The war ended.
Victory was written in letters and soon rang out in trumpet sounds. Eventually it returned to the city as dust riding the vibrations of horse hooves.
The kingdom’s capital broke its long silence and filled densely with people. Flags hung from spears that rose majestically toward the sky and flew in the wind. Petals scattered in the air and cheers echoed. What could be more special than the return of victors? Young and old alike, everyone was immersed in joy and cheered.
Though the man at the very front couldn’t enjoy that joy.
The tall man in black military uniform silently looked only ahead and drove his horse. Silver epaulettes and embroidery were splendidly decorated on the black cloth that looked stiff enough to have sharp angles. His belt was tightened so much he seemed unable to breathe, and his spine was straight without a bend.
He was twenty-six years old now. Quite a young age. His large frame with well-built muscles, firm jawline and straight nose bridge made his face a beauty more outstanding than any sculpture.
His eyes were vivid green, but regrettably too deep and cold. His numb gaze seemed to penetrate something like an ominous prophecy.
People called him ‘Silent Valor.’ With a single order he pierced through the war situation, saved hundreds of lives, and sometimes even had anecdotes of winning against forces ten times larger. He brought enemy generals to their knees, and statues of him were erected even in cities he occupied.
“It’s the General! General Miros has returned!”
“He’s a hero! A real hero, that man!”
People waved their hands toward him and shouted cheers, but he didn’t give a glance anywhere. He just stared blankly ahead. Not even minding the sound of the large black warhorse snorting.
Then, someone drove their horse from right behind and carefully approached beside him and said.
“General, at least wave your hand.”
“…What’s the point of such a thing?”
“Because it’s a special occasion.”
Regrettably, he didn’t even respond anymore. The adjutant left behind awkwardly had no choice but to return to his rear again.
It’s really strange. Everything is brilliantly colorful in all its splendor, yet he was like a washed-out painting. As if he alone had faded and been shoved away somewhere.
Even though the protagonist of this moment was clearly him.
***
Everyone was excited by the triumphal procession, but he was still silent.
He was just bothered by everything. It would be more accurate to say he didn’t want to do anything. He was a victor but too exhausted. He only wanted to rest. Though it didn’t go as he wished.
“General, are you ready?”
“…Am I really necessary?”
“You have to go. The victory banquet. You’re the protagonist, General.”
Damn it. He muttered a curse without realizing it. What’s the point of all this? He’d barely finished the war and returned, and now they were making him play the clown. His adjutant continued speaking with a leisurely manner without batting an eye.
He couldn’t escape anyway. He didn’t like this situation, but he also knew his adjutant was right. He was the hero of this victory, the protagonist. Even if it was a protagonist position no one including himself had ever wanted, once the role was decided, he had to perform it.
He eventually couldn’t even pretend to resist and had to move his steps with his adjutant in the lead. That sight was as pitiful as a cow being dragged to slaughter, but everyone only admired his beauty and military achievements, and no one helped him.
Ah, how pitiful.
Why was the palace so large and spacious in this millet-sized kingdom? Only after walking for quite a while did he and his adjutant arrive at the banquet hall. The wise adjutant fled nimbly as soon as he entered the banquet hall, and he stood blankly in the banquet hall with a half-dazed face.
The banquet hall was excessively bright. Paintings and cloths that had money slapped on them in a way that was vulgar beyond luxurious decorated the walls, and the light sources on the dizzyingly high ceiling looked bigger than carriages and were even terrifying. Setting aside how bright it was enough to make his eyes sting.
He felt like he’d dropped into another world alone. He knew how others saw him, but he didn’t think he himself was such a great person. That he’d won the war, that he’d returned alive—it was all because he was lucky.
He looked at people laughing and chattering in splendid attire and thought. What’s so enjoyable? Half of half of those, no. Was there even a millet’s worth who’d been to the battlefield? The humans who fought rolling in mud all died or became cripples, so what’s so good that they’re swaggering around like that?
His insides were excessively twisted. He was originally a person with nothing good, but now there was especially nothing good. Nothing pleased him.
Not the offerings and decorations the king personally bestowed, not this excessively splendid place, not those fools laughing and chattering over there either.
The most terrible of all was himself standing here with a fancy decoration hung on his chest.
“General.”
He turned his head at the familiar voice. It was his adjutant. She carefully approached and held out a long, narrow glass.
“Congratulations. His Majesty is pleased just by your presence maintaining your position.”
I thought she’d slipped away, but it seems she went to get alcohol. Her words were sincere. She seemed to be trying to restrain her expression, but couldn’t quite hide it properly. Rather, she was more proud than he, the person in question.
Miros took the glass without a word but didn’t drink. Though there wasn’t even common pleasantry, his adjutant didn’t mind at all. She already knew he didn’t speak much. She sincerely congratulated him and left her seat again.
Was it because of that? Other nobles who had been watching cautiously began to stealthily approach him.
“I’m truly proud.”
