Great Teacher in a Defense Game

#55 Circus – 5

The Clown quietly looked down at Lacrimana.

“Answer me with utmost deliberation.”

The tone of his voice was markedly peculiar.

On the surface, it seemed like a forceful command, yet underneath lay a subtle, almost pleading quality.

Lachryma, standing nearby, felt that dissonance even more acutely.

“Speak. What are your thoughts on Enoch?”

“…I–”

“Do you wish to aid him? Or to hinder him?”

The Jester pressed, once more.

His gaze, from behind the mask, pierced her as if to see right through.

Lachryma did not respond immediately.

She pursed her lips, agonizing over the words she would utter.

*I want to help Master. That is the truth, not a lie.*

In truth, her answer had already been decided.

The notion of hindering him had never once crossed her mind.

Lachryma had always desired to assist Enoch.

He was the man who had suddenly appeared before her one day, promising to make her a hero.

Such an experience was entirely new to her.

For Lachryma, who had clawed her way out of the gutters, it was a memory she could never forget.

And so, a desire bloomed within her.

A small, defiant ambition along with it.

The first person to ever truly see her.

She didn’t want to betray his expectations.

If possible, she wished to meet his expectations, to receive his ultimate acknowledgement.

That was her unvarnished, innermost feeling.

Lachryma’s true heart, which had ultimately transcended her thoughts and even begun to sublimate into magic.

“Why the hesitation?”

“…”

“Is your answer not yet forthcoming?”

The Jester urged her again.

His manner suggested he wouldn’t tolerate being kept waiting much longer.

Lacrimosa hesitated a moment, then, with effort, forced her heavy lips to move.

“…I want to help the Master.”

“…”

“He was the first to truly see me. I won’t betray his expectations.”

“Such a worn-out—”

“It’s not a worn-out saying.”

Lacrimosa added quickly.

Towards the faintly flustered clown, she widened her still-intact eye as much as she could.

“You know my past. What I, a child of the slums, have been doing to survive.”

“…”

“So understand. You can doubt me. If our positions were reversed, I would too. But—”

Lacrimosa supported herself on the floor with her arm.

Her body, riddled with wounds, screamed in protest.

But she endured it.

Forcing her creaking body to move, she slowly began to rise.

“…But, the sincerity of my feelings for the Master, that is true.”

“…”

“There are no lies there. I will help him. If I’m lacking, I’ll force myself to be better, even if I have to tear myself apart.”

Before she knew it, Lacrimosa had risen completely.

A delayed wave of dizziness washed over her.

Barely regaining her balance, she reached out a hand and beckoned.

“The sword.”

“…?”

“The sword, give it to me. The Master bought it for me. Quickly.”

“…Even in this situation, you look for your sword first.”

“I answered your question. First, give me the sword.”

Lacrimosa said, clutching her forehead.

She didn’t care about her own condition.

But, being deprived of the sword was something she couldn’t tolerate.

It was an item the Master himself had bought.

That, at least, I cannot entrust to another’s hands.

At Lacrina’s insistence, the Black Jester sighed.

“…Incomprehensible. To seek out a sword in a situation like this.”

“…”

“Considering the circumstances, it’s unlikely you simply value the sword itself. Could it be…because he gifted it to you?”

The Jester did not conceal his bewilderment.

He wrested the sword from the fake Enoch and held it in his hand.

“Curious. Just what is it that makes you this way?”

“…”

“Why do you expend every nerve on this Enoch fellow?”

“…Nothing special. Just expectation.”

“Expectation?”

“Yes. A person’s eyes, you see, reveal more than you think.”

Lacrina pointed a finger at her own eyes.

Simultaneously, a memory surfaced in her mind.

The time Enoch had first come to the Moon Well Orphanage.

Back then, Lacrina had read Enoch’s eyes.

Or rather, she had glimpsed a strange emotion within his pupils.

Pure expectation.

“They often say you can tell everything just by looking at a person’s expression.”

“Expression?”

“A person’s eyes are more honest than their lips. What they’re thinking, how they see you. It all shows, you see.”

“…Enoch was… different?”

“Yes. Different. Different from my damned parents, different from the slum children, different from the orphanage toddlers and the Sister Superior too.”

Lacrina covered her eyes and grinned.

She had felt countless gazes throughout her life.

More precisely, she had felt the emotions contained within those gazes.

Her parents. When they looked at Lacrina, their eyes were those of someone observing an insect.

The slum children always stared at her with fearful eyes.

The orphanage toddlers were devoid of thought, and the Sister Superior invariably looked down at her with eyes brimming with pity.

Every gaze, a displeasure.

Born of them, yet regarded like vermin. Feared without reason. Or pitied with a shallow heart.

Lacrimă always resented it.

Each time their eyes met hers, she felt her own worth diminish.

*I am truly nothing,* the thought etched itself like a brand.

But Enoch, he was different.

He did not loathe Lacrimă.

He did not fear her, whispering of past horrors, nor did he offer cheap mercy born of pity.

He was simply… pleased.

And that, for Lacrimă, was a feeling encountered for the very first time in her life.

“He said he would make me a hero, the teacher did.”

Lacrimă closed her eyes, conjuring the sensation of that time.

The feeling she had then.

The shivers that crawled up her spine.

A tale as if spun from the pages of a fairy book.

Time, once frozen solid, seemed to stir again from that very moment.

All of it, still vivid, as though she could grasp it in her hand.

“It was the first time. The first time I had ever heard such words.”

“…”

“Curses and revilements, I’ve heard countless. The fearful glares, the pitying looks, I am accustomed to them. But to find someone who looked at me with expectation, he was the first.”

“…”

“That is the reason. There is nothing else.”

“…Was it truly that touching? Enough to stake your everything upon?”

“Yes. Enough to stake my everything.”

“…”

“He completes me. Beside the teacher, I am no longer an orphan of the slums. If he places his hopes in me, I will wager everything to fulfill them.”

Lacrimă answered resolutely.

She nodded, unwavering.

In that instant.

A peculiar shift stirred within her heart’s landscape.

“…This is?”

Lacrimosa’s hand, unbidden, found her chest.

For some reason, her heart thrummed.

A strange sensation, as though something pulsed deep within her soul.

Something even she didn’t recognize was, at this very moment, transforming.

“…This is?”

“…I see. So that is your answer.”

The Jester observed Lacrimosa with keen eyes.

He seemed to wrestle with a thought, before finally speaking.

“Lacrimosa.”

“…?”

“Orphan of the slums. A hero forged. I have heard your answer well.”

-Swish-

With those words, the Jester presented his sword.

The blade remained sheathed.

As if urging her to draw and wield it, the hilt faced her.

“A final question I pose. Is there no regret?”

Your life. Your very being.

Are you truly willing to wager it all, on Enoch?

The Jester imbued his question with that weight.

Lacrimosa, once again, answered with unwavering resolve.

“None. Absolutely none.”

“…Is that so?”

“Yes. I resolved myself long ago.”

“To what, then?”

The Jester countered.

Lacrimosa gazed intently at the offered sword.

And then.

She reached out and drew it in one swift motion.

“Boeun.”

-Sreeung.

“I live only for that.”

The blade slid free with a soft hiss.

As it emerged, the metal flashed, catching the light of the ceiling lamps.

That instant.

‘…What is this?!’

A change had come to her blade.

Lacrimna stared blankly at the transforming steel.

A blue chill, spreading with swiftness.

Before she knew it, the entire sword was dyed a glacial blue.

‘Freezing… magic?’

Cautiously, she reached out a hand.

The very air froze solid.

Startled by the escaping chill, she recoiled.

“…T, this is?”

“Absolute Zero.”

“What?”

“Absolute Zero, I said. The unique magic of Nordilla, the Archmage of Frost.”

“How could you…?”

“Because I promised. To pass it on to you.”

“No, that’s not it. How do *you* know Lady Nordilla–”

-Clap!

The Jester clapped his hands abruptly.

Lacrimna’s words were cut short.

He shook his head, refusing to elaborate.

“It is not my place to explain such things to you.”

“…B, but—”

“Enough. All the conversation between you and I is done. We should move on to the main event soon.”

“…The main event?”

Lakrina tilted her head, a question forming on her lips.

The clown, ignoring her, shifted his gaze to the right.

“Hiding over there, are you?”

-……

“I know you’ve been watching. Come out now.”

The clown spoke towards the space beyond the tent.

Lakrina, without thinking, held her breath.

At this particular juncture, there was only one person who would appear.

-Thud. Thud.

“…Seems I’ve been discovered after all.”

“You weren’t going to wait quietly, were you? You gloomy sort.”

“How sad. I can’t deny it though.”

Just as she suspected.

The tent flap was pulled aside, and a familiar face emerged.

It was Enoch.

Not a fake, but the real Enoch.

Lakrina’s mouth belatedly fell open.

“S-Sir…”

-Thud. Thud.

Enoch approached closer.

His gaze pierced Lakrina, as if seeing right through her.

Lakrina avoided his eyes, trembling.

Could he have overheard their conversation just moments ago?

Her background, her anecdotes, everything?

‘Please, let it not be so…’

“Lakrina.”

“Y-Yes…”

“I heard your confession quite clearly.”

“!”

“It’s a bit complicated to discuss now. Let’s talk about the details later, shall we?”

“Ah, I understand…”

Lacrimosa retreated quickly, stepping back.

Her expression clouded.

What conversation awaited her later?

That prospect filled her with a dull dread.

Be that as it may. Enoch, belatedly, moved on to the main point.

Toward the Clown, who had stood silently all this while, he opened his mouth, speaking softly.

“With this, your request is fulfilled.”

“…”

“You asked for time to speak with Lacrimosa. It seems that is concluded. Is it not?”

“…Yes. It is sufficient now.”

The Clown nodded.

Enoch, too, mirrored the gesture.

“Then, let us move to the heart of the matter.”

“Then—”

“Before that, let us dispose of that wretched imitation.”

Enoch pointed a finger at the fake Enoch.

He narrowed his eyes, making no attempt to hide his displeasure.

“Even if you make one, must it be *that*?”

“……”

“And to think you showed that thing to my disciple. There’s a limit to bad taste. What a lurid fellow.”

“…I cannot deny it.”

The Clown sighed deeply.

Was this the feeling Orban experienced each time he faced himself?

A sudden realization dawned.