The name of that river is the Vltava.
Two headwaters well up without end—one cold and clear, one warm, nurturing life. In time they swell, merge, and wind their way north to south through the land in great serpentine bends.
Along its banks, countless scenes unfold.
The newborn streams enter the forest. Light filters down through the treetops; the air lies deep and hushed; the presence of wild animals lingers. The river that grants life soon hears the brave call of hunting horns. With the start of the chase, the forest turns tumultuous.
When the river leaves the woods behind, gentle pastureland stretches on without end.
Signs of human life begin to appear. As it goes, bright music reaches the softly murmuring water. Mixed in are cheerful singing and lively, lilting voices. Today, and today alone, the farmers rest their working hands, celebrating a new couple’s departure from noon onward.
Smiles overflow, happiness blossoms. The feast will likely last until midnight.
Then the curtain of night falls.
One by one, the lights of the villages go out, and a splendid moon floats on the water’s surface. Its rich white light dyes the night sky indigo, and the stars hide themselves.
Even in the night when all living things sleep, the river keeps running.
And it is not lonely. It has companions: the water fairies.
Under moonlight they are born, dance prettily, pray for the river’s journey, and vanish as if seeing it off. The river does not stop its flow for even a blink; single-minded and taciturn, it passes through everything.
The night’s stillness, over countless thousands of years, has watched it go.
The Vltava runs onward.
Love of one’s homeland is sung again and again, entwined with the grandeur of nature’s landscapes.
The great river does not show only a gentle face.
Multiple currents twist together, churn into whirlpools, strike rocks and throw up white spray—this torrent is named the Rapids of St. John.
Something looks down upon the raging river.
Ruins. Even crushed by rock, the castle rises in austere pride. A palace that once boasted splendor continues to stand by the river, waiting only to decay at the end of time.
Beyond the rapids, the river widens, its presence growing. In a landlocked country without a sea, it begins to carry the dignity befitting the logistics that support a million lives.
The capital, long awaiting its arrival, welcomes it.
In a great arc, it traces the lives people have lived since the past. The remnants of a castle where royalty once dwelled; a magnificent fortress boasting over a thousand years of history; a cathedral of prayer; on an old bridge, sculptures lined along the balustrade.
After witnessing it all, the river’s unruffled flow departs, bound to become one with the next current.
The country held in that river’s embrace is Czechia, and the region called Bohemia is famed around the world.
A beautiful land in Central Europe, colored by vivid seasons—summer drenched in strong sunlight, winter endured in harsh cold.
The work titled Má vlast—My Homeland—is a cycle of six symphonic poems. It is a grand piece that runs more than an hour if performed in full, but among them the second, Vltava, is especially famous and most often performed on its own.
The composer is Bedřich Smetana.
Born in Czech lands, he gave the piece the name Vltava, the river’s Czech name. In German the same piece is called Die Moldau, and depending on the generation, that name may be the more familiar one.
Worth special note is that most of the six pieces were composed after Smetana had lost his hearing.
Even with such a disadvantage, the great river’s imagery—painted in tone—remains vivid through time, leaving listeners with a striking impression and a deep, nostalgic longing.
If he would recognize their accomplishments, then—something beautiful, something long.
Asked for that by Ark on the night the battle ended, Masumi chose Vltava from My Homeland.
Let’s rewind time a little.
Even after the subjugation of the beasts was over, Ark’s Fourth Knight Order did not return to the garrison.
Security itself was handed off to the knights stationed in Vestofa, but they remained in the city, wary that other beasts might attack after sensing the unstable state of the air.
As for the arena, it seems it had already been dispersed under the guidance of the garrison knights.
Where Masumi and the others were now was one of Vestofa’s greatest noble estates.
The noble received the thirty knights—filthy with mud and dust, stained with blood besides—without the slightest look of displeasure. What a remarkable person. Their response embodied noblesse oblige so perfectly that Masumi could only marvel.
True to the name “estate,” they were led into a grand hall spacious enough to still have room to spare even with thirty people inside.
Separate rooms were being prepared for sleeping, but first they needed to remove armor and equipment and treat wounds, and the hall had been chosen for that purpose. As the luxurious chandelier and elegant wall carvings suggested, it was ordinarily a room meant for hosting balls.
Ark looked unconcerned, but Kasumireaz very nearly recoiled.
It was that magnificent.
Had they mistaken the room? Was it truly all right? The Captain of the Imperial Guard asked the noble the same line three times, received the same answer—no problem—three times, and only then stepped inside, showing caution that belied his aristocratic appearance. He looked like a noble, but perhaps he wasn’t one within.
Several physicians had already been waiting in the hall before the knights arrived, and the moment they came in, treatment began with brisk efficiency.
There were no grievously wounded who made you want to cover your eyes.
The senior knights—those praised as the “capable combat power”—were unhurt, and were escorted to the baths early.
As equipment came off, young maids carried it out to another room in a steady stream. While the knights rested, the maids would clean and care for everything.
Longswords and greatshields, armor and helmets—different in type, but all heavy.
For them, it would be hard labor.
Yet perhaps because their employer was such a decent person, the maids bustled about with angelic smiles, unconcerned with getting dirty. Each time they took a piece of equipment, they spoke to its owner, offered a word of thanks, and even exchanged a bit of light small talk. It was flawless.
With such considerate care, one young knight grew teary-eyed and even started sniffling.
So as not to get in the way in the crowded hall, Masumi watched from the edge.
Ark and Kasumireaz were speaking with the lord of the house about something.
An older maid noticed Masumi standing there with nothing to do and gently suggested a bath, if she wished. Masumi hadn’t been able to help in any meaningful way here, so she accepted gratefully, and was allowed to enjoy the bathhouse of a great estate.
The bath was as refined as she’d expected.
The faucets were polished to the point you’d hesitate to leave water spots; the floor stone was a translucent white. She was told it was merely a small private bath attached to a guest room, but it was wide enough to rival a family bath at a decent inn.
What moved her most was how well-stocked the soaps were.
Not only body soap, but shampoo and conditioner, and even oil.
Compared to the garrison—where there had only been a single kind of soap, however well it cleaned—it was… a difference like heaven and earth. Perhaps it wasn’t even fair to compare.
Thanks to that, her bathing time became truly elegant.
After she left the bath, an even greater delight awaited her.
A change of clothes had been prepared—proper women’s garments, underthings included. The care was so thorough she nearly cried. She’d end up like that young knight earlier, but she couldn’t help it.
What had been laid out wasn’t pure nightwear, but a slightly loose, long-sleeved dress.
The sleeves were made of a thin fabric that let her skin show through faintly—considerate for summer. The color was a modest white that called to mind Casablanca lilies, refined and tasteful.
As she slipped her arms through it, Masumi suddenly paused.
Her immediate worries—where this place was, whether she could return to Japan, whether the spy suspicion would ever be cleared—could be dealt with later.
But there was one thing she had to address as soon as possible.
Clothes.
Having gotten lost with only her music, her violin, and herself—the three-piece set—she had none of the necessities of daily life.
“…Tomorrow, I need to ask them to take me shopping.”
She might be under suspicion, but living in the same clothes forever wasn’t exactly acceptable. If they hesitated, she would resort to her treasured blade: “Even suspects have human rights,” and negotiate from the floor.
As for money, she’d have them put it on her tab, or deduct it from her pay.
Given that she had no cash on her, it wasn’t as if she had other options—but still.
The one waiting for Masumi after her bath was the same older maid as before.
After that, they ate dinner split across several rooms, and the knights were assigned rooms in groups of three to rest.
At least Masumi wasn’t shoved into a room with the knights.
But her relief lasted only a moment—because the room she was led to after dinner already had someone inside.
Wait. What kind of room assignment is this?
Before she could even protest, the door closed promptly, and Masumi was left behind with the “someone inside”—Ark—alone.
A maid trained too well could be a blessing or a curse, depending on the moment.
“You’re late,” Ark said.
“Kasumi was apparently being asked all sorts of things by the people here. About tomorrow’s schedule and—so our meal started later than—no, that’s not the point. Why do you look so completely unbothered?”
“It’s the room assigned to me. Is there any reason I shouldn’t relax?”
“That’s not what I mean. It’s that face—like you don’t find it strange at all that I’ve been brought here—that’s what’s strange to me.”
Even as she spoke, her eyes were nailed to a single point in the room.
To the right, near the center, stood a large bed with a canopy. There was no extra bed anywhere, no matter how she looked. The bed was big enough that three adults could sleep in it comfortably, sure—but that wasn’t the issue.
At this rate, it would inevitably become a repeat of last night.
Two nights in a row of not being able to stand the next day—she wanted no part of that.
And then, in the next instant, her earnest wish was shattered.
“Officially, you’re my exclusive musician. Taking a separate room would look unnatural. If you want to entertain an unspecified number of people, I won’t stop you.”
“So you’re saying you’re some beast with no self-control—”
“After combat, tempers are already high. You should assume there won’t be any restraint at all.”
You’ll be useless all day tomorrow, probably.
Faced with the blunt, lowbrow forecast, Masumi had no choice but to raise the white flag.
“Don’t just stand there. Come over and sit.”
On the far side from the bed were three upholstered chaise longues; Ark was stretched out on one of them.
It was true—standing around would only tire her legs.
Judging by how relaxed he looked, the danger of him suddenly pouncing seemed low. Surrendering, Masumi let out a sigh and sat on a chaise placed at an L-shaped angle from his.
“Did you bring this in?”
On the delicate-legged table sat her violin case.
Relief washed through her as she touched it. In their frantic dash out of the arena, she’d been worried she’d left it behind.
“The garrison commander brought it personally.”
“Personally? You’re kidding. Even though he’s someone important?”
“He’s below me. Not worth worrying about.”
“I don’t love that standard of judgment, either.”
Exasperation pulled Masumi’s brows into a deep furrow.
When she glanced toward the Supreme Commander, he was reclined against the chaise like nothing in the world could trouble him. It was large enough to seat four, yet his long legs still didn’t fit; from the ankles down they hung out in the air.
If there were a competition for “most arrogantly important attitude,” he’d be a top contender.
Keeping that rude thought to herself—because saying it out loud would probably earn her a headlock—Masumi waited for his retort. It would probably be another round of talking past each other, back and forth.
But Ark didn’t answer.
Heh, she gave a small laugh.
Those obsidian eyes were fixed on her, but their usual force had gone quiet.
“…What’s wrong?”
“Hm?”
“Are you hurt somewhere? Or are you just tired?”
“What’s with you all of a sudden?”
“You just look… not like yourself. Like you’re unbelievably sluggish.”
Ark’s eyes were hazy, as if fevered. Not sleepy—more like he felt unwell.
That unguarded, almost boyish expression made Masumi’s heart skip.
“Are you okay? It must’ve been rough. Maybe you should sleep.”
“I see… Come to think of it, you really don’t know anything, do you.”
About us. About you, too.
Murmuring, Ark closed his eyes as if sinking into thought. The silence felt like something she wasn’t allowed to interrupt, and Masumi fell quiet too.
How much time passed?
The night deepened moment by moment. In that stillness, Masumi couldn’t take her eyes off the man who looked like a wounded beast.
“Play for me.”
The words that fell from him were a small, quiet request.
“My—no, our achievements as knights. If you’ll acknowledge them… then something beautiful. Something long.”
There was no threat, no coercion.
That careful plea alone guided Masumi’s hands, honestly, toward the violin.
If he wished so purely, then—
No matter what she chose, he would listen, and call it beautiful.
What should she play?
For a body worn to the bone, she wanted a melody that would seep in—one so vivid the scenery rose behind closed eyelids, one where the sound itself seemed to carry words and speak.
She stood, closed her eyes, and searched for a precise A.
“Acknowledge you? I’m the one who was useless back there.”
Behind her lowered lids, the battlefield she’d seen for the first time returned.
There were knights who threw themselves into danger without hesitation for their homeland—and there was herself, painfully unable to do anything. If they asked her, plainly, to “acknowledge” them, what right did someone useless like her have to deny them?
She wanted, honestly, to stand beside that brave spirit.
“This is a piece about loving one’s homeland.”
A landscape—its river named Vltava.
Masumi’s bow made the strings tremble in a smooth glide, and the sound she spun sank into the night’s depths.
“That isn’t a musician? Hard to believe.”
Letting out a long breath, Ark slowly opened his eyes.
Even as part of a cycle, Vltava alone runs over ten minutes. Ark had looked exhausted; Masumi had assumed he’d fall asleep. But instead, his eyes had regained their brightness.
It seemed to have refreshed him.
Relief softened Masumi’s cheeks into a small smile.
“Want me to play something else? You liked Bach, right?”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“Of course I am. But it’s just one piece. I’m not a toddler who just started lessons.”
She couldn’t help but laugh.
With its long structure weaving in scene after scene, Ark’s sense of time had apparently slipped a little. But Ark didn’t say, “Fair point.”
He sat up on the chaise with a grave look, pointed at Masumi to signal, “Sit,” and then swept his bangs back.
“Let’s talk a little,” he said. “About us.”
“Talk? Sure, but… about what?”
“There are two things a knight needs in order to fight. Do you know what they are?”
It was so abrupt.
Still, Masumi thought seriously.
“A shield and a sword?”
“That’s important in an entirely different sense, but not what I mean. Stamina and magic.”
Masumi blinked. She still didn’t understand what he meant, so she tilted her head, prompting him to continue.
“It’s not peak output that decides a knight order’s strength. Their true value shows in how long they can keep fighting.”
As if he were breaking his head over how to say it so she could understand, Ark went on.
Endurance in battle—meaning: how well you can secure your supply line.
This isn’t a fight between only two people in the whole world. Once nations exist, and conflict stops being one-on-one, even the strongest spear can’t drop an enemy in a single strike.
If there is an absolute disparity between the two sides—say, a primitive tribe without even metallurgy, versus an order of knights—then it’s no longer “conflict.” It becomes one-sided slaughter.
So then, what decides victory between two evenly matched forces?
That is endurance itself—who can keep displaying their full strength without running out of breath.
It’s simple.
Say your own army is ordinary. But it can always exert its strength at maximum.
Meanwhile, if the enemy has a powerful defensive barrier and devastating attacks, but those weaken as time passes—then if you can simply survive the opening, your chance will eventually roll right up to you.
Again: a nation is not a duel.
If national power is comparable, the watershed becomes whether you have the strength to endure a war of attrition to the end.
“This country’s knight orders—especially my Fourth Knight Order—don’t have a supply line.”
“…What?”
“Stamina returns if you sleep. You know that. But magic…”
For an instant, Ark hesitated.
Masumi waited. Then, as if bracing himself, Ark spoke again.
“Magic can’t recover without a musician.”
A musician is, for a knight, the supply line itself.
To Masumi, it was an unknown world.
And Ark continued.
A knight order without a supply line is expendable—meant to be thrown away.