“I heard you’ll be receiving a title this time, congratulations in advance. By any chance, what kind…”
“If you have time, next time at our gathering…”
Oh no. He’d hoped they’d pretend not to notice till the end. He cursed inwardly. Perhaps because his adjutant had spoken to him, they seemed to judge it was okay to approach now. People gathering one by one gradually increased. Soon words burst out noisily like a flock of ibises crying.
He couldn’t even tell who was saying what where anymore. Normally, just frowning would make everyone flee, but this time it seemed hopeless.
Miros deliberately ignored the people rushing at him and silently turned his back. Some pleaded, and others got angry at his rudeness.
But no one could quite grab Miros.
Whatever his appearance, he was a hero, and now that the war was over, he would become a noble. Though there was no word yet about what title would be granted, since he’d made such great achievements, considerable rewards would follow. What gain would there be in needlessly touching him?
There were some who clung persistently, but since he didn’t even pretend to notice, eventually they fell away one by one. Only after all the people disappeared did he look back. He had the illusion that fragments of the splendid banquet were floating all around, but he ignored even that.
He just walked. His steps stamping down on the floor were somewhat violent but regular. They made a clamorous sound like an under-oiled machine.
***
Returning to his room, he threw off his uniform without even turning on the light. After roughly rolling up the clothes that had been tightly blocking his breath and throwing them away with a fling, he immediately headed to the bathroom.
He didn’t care how good an annex the king had given him or what history that room had. No, it wasn’t too bad. In the sense that water came out just by turning the mechanism without needing to call people. Hot water still required calling someone, but he probably wouldn’t use it anyway.
“Haa… Fucking hell.”
The words he barely uttered were curses as expected.
He couldn’t understand even himself why he was like this. He was just uncomfortable and irritated. Sometimes he got angry too. Others said he was taciturn and indifferent, but that was wrong.
Miros was angry at everything. It was inexplicable.
Even when there was absolutely no reason to be angry, he was like that. Just breathing made irritation surge. He had no interest in anything in the world. It wasn’t his concern. He just didn’t know what to do about the sudden emptiness. He didn’t need delicacies or gold and silver treasures.
A hero? Ridiculous. He’d just gotten caught up in it by chance and fought to survive. He wasn’t a person completely without talent, but he lived because he was lucky.
How many people greater than him had been in that mud? Looking at how they all died in the end, his return alive was just luck. He believed that.
“No, it’s somewhat right.”
He let out a hollow sneer at himself. The inexplicable anger never subsided. If he was indifferent, he was indifferent. He couldn’t see or hear anything. He couldn’t properly feel any sensation. It wasn’t that he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t do it. Because only baseless curses and screams came out whenever he opened his mouth.
He splashed cold water roughly on his face. It was a violent appearance more like striking with water than washing. He didn’t care that water splashed everywhere or that his pant legs got wet. He didn’t care about the pain of his face stinging from the cold water either.
After doing that for a while, he suddenly raised his head. Then his eyes met his own reflection in the mirror. After looking for a long time, he blurted out a word without being conscious of it.
“…He said I was pretty.”
He didn’t even know what he was saying. He came to his senses only when the cold water flowing down his forearm dried. Who said that? No, did I even hear such words? He was dumbfounded. It was absurd.
I’ve constantly heard I’m handsome. Of course, whatever words everyone praised with doesn’t matter. He knew his own face well. Black hair, cold green eyes, thick lines, large body with scars haphazardly stamped on it and such. Everything was familiar.
“No, no… No, fuck, don’t think about it.”
He deliberately shook off his thoughts and straightened his back again. And after roughly just shaking off moisture with a towel, he lay down on the bed as he was. Sprawled unsightly on the bed like a puppet with its strings cut, he suddenly found himself looking outside the window.
The room was quiet. In the darkness with the lights off, faint music and such flowed in through the half-open window. After rolling around like that for a while, he eventually got up again and sat at the edge of the bed.
He didn’t perceive the splendid lights visible in the distance or the faint but elegant music sounds. His gaze rose a bit higher.
For some reason he couldn’t take his eyes away. He knew that was the White Snake Mountain Range. He’d seen it on a map. But this was the first time seeing it in person.
No, was it really the first time? It was a doubt that suddenly surged up, but he quickly ignored it. Then when did I see it? He knew it was absurd, but once he started caring about it, he felt like he’d go crazy.
He exhaled. There’s something there. He was seized by such an intense impulse. He tried to grab his hair and press it down, but it wouldn’t subside at all.
He kneaded his hands in sudden impatience. But once the impulse arose, it couldn’t subside. Unable to endure any longer, he bolted up from his seat and kicked the table placed beside the bed. With a pitiful cracking scream, the table’s legs broke. Almost simultaneously, the objects on top spilled and made a clattering racket.
“Ha, haa… Ha. Fuck, what is this again?”
Though there were cases of suddenly welling up without reason even normally, it had never been this hard to control. He glared at the wrecked debris and let out a hollow laugh.
