Chapter 101

Watching Vincent collapse, the strength finally drained from Harold’s body, and he slumped onto one knee. While his wounds weren't necessarily fatal, the physical toll of a prolonged battle—compounded by unleashing a hundred-hit combo while bleeding out—was staggering.

Added to that was the mental exhaustion of weathering Vincent’s relentless assault. The fatigue had reached a breaking point.

But he had won. After sustaining that much damage, even Vincent shouldn't be able to stand. Honestly, it wouldn't have been surprising if he were dead.

The final move, Crackling Thunder, was the most powerful technique in Harold’s repertoire—a true trump card. However, its massive destructive power came at the cost of a long charge time, making it notoriously difficult to use.

In the game, it had become something of a joke—a move so slow that being interrupted before execution was the default. It certainly wasn't designed for practical combat. Since the game's battles were fundamentally built around four-person parties, any attempt to charge such a move leisurely would inevitably result in an enemy attack canceling the animation.

It had only landed this time because of the unique circumstances: a one-on-one duel that almost never occurred in the original game.

That was why he was certain he had won.

Harold bowed his head, his breath coming in ragged gasps, when a sound reached his ears—the crunch of gravel.

His breath hitched. Denial flooded his mind, but at the same time, a part of him acknowledged that if anyone could survive that, it was Vincent. Harold forced his head up to face a reality he desperately wanted to reject.

The sight made the words spill out of him.

"…You monster."

Vincent’s armor was shattered. The flesh beneath was a map of countless gashes and soaked in a staggering amount of blood.

Despite this, Vincent stood. Harold instinctively recoiled at the man’s ghost-like appearance.

Staggering on legs that should have lacked the strength to support him, Vincent dragged his greatsword and took a single step forward. He was a dead man walking, yet his eyes burned with an unnervingly sharp light.

"Elimination… of Harold… Stokes… set to… maximum priority…"

"…So you’re just a puppet after all. To think the Commander of the Order of the Holy King could fall this far."

In the original story, Vincent had lost his way after being manipulated by Justus’s words. Now, he had been stripped of his very self-awareness through brainwashing. If anything, his current state was more wretched than his fate in the game.

When Harold thought about it, Vincent was in a similar position to himself: a boss character, a mere narrative device meant to be struck down by the protagonist. Though the original game didn't explicitly depict it, Cody’s dialogue suggested that Vincent died in that timeline as well.

In essence, Vincent was a man defined by his death flags. It was a dark irony that two such men were now trying to kill one another. It was as if fate itself was demanding they fight until one of them finally stayed dead.

"Don't give me that…"

It was the worst possible feeling. Ever since he had inexplicably possessed Harold, he had lived in constant agony, struggling against the terror of his own demise.

Just because this world was a near-perfect replica of a game he loved didn't mean he could simply enjoy the ride. Immersing himself in the world helped ease the mental burden, but even that had its limits.

His fear and anxiety were the direct results of his misfortune—the curse of knowing the ultimate fate of himself and this world.

Yet, looking at the broken shell of the man before him, Harold realized that Vincent—who likely knew nothing—was perhaps just as miserable.

He had lost his family and his home, turned to the life of a mercenary to survive, and stained his hands with blood. Even so, he had become a knight to protect his friends—to protect someone. He hadn't relied on talent alone; his position as Commander was the result of relentless effort and a steadfast, honest character.

And this was his reward.

In the original story, he lost his subordinates, watched his pride—the Order of the Holy King—fall into disgrace, and then had his weakened heart exploited by Justus until he turned his blade on Rainer’s party. His life ended in a duel against his childhood friend and best friend, Cody.

Now, he was brainwashed into a puppet existing only to carry out Justus’s orders. Orders that would result in the very people Vincent swore to protect sinking into the sea along with the rest of the continent.

Only Vincent could say which fate was more tragic, but either way, his life was a sequence of endless hardships.

"…Are you satisfied with a life like that?"

The question left Harold’s lips before he could stop it. He knew it was pointless to talk to the current Vincent, yet he couldn't help but voice the emotions swirling in his chest.

"Failing your own goals, only to be used as a tool for someone else’s schemes…"

It was anger—pure resentment toward an unreasonable reality.

"I won't accept a life as shitty as that. If you can't live for yourself, it can't be called a life at all."

At the same time, it was a desperate thirst for survival.

He refused to accept a reality where people died simply to add drama to a story.

"What about you, Vincent? Is this pathetic state the 'justice' you dreamed of?"

Predictably, Vincent didn't answer. Harold hadn't expected him to.

He just needed to say it. It was a rebuke to himself, a selfish pity for Vincent, and a scream of defiance against the fate that bound them both.

Using his sword as a makeshift cane, Harold forced himself to stand. He was at his limit.

The moment he thought the fight was over, the adrenaline had faded, allowing the crushing weight of exhaustion to settle in. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely grip his hilt; he had no confidence he could fight a proper battle. His opponent was undoubtedly near death as well, but if Vincent could move while ignoring such massive trauma, Harold’s chances of winning were slim.

Still, if he wanted to live, he had to hold the line.

I really hate this… a detached part of his mind thought, even as Harold forced a roar of defiance.

"Don't let them lead you around by the nose, you fool! Rule your own goddamn will!"

The change in Vincent happened the moment Harold finished shouting.

His slow, mechanical advance stopped. The greatsword slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground.

"…Huh?"

A confused sound escaped Harold’s lips. Setting aside the fact that he sounded like a common thug, he was genuinely bewildered by the sudden turn of events.

Should he seize the opening and strike, or wait? After a moment’s hesitation, Harold chose the latter. The crushing pressure of knowing that a single mistake would mean his death kept his feet rooted to the spot.

"Harold… I…!"

Harold’s eyes widened. The robotic, monotone cadence was gone; the voice sounded like the Vincent he knew.

Harold found a sliver of hope in the conclusion he reached.

(Is the brainwashing actually breaking?)

There was no proof, but the sudden shift from an empty shell to a voice filled with human emotion was unmistakable.

He didn't know why it was happening—whether it was the physical trauma, Harold’s words, or simply a time limit on the spell. But the why didn't matter. The important thing was that there was a chance to bring Vincent back. If he could do that, they didn't have to kill each other.

This was, in a way, Harold’s greatest weakness. The soul inside him was still that of a college student who had lived a peaceful life in modern Japan until eight years ago.

Though he had possessed the death-flag-riddled Harold and survived countless battles with monsters and men alike, he had never actually killed a human being. It was a line he knew he could never uncross—a boundary he hesitated to step over, both consciously and unconsciously.

Because of that, he chose to shout again rather than strike.

"Wake up, damn it! Is this pathetic farce the ending you wanted?!"

"Guh…!"

Responding to Harold’s voice, Vincent clutched his head and let out a pained groan.

There was a pragmatic side to Harold’s choice; he didn't want to fight anymore if he could help it. But the words he threw at Vincent were also a cry from the depths of his soul.

Kazuki Hirasawa—the man inside Harold—wanted Vincent van Westervoort to live. Even if he was just a character in a game, the Vincent standing before him was a living, breathing person.

They weren't close. They hadn't even had a real conversation. He only knew the man’s heart and history from a screen.

But because of that, he knew Vincent wasn't someone who deserved to die. If there was a path to save him, Harold wanted to take it.

It was Harold’s naivety. It was also his kindness.

"Come back to us, Vincent!"

"…Ah, aah… AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

A harrowing scream tore through the cavern. Then, Vincent collapsed, his knees hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

He went still.

"Hey…"

There was no response.

Harold couldn't tell if the brainwashing had broken or if the man had simply passed out. He approached cautiously, muscles tensed and ready to react the moment Vincent made a move.

The moment the distance between them closed to two meters, Vincent moved.

Harold instinctively leaped back to create space.

Ignoring Harold entirely, Vincent reached into his gear and pulled out an object. It was a transparent cylindrical vial filled with a sky-blue liquid.

At the sight of it, the color drained from Harold’s face.

(The Astral Potion!)

In the original story, this was the horrific item Harold himself had consumed—a booster that granted immense power but caused the user’s body to disintegrate, leading to their death.

And now, it was in Vincent’s hand.

Harold had assumed that as long as he didn't drink it, he could avoid that specific death. But if Vincent drank it now, the outcome was obvious: a powered-up Vincent would slaughter Harold, and then Vincent would die anyway.

The worst-case scenario flashed through his mind. He had to stop him.

His mind screamed for him to move, but his body failed him. Because he had jumped backward, his center of gravity was shifted. He needed to throw his weight forward, close the gap, and shatter that vial. It would only take a few seconds. But in that moment, those few seconds felt like an eternity.

He knew he wouldn't make it.

"Stop!!"

He could only scream. He reached out with his right hand, but it grasped nothing but empty air.

In the midst of his panic, Vincent’s movements seemed to slow to a crawl.

Tilting his head back toward the ceiling, Vincent opened his mouth to consume the potion—and the vial shattered.

---

In his private room, Itsuki was finishing up a stack of paperwork. Reaching a stopping point, he stretched his stiff muscles and let out a long sigh.

"Phew… I think I’ll take a break."

"Then I shall prepare some tea," Sylvie said from her post beside him.

"Thank you. I’d appreciate that."

Sylvie stepped out of the room. Before coming here, her life had revolved around black tea, but lately, she had been making a point to learn how to brew green tea and sencha properly.

Seeing her work so hard to adapt to the Sumeragi culture warmed Itsuki’s heart.

"Marriage is even better than I expected," he murmured to the empty room.

He realized it might sound a bit unconvincing coming from a "rookie" husband married for less than six months, but he was certain that with Sylvie, their bond would only grow deeper with time.

Perhaps that was why he couldn't help but worry about others.

"I just wish Erika and Harold would finally get together…"

They were both stubborn to a fault. In Harold’s case, that stubbornness was likely a world-record contender. Even if you managed to sway him slightly, getting him to actually bend his will was a Herculean task.

Harold had always stayed true to the path he chose for himself. While one could call it a "will of steel," to those who knew him, it looked like a lonely, dangerous road. They couldn't help but worry.

"Harold has only relied on the Sumeragi once… no, twice, hasn't he?"

The first time was in the Bertis Forest, when he had asked for help intercepting the Sarian soldiers during Justus’s scheme. Even then, his "request" had been as minimal as possible: Prepare Sarian uniforms. The Sumeragi hadn't been able to do much beyond that.

The second time… had yet to happen.

Itsuki pulled a sealed envelope from a locked desk drawer. It was a letter he had inherited from his father, written in Harold’s own hand.

He spread out the pages, which he had read so many times he could practically recite them from memory.

The letter contained the formula for the antibody medicine against the miasma in the Sumeragi Territory, the blueprints for the revolutionary "LP Farming Method," and the proposal to break off his engagement to Erika.

Finally, it asked that if the Stokes family should ever fall into decline, the Sumeragi would intervene to ensure the people living in the Stokes Territory wouldn't suffer. Truthfully, Itsuki never wanted to see such a day, but a ten-year-old Harold had written as if that future were an absolute certainty. And he likely still believed it.

"…I wonder what kind of world Harold sees."

His ability to grasp the present, his foresight, and the sheer force of will he used to carve out the future he wanted—Itsuki felt he couldn't match Harold in any of it.

And if Harold picked up a sword, he was arguably the strongest individual on the continent.

Spirit, technique, body, martial prowess, and intellect—he possessed all of them at a level that defied common sense. Itsuki realized, not for the first time, that his friend was a genius destined to leave his mark on history.

"It’s one of the few things he’s ever asked of me. If the time comes, I have to do everything in my power to—"

Itsuki cut himself off. It wasn't that his resolve wavered.

It was just that, reading it again, something about the letter felt… off. Would the Harold he knew really make such a straightforward, selfless request as "Save my people"?

He hadn't noticed it when he first received the letter, but now that he understood Harold Stokes better, he was certain. The man didn't do "simple."

If House Stokes fell, their territory would naturally be reassigned to another noble. Even without the Sumeragi’s interference, the lives of the commoners wouldn't necessarily be destroyed; in fact, being freed from the Stokes’ rule might actually improve their situation.

(Does he want House Sumeragi to take over the administration of the land? If so, breaking the engagement seems counterproductive. Unless Harold himself plans to vanish after the fall… but even then, why does it have to be the Sumeragi who takes the lead?)

Itsuki’s mind raced as he tried to decipher Harold’s true intent. Every answer he came up with felt slightly wrong.

"Is something the matter?"

He looked up to see Sylvie returning with the tea.

He thanked her and took the cup, then spread the letter out so she could see it, thinking a fresh perspective might help.

"I was just re-reading this letter from Harold. Something about it feels inconsistent."

"Inconsistent?"

"Yes, right here…"

Itsuki pointed, and Sylvie scanned the text. Her reaction was immediate and honest.

"…I’m sorry. I don't see anything strange about it."

That makes sense, Itsuki thought. It wasn't that Sylvie was unobservant; it was that one needed to be intimately familiar with Harold’s labyrinthine personality to even sense the discrepancy. To someone who had barely spoken to him, the letter seemed like a perfectly noble request.

"Don't worry about it. It might just be my imagination."

"But you’re worried… aren't you, Itsuki-san?"

"Haha… I really can't hide anything from you, can I?"

"I can see it in your eyes. You’re convinced that 'off' feeling is real."

She was right. Itsuki felt a gnawing certainty that there was a hidden message in this letter. At the same time, an inexplicable sense of urgency washed over him—a groundless anxiety that if he didn't act now, it would be too late.

"But is it true? Will Lord Harold’s house really fall into ruin?"

"Harold predicted it would. Eight years ago, when he gave me this letter."

Harold, who sometimes seemed to see the future, had predicted a collapse. Or at the very least, a state close to it.

"Ruin…? Wait, Itsuki-san… why did Harold specifically use the word 'declining'?"

The word Sylvie used was botsuraku—a total ruin, a complete fall from power. It was the standard term for a noble house perishing.

But Harold hadn't used that word. He had used chouraku—decline.

The two words were similar, but there was a decisive nuance between them. Ruin implied the end had already come. Decline implied an ongoing process of fading.

In a formal request for future aid, "ruin" would have been the more natural choice. If Harold had specifically chosen "decline," did that mean he didn't want help after his house fell? Did he want help while it was falling—specifically, right now?

"But what would that even mean? We’ve already secured their economy with the LP Farming Method…"

What was Harold looking for? What had he foreseen eight years ago that required intervention at this exact moment?

Itsuki dove back into his thoughts.

He predicted the future… a crisis for House Stokes… no, is the 'threat' he’s facing his own enemy? …Wait.

Then, he found an answer. It was absurd, almost impossible.

But if Harold had truly been planning for this for eight years, "impossible" was a word that didn't apply to him. Itsuki had known Harold long enough to realize the man was a walking anomaly. He could easily believe that Harold had hidden a "trigger" in an eight-year-old letter, waiting for the exact moment the trap needed to spring.

In fact, it was possible Harold had spent those eight years building a friendship with Itsuki just to ensure he would reach this specific conclusion today.

That was fine. Regardless of the schemes, Harold was Itsuki’s irreplaceable friend. Even if he ended up looking like a fool for overthinking it, it was ten thousand times better than the regret of doing nothing.

"Itsuki-san?"

"Sylvie, there’s something I have to do."

"…I see. It’s very important, isn't it?"

"Yes. But if I’m not careful, it might cause trouble for you—and for House Berlioz."

"Please, do not let that stop you. I am your wife. I swore to walk beside you, no matter where the path leads."

Sylvie gave him a soft, encouraging smile. Itsuki swallowed the many words of gratitude he wanted to say and settled on one.

"…Thank you."

Sylvie nodded. Even without more words, the two of them understood one another perfectly.