Chapter 46

Harold let out a sigh of relief as he intercepted the strike aimed at Yuno. He had made it just in time. However, his relief was short-lived; the moment he looked around, his eyes met the agonizing sight of the wounded operatives.

Then came the scent of blood drifting through the trees.

There was no mystery as to who had caused this carnage.

The massive man in the gaudy armor who had tried to cut Yuno down, and the Sarian Imperial soldiers flanking him—these were undoubtedly the reinforcements the messenger had warned him about.

The moment he realized this, his heart throbbed with a violent intensity. It wasn't the fear or anxiety of meeting a similar fate. Rather, it was as if the blood in his veins had begun to boil. A seething, visceral rage took hold of him.

Perhaps because of that fury, his venomous tongue was sharper than ever, and he had absolutely no intention of reining it in.

At this point, Harold was no longer capable of calm judgment. He had two goals: save Yuno’s squad and annihilate the enemies before him. Nothing else mattered.

His hatred for Ritzelt peaked the second the man incinerated his own soldiers without a second thought. Witnessing that scene, Harold was consumed by a cold, singular intent to kill.

Under normal circumstances, he would have recognized how abnormal this was. But right now, he had no leeway to notice, and even less desire to suppress the feeling.

With one final provocation, Harold lunged at Ritzelt to end the fight.

It was a full-power dash, but it was too linear. The blood had rushed to his head, clouding his tactical sense. As if expecting it, a gust of flame erupted from Ritzelt, forcing Harold to swerve. He managed to evade the direct hit, but an Ice Spear whistled toward his new position.

He barely managed to deflect it with his blade.

The mage’s activation speed was incredible. He fired spell after spell without pause, each one accurate and devastatingly powerful. Ritzelt’s claim to the title of Mage was no idle boast.

Whether the man could handle a sword remained to be seen, but he was certainly capable of tracking Harold’s movements and timing his spells accordingly. The distance between them worked in Ritzelt's favor; closing the gap was proving to be a nightmare.

Both had the means to block the other’s attacks, but neither could find a decisive opening. Harold would try to dive in, Ritzelt would intercept with magic, and the resulting evasive maneuver would reset the distance.

Harold tried switching to magic of his own, but it was futile. The man was far more well-versed in the arcane than he was; Ritzelt swatted his spells aside with practiced ease.

They were at a stalemate. Or rather, it was a stalemate that favored the long-range specialist. Moreover, Harold was already battered and exhausted from his previous encounters, while Ritzelt was fresh and nearly at full strength.

The disadvantage was glaring.

And then, there was Harold’s greatest weakness.

Ritzelt suddenly eased his assault, looking down at the persistent Harold with an expression of weary boredom.

"How long do you intend to waste your efforts on a battle with a predetermined outcome? You cannot defeat me."

"Shut your mouth, you meatbag. I’m going to take that head of yours."

"A stubborn brat. I suppose I have no choice."

Ritzelt’s face twisted into a hideous smirk. Harold felt a jolt of alarm.

Instead of targeting Harold, Ritzelt unleashed an Icicle Rain toward Yuno and the others, who were still frantically treating their wounded.

"Dammit!"

With a cursed roar, Harold cast Dust Storm to blow the icicles off course. He moved at high speed, shattering any stray projectiles with his sword, but the volume was too great. A relentless barrage of ice continued to pour down.

A spray of fresh blood splattered across Yuno's face.

Splattered in crimson, Yuno looked up with an expression of utter disbelief. Harold ignored the pain as he confirmed she was unhurt, then reached back and ripped a jagged icicle out of his own right shoulder.

Blood poured from the wound.

A shot of agony tore through him, the kind of pain that would normally have brought a man to his knees. But the scorching flames of rage drove him forward, numbing his senses.

Kill Ritzelt.

The thought was singular. An abnormal, haunting obsession.

In that moment, an answer finally crystallized within Harold’s mind.

(Ah... I see. You’ve been inside me all along, haven't you, Harold?)

Bleeding out, he pondered this through the haze of his remaining rational thought. At the very beginning, when he had first arrived in this world and his body had moved while his mind was frozen in shock... when his mouth had moved to speak words he never intended to say...

(It was all you.)

No wonder his tongue was so foul. No wonder he could replicate the game’s movements with such terrifying precision. For better or worse, he had always been under the influence of the original Harold. Perhaps that was the only reason an ordinary person like Kazuki Hirasawa had managed to adapt to this world at all.

What would happen to his consciousness in the end? Would he be swallowed by the original Harold, or would Kazuki eventually overwrite him? Or would they merge into something entirely new?

(I don't know, and right now, I don't care.)

He didn't have the time to ponder questions without answers. He didn't even know if his theory was correct. But if Harold was truly there, deep inside...

(Lend me your strength, Harold Stokes! You’re just as pissed off as I am! He wounded your pride, he messed up your plans—you want to tear him apart!)

That was the essence of Harold Stokes. A self-centered, arrogant, egotistical piece of trash. A man who would never forgive anyone who dared to wound his pride, even if it was his own fault. There was no way Harold could walk away from this after being humiliated like this.

"Hoh. You survived that, though not unscathed. Brat, if you repent for your insolence, I might consider making you my subordinate."

Certain of his victory, Ritzelt made the offer. In any other situation, Harold might have weighed the tactical advantage, but right now, the idea was repulsive.

"I’d choose death before serving under the likes of you. The only person who commands me is myself."

"...A fool to the very end."

Harold’s vision was blurring. His breathing was ragged. He had to pour every ounce of strength into his legs just to remain standing.

He had to end this with the next blow.

Glancing back, he saw that many of the operatives were back on their feet, thanks to the healing magic.

"Get out of here, now. You're just in the way."

"But..."

"I won't say it twice. If your identities are compromised, it’s Tasuku who’ll pay the price."

The operatives fell silent. They were clearly torn between assisting Harold and protecting the reputation of House Sumeragi. There shouldn't have even been a comparison.

"...Understood. But please, take this."

With a look of bitter regret, Yuno made her decision. As she retreated, she poured her remaining mana into a healing spell for Harold. He caught a faint whisper as she turned: "I'm sorry, Lady Erika..."

If she felt guilty for healing him, it meant Erika had probably ordered them to leave him for dead.

Truly hated, then.

But that was fine. That was exactly how Harold Stokes should be.

(...So, I'm counting on you. With your power, I can do this.)

Even in his training sessions, the success rate for this move had been less than twenty percent. It was nowhere near ready for real combat. Yet, it was the only thing that could reach Ritzelt.

His body felt slightly lighter from Yuno’s magic, as if she were giving him one final push. He didn't want to die. But more than that, he refused to lose to Ritzelt.

Harold sprinted. Blood sprayed from his open wounds, but he didn't falter. He charged into the fray for the umpteenth time, locking eyes with Ritzelt’s cold gaze.

The mage fired another spell. Harold leaped into the air to clear it, but the icicles began to rain down again. He was mid-air, a sitting duck. There was no way to dodge.

At least, that was true if he remained "unable to move in the air."

He had seen it a thousand times in the game. He had performed it countless times with a controller in his hand. He visualized an invisible platform in the empty sky.

Harold’s body tilted unnaturally, shifting in a direction that defied physics. To Ritzelt’s stunned eyes, it looked as if Harold had kicked the very air itself.

The burst of speed carried him through the barrage. Then, he did it again—another kick against the void, another surge of momentum.

"Air Dash."

A simple name for a technique that allowed for mid-air acceleration. It made it look as if he were running through the sky, an essential skill for chaining combos. If timed poorly, you’d simply fly into an attack, but if mastered, it was the ultimate tool for both offense and evasion.

It was the cornerstone of Harold Stokes’s combat style.

Bracing himself against the g-force, Harold forced a change in direction while at top speed. His bones creaked and muscle fibers snapped, the sheer stress of the movement tearing at his body. He gritted his teeth, letting out a silent scream as he endured the agony.

This was irregular, multi-stage aerial acceleration. It was a sight beyond the comprehension of even a veteran like Ritzelt. It wