entire day—he had witnessed its shifting scenery.
In the evening, the Rhine lay beneath an orange-red sun sinking slowly into the horizon. The water's surface and the sky were steeped in orange before fading into the dim of night. Birds returning to their nests cried out as they flew overhead. The surrounding forest had long since shed the vivid colors of life, leaving only decay.
There were countless people in the world, each with their own thoughts, their own way of living. Like the tides, they came and went, swelling and receding day by day.
It made little Copernicus feel as though he were adrift in some vast whirlpool.
Siegfried, who had always lived in a world of affirmation, encountered—perhaps for the first time—what it meant to be denied.
"What's more, I was born a Hun with an evil will in my heart. Even if I slay a dragon, the eyes of the world will never see me differently."
Recalling Avia's words from their parting, Siegfried now understood—Avia had foreseen this outcome all along.
To others, the dragon-slayer's constant insistence might seem foolish. But the man chose to follow his conviction—that people must know the truth.
"I was only able to kill Fafnir because of Avia. I will never forget that."
So said the silver-haired man. He had always felt that during those two weeks they spent together to slay the dragon, the two of them had been partners.
Not exactly friends, but something close enough to it.
And now, upon meeting again, Siegfried felt that aside from looking a little more mature, Avia had hardly changed at all.
"Originally? Then where are you headed now, Siegfried?"
Avia, who had listened quietly for some time, gave a great stretch, calmed the slightly restless Typhon, and smiled as he asked.
From Avia's perspective, Siegfried no longer bore the curse of the Rhinegold, and thus would avoid the tragedy that was meant to be his. If the Nibelungenlied still played out, they should now be in the part where he helps someone win the hand of the Queen of Iceland.
But from what Avia had learned in recent years, Iceland had no queen. It was part of Kitland's domain.
In the far northwest of Europe, on the largest peninsula in the continent and the fifth largest in the world—the Scandinavian Peninsula—there now stood a unified realm named Kitland, ruled by a king named Beowulf.
Incidentally, Beowulf, together with France's Song of Roland and Germany's Nibelungenlied, was counted among Europe's three great heroic epics. Both Beowulf and Siegfried had slain dragons, and Avia himself—though only barely—could be considered a dragon-slayer too.
When Avia posed his question, Siegfried hesitated little before answering:
"The great ancient creature still living in the North Sea—the Kraken. I'm going to kill it."
---
Somewhere in the North Sea, the sky was thick with black clouds, as though a vast curtain had been drawn across it, blotting out all sunlight.
The rain poured down in torrents, each drop striking the sea with force, throwing up a spray.
A man seated astride some kind of marine beast turned his head, but all he saw was wind and storm—nothing else existed within his view.
"Mélien… so you're the one Van-Feim sent?"
"Hah. You've got a sharp tongue. I'm just a hired hand, you understand."
The voice—utterly at odds with the violent scene—came from the one called Mélien, though he had not yet shown himself.
"By the way, Froabro, I'm here to help you, so let's get along, hmm? Plenty of other Dead Apostles were supposed to come, but I insisted on taking the job.
See, they wouldn't be able to protect you. Worst case, they might even get killed along with you. So Van-Feim said to leave it to me, and the moment he did, I rushed right over."
"…This is the first I've heard of you having any sense of camaraderie. Just to confirm—what happened to the Dead Apostles who were supposed to come with me?"
"Hah. I ate them."
Mélien said it in an utterly innocent tone.
"If Lord White Wing hears of this, he'll have you executed."
The man's voice carried the weight of killing intent.
"Doesn't matter. They were trash. All we need to do is capture the Kraken and use it to keep the Church from reaching Britain by sea.
I don't really know what deal Van-Feim and Trevam Ottenroshe made with Wandering Sea and the Clock Tower, though."
Mélien's reply came with what might have been a chuckle, but carried no real feeling.
"Oh, right—Froabro Lowein, you used to be a mage of the Wandering Sea, didn't you? And now you're under Trevam's command. You must know something."
"I don't. All I need to do is complete the mission Lord White Wing gave me."
"Such a boring answer." Mélien went on: "Still, Black Wing was killed by Bay-Jhe. If your White Wing were to fight him, maybe he'd be killed too."
"…Shut your mouth! If you dare insult Lord White Wing again, I'll kill you first!"
And so, the Tenth and the Twentieth of the Twenty-Seven Dead Apostle Ancestors fought each other in the middle of the North Sea—before they even found their target.
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