Lord of Disease (JP-GL) 486

486: The Meaning of a Name

“‘That’? That thing… you are the Lord of Disease? Don’t… yes, don’t make me laugh.”

Rebecca smiled, a smile that twisted her cheeks. A wicked smile.

…And to see that, and to think that the gap was also good, was I a person of a special taste?

“…Rebecca Stagnet, I am sorry that I did not inform you. But—”

“I am one of the investors in the Serpent’s Tongue. —Did you think you could fool me with a stage costume?”

“That is why. I must show that it is me. But I must leave a ‘way out.’ That is what this costume is for.”

“Hey, you’re persistent.”

“There is no such thing as a swindler who is not.”

I was convinced by Liz’s words. I was starting to want to hear how far she would go with her excuses.

Rebecca sighed.

“If you insist on calling yourself the Lord of Disease… then let me ask you a few questions.”

And she asked.

“—What is her sister’s name?”

“…I cannot answer.”

“Yes, that’s right. —‘Correct.’”

She chuckled. Like a cat, toying with its prey.

“Then, what is the name of the country where I was born?”

“…I cannot answer.”

The question I had once been asked. Those who knew the answer—were not many. Besides me and her, there were only those who knew of Ordregalia, led by Flora-san.

“That is wrong. You should have been able to answer. Because that person once answered correctly. Now—what is my maid’s name?”

“…I cannot answer. This is an order from Your Majesty the Demon King. To disclose the information of a senior officer in a place where there are civilians is out of the question.”

“And what did you do to those civilians?”

Rebecca, with a smooth movement, drew a wand from the holder at her hip and lit a blue-green will-o’-the-wisp at its tip.

“…You were not there.”

Rebecca’s muttered words were barely audible with my enhanced hearing.

On that day. In the capital, it was the question she had asked me, who had stopped the short funeral procession. If she had been there, and had remembered the question and the answer, then she might have been able to answer, at least on the surface.

“Let me ask you one last thing.”

Then the last question was the one Liz had asked, the policy of the Sixth Army—

“—What am I… to the Lord of Disease… to ‘you’?”

…It was not.

The fake Lord of Disease, after a moment of silence, opened his mouth.

“…A trusted subordinate. The third rank I once gave you is not a decoration.”

Rebecca did not open her mouth. She did not say it was ‘wrong.’ It was indeed a ‘plausible answer.’ Though the budget for the costume had been stingy, it seemed he had done his homework.

I put on my mask and jumped from the roof and slowly approached her from behind.

“‘Wrong.’”

And I placed my leather-gloved hand on her head and stroked it. The chain of the staff, which held the blue gem, which I held in my other hand, rattled.

Rebecca turned to me, startled. It seemed my skill in suppressing my presence and averting her consciousness was not to be trifled with.

“It is true that to me, ‘Rebecca Stagnet’ was a trusted subordinate. The third rank I once gave her is not a decoration. But to me, she is also a close friend—and a being like a cute little sister.”

Rebecca… smiled, a smile that only I could see. A smile really did suit a girl. …Though I also liked a special smile, a soft smile like this was the best.

Finally, I lightly placed my hand on her small head and let go, and I stepped forward. And I thrust the ferrule of my staff into the ground, as if to gouge it, and I declared, in a deep bass, as if from the depths of hell.

“I am the Lord of Disease. The Sixth Army is no more, and I am no longer a supreme commander, but I have no intention of letting anyone else use this name.”

To me, this name was a precious thing. But this name was a name that had been used by someone of ‘unknown race’ and ‘unknown identity’—or so it was said.

Upon my retirement, the continuation of the Lord of Disease had also been considered. As a ‘position.’ With a different ‘person inside.’ As a mere ‘function.’

Anyone could become the Lord of Disease, if they wore a dark green robe, as if it had been dyed in a poisonous swamp, and lowered their hood, and put on a mask. A clear, obvious ‘threat.’

That was what had been desired, when the being known as the Lord of Disease had been born in this country.

In wartime, depending on how I had died, a body double was to have been prepared. It was a plan that I had also agreed to and had promoted.

In peacetime, it was a plan that had been unanimously rejected in a private survey. Everyone had said that only I should be the Lord of Disease. That it was a position that was no longer needed. That a being that had been created for war should end its role with the war.

That was what they had said.

The robe, the hood, the mask, the shoulder cloth, the staff, the amulets. No matter how many of the symbols that indicated the Lord of Disease were gathered.

It did not mean me.