Ch.160Jester or Knight? (3)

They lived happily ever after.

That single line adorning the end of fairy tales and heroic sagas is a lie and deception. The protagonist who achieves great feats in fairy tales might indeed live long. But if asked whether that life is happy… Bernstein would shake his head at such a question.

It cannot be happy, never.

From the moment one is exiled to the Outer Continent after living past 150 years, life can no longer be beautiful or happy. This place is hell.

Were those 150 years on the continent happy? Did that happiness seem like it would last forever? Look at the ground beneath your feet as you step onto the Outer Continent. Buried there are stars who once thought as you do when they first arrived, only to fall in the end. Do you think you’ll be any different? You won’t. The same fate awaits you.

I know. I understand.

And yet, despite this… Bernstein and countless other heroes dream of a beautiful end.

They hope their final moments will be beautiful. That they will mean something. That even if they fall, they might fall with grace. Though they know how luxurious such a wish is, they cannot let it go.

“Human greed truly knows no bounds.”

Bernstein sneered. Mocking himself rather than anyone else, he muttered these words. As his laughter faded, Bernstein made a decision. A decision he had postponed for 150 years.

Thwack.

He swung his sword and carved out his own heart. As the Helm Knight’s eyes widened, Bernstein burned his extracted heart with sword energy. The flames greedily devoured the star that had dwelled within his heart.

“Even now, I remain greedy. I want my name to be written in the final chapter of your story. It’s a desire I’ve harbored for over 200 years. Just like knights who admire heroes… I want to appear alongside them in their heroic tales.”

Bernstein pierced the Helm Knight’s heart with his sword. It wasn’t a sword meant to kill. Quite the opposite. A sword to save the Helm Knight. Bernstein shared his own flame with the Helm Knight’s dying embers.

In that moment, the Helm Knight felt a long-standing thirst quenched. Starlight filled his body. His wounds healed, and flesh returned to his withered arms. As the Helm Knight stared wide-eyed, Bernstein smiled wryly.

“A master should always show his best side to his disciple. That’s a master’s duty. It wouldn’t look good if I couldn’t even walk properly, would it?”

Bernstein transferred all his starlight to the Helm Knight, save for a single spark. His body began to deteriorate rapidly, but Bernstein’s eyes remained clear.

“Is this how it felt to live for 150 years? Impressive. Truly a hero of the Empire. That’s how an Empire’s hero should be.”

“Bernstein, you…”

“Well, my star is too worn out to be of much help, but at least I can say a proper farewell to my disciple.”

Bernstein pushed the Helm Knight away. While intercepting Quixote’s spear in the Helm Knight’s place, Bernstein said:

“Go. Hurry.”

He didn’t look back at the Helm Knight.

Without looking back, he faced forward. There, a jester was charging toward him. Raising his sword against the jester who sought to make this story ridiculous, Bernstein stood firm.

“Come, jester!”

Holding his sword that shone with sunlight, he shouted.

Recalling his glorious days from 150 years ago, Bernstein declared his name.

“I, Bernstein vanmoore, knight of the Empire and sword of the Imperial Family, shall be your opponent.”

2.

The Helm Knight stepped into the forbidden zone. Passing through the opaque barrier, he was greeted by the graves of his comrades and the battlefield where he had once gloriously triumphed.

And there, his disciple awaited him.

Najin, perched on a rock, glared at the Helm Knight.

Though he had much to say, Najin remained silent. He conveyed everything with his gaze alone. The Helm Knight responded to that gaze with a bitter smile.

“It’s getting dark. I should light a fire.”

Just like the day they first met, the Helm Knight sat across from Najin and lit a fire. Crack—the campfire blazed to life. With the burning campfire between them, he began to speak.

“Najin.”

“Yes.”

“Will you listen to what I’m about to say without interruption?”

Najin silently nodded. The Helm Knight, looking at the campfire rather than Najin, began:

“150 years ago, I made a deal with the Empress of Bliss. More precisely, it was a wager.”

Crack—the campfire flared up.

“On that day when I knocked out half of the Empress of Bliss’s star and lost all of mine, I could have struggled more. Had I fought harder, I might have taken one or two more of her stars. But I saw no meaning in it. I would just come back to life anyway, so what was the point?”

There was no god here, no priest to listen, yet he was making a confession. No, not a confession. Though he admitted his sins, he showed no desire for forgiveness.

“As I felt such doubt, the Empress of Bliss proposed a deal. If I retreated, she would not turn my comrades into jesters, and she would withdraw peacefully. Perhaps she didn’t want to suffer further losses. Whatever her reason, it was a good offer.”

There are ways to give peace to the dead.

He could have given them honorable funerals, allowing them to die with dignity. But if they became the Empress of Bliss’s jesters? That would be irreversible.

They would dance forever. They would become puppets that mock, ridicule, and taunt others. The Helm Knight couldn’t bear to see his comrades meet such an end. He couldn’t accept that history would record them as jesters rather than knights.

“I knelt before the Empress of Bliss and accepted the deal. At the time, I thought it was the best choice.”

So the Helm Knight accepted the proposal.

“But deals always come with a price.”

He raised his head.

“The Empress of Bliss could have killed me and turned everyone there into jesters, even at her own expense. And she’s a demon who isn’t satisfied until she gets everything she wants. Such a demon wouldn’t simply let go of her prey.”

He pointed to himself.

“The deal came with a condition. The Empress of Bliss made a wager with me at the same time. A wager about my end.”

The end.

“The Empress of Bliss said she would ask me at my final moment.”

At your final moment, I shall ask you.

Quoting King Arthur’s words, the demon mocked him.

“Are you a jester or a knight?”

Najin’s expression crumpled.

He seemed to understand what that meant.

“If I die as a knight, the deal remains valid. But the moment I end my life as a jester, as a fallen one, the deal becomes void. The Empress of Bliss would immediately gain the right to enter the forbidden zone and turn everyone buried here into her jesters.”

Because that demon has such power.

“I accepted that wager. I thought I could endure. I was arrogant. It was an incredibly arrogant choice.”

“…”

“The Empress of Bliss placed a curse of oblivion on me. She placed a curse of burning, and layered dozens of other curses. As a result, the world doesn’t recognize me, and even I forgot myself. So I cannot gain a new star.”

No matter what feats he accomplishes, he cannot gain a star. Only worn-out stars remained, eating away at his flesh.

“If you don’t covet another star, your soul wears out and you gradually become a fallen one. If you don’t covet others’ stars, you cannot survive. But is that really living? What value is there in a life without honor or pride?”

A life without value.

The Helm Knight couldn’t find value in his own life.

“I wanted to die. I would rather have become a fallen one than live like that…”

But he couldn’t even die.

The moment he embraces death, he becomes a fallen one, a fallen star, a lost star. That would mean the Empress of Bliss’s victory and all his comrades becoming jesters.

He had to live. He had to survive.

“I had to live, but… I felt terrible doubt. Should I, who was once a hero, live like that? I had lived my entire life preserving honor and pride, valuing them above my own life, and now I had to give up everything and live like that? I couldn’t. It was impossible.”

So, he endured.

He said:

“I endured for 10 years, 50 years, 100 years, 150 years. I tried to endure. And I realized that this was a wager I could never win from the beginning.”

Crack—a spark flew up.

The campfire, running out of firewood, began to die down.

“I don’t consider crows and hunters to be knights. So the moment I take someone else’s heart, I cease to be a knight, and the Empress of Bliss wins. But if I endure as a knight? Eventually, I become a fallen one. Either way, there’s only defeat for me.”

He laughed bitterly.

“As I endured, I reached my limit. So I swallowed the corpse of a dead beast and ate the remnants of fallen ones that others had hunted. I convinced myself it was acceptable since I hadn’t hunted them myself. But from that moment on, I couldn’t call myself a knight anymore.”

Because he couldn’t be proud of his actions.

The Helm Knight’s excessively high standards of knighthood, the weight he placed on the word “knight,” held him back. That’s why he had told Najin:

Don’t think too rigidly.

Create various gaps.

Otherwise, it becomes exhausting.

“When I met you, I was already at my limit.”

The Helm Knight pointed at Najin as he spoke.

“So I seriously considered changing the meaning of ‘knight’ within myself and surviving by devouring your heart. Haven’t I endured enough after 150 years? Haven’t I done my best? Can anyone blame me? I tried to close my eyes and ears, but…”

Tick.

As the last spark flew up and the campfire was about to go out, Najin put in new firewood.

“You stubborn bastard.”

The flames rose again.

Fiercely and brilliantly.

“You prevented me from doing that. Right there, you made me a knight again. You made me recall my glorious days. You made it so I couldn’t escape.”

It wasn’t a resentful voice.

There was laughter in the Helm Knight’s voice.

“You showed me that I could still achieve the end I had been clinging to, the end I had been hoping for. You made me dream again of a dream I had abandoned long ago.”

He drank strong liquor.

He had a pleasant dream.

“Now it’s time to wake from that dream.”

Wake up from the alcohol and rise.

It was time to return from the dream to reality.

“I wandered for 150 years. That time didn’t give me enlightenment, but it did allow me to make a decision.”

He stood up.

“Now I can provide an answer.”

It was time to pay the price for indulging in that excellent liquor.

3.

Bernstein vanmoore admired heroes.

He admired the national hero who saved the Empire, and Bernstein, who grew up listening to his tales, became a knight. The Helm Knight wouldn’t know how overjoyed Bernstein was when he became the Imperial sword and stood beside the hero he had so admired.

Recalling the past, Bernstein smiled.

While the present is so harsh, why is the past so beautiful? Even with his body pierced by a spear and blood flowing freely, he could still smile.

“Why do you smile? What amuses you so?”

“You ask me to smile when it suits you, but why does my smile displease you so much? Jester.”

Quixote’s brow furrowed.

Bernstein’s smile was one that Quixote could never produce. A light and carefree smile. If there are those who desire what they cannot have, there are also those who hate it. Quixote was the latter.

He thrust his spear more violently. Though Bernstein’s arm was torn off by Quixote’s spear, he still didn’t stop smiling.

…He had lived admiring heroes.

Though he couldn’t become a hero himself, his story could be included in the story written by a hero. Bernstein was satisfied with that fact. Not everyone can be the protagonist, and Bernstein didn’t wish to take the Helm Knight’s place and become the protagonist himself.

Though he admired and envied him.

Above all, he was Bernstein’s idol.

A supporting character who makes the protagonist shine. Someone who makes his idol shine. That was enough. But when that idol no longer shone, Bernstein lost his purpose. He resented his idol and even hated him. He wandered for 150 years like that.

After wandering and wandering, he found his answer.

Crack!

As his bones were crushed and he rolled on the ground, Bernstein closed his eyes. With his eyes closed, he saw his mental image. Looking at his mental image with his eyes closed, he staggered to his feet.

In Bernstein’s mental image was the Helm Knight.

The hero he had admired was there.

Now Bernstein knew that he had never once abandoned being a knight.

“Yes, you were a hero. You never gave up. Not for a moment…”

He looked at his deteriorating body.

It’s painful. Did he endure this pain for 150 years? Truly admirable. Yes. That’s the Empire’s hero. The man I admired.

“Now I remember the name.”

Bernstein laughed lightly. After a long time, he could admire his idol again. He realized that he was still shining. The sun rose again in Bernstein’s mental image, which had lost its sun.

He gained enlightenment.

Sprouting, Blooming, Full Bloom.

Having climbed these three steps, there was a wall before him, but even that wall couldn’t stop Bernstein. His 150 years of wandering had already become sufficient experience. Having found his answer after wandering, he broke through the wall and moved forward.

Bernstein opened his eyes.

At the end of his life, he reached transcendence.

Having burned all his stars and resolved to end his life here, Bernstein’s sword was sharper than ever. Though Bernstein swung his sword at the empty air, the sword energy reached Quixote, who was dozens of meters away. Quixote’s eyes widened.

Bernstein swung his sword.

He swung it again and again.

A blazing sun burns the wasteland. The sunlight sword energy blocks the jester’s path. As he swung his sword, Bernstein muttered. Not to the jester before him, but to the Helm Knight who would be preparing for his end in the forbidden zone beyond.

“I hope you shine until the end. I hope you meet your end as a hero…”

He swung his sun sword. He displayed the swordsmanship invented by Sir Gawain of the Round Table. Of course, Bernstein’s sun sword didn’t shine as fiercely as Gawain’s, nor did it burn enemies or create a sun in the Outer Continent.

The light created by Bernstein’s sun sword was faint, but.

It was enough to illuminate a span ahead.

If Gawain had been here, he would have praised Bernstein. Because it was such a beautiful sword. At the end of his life, Bernstein could be beautiful.

Swoosh!

Though the sunlight sword energy swept across the ground again and again, the end approached. The Knight of Bliss charged through the flames. But his body wasn’t unscathed either. Quixote, his face melting from the fire, was screaming.

It was a great feat, but Bernstein neither admired nor even paid attention to that feat. He was only recalling something from a short while ago.

‘Ah, I couldn’t apologize.’

He had promised to apologize if all those words were proven true, but he couldn’t deliver that apology.

There is no death without regrets. Everyone carries at least one small regret. Feeling a slight regret, Bernstein smiled.

In his final moment, he could be a knight.

* * *

“Am I a jester, or am I a knight?”

The Helm Knight posed this question to himself. Only he could answer it. He voiced the answer he had postponed for 150 years.

“A knight.”

In his final moment, he chose to be a knight.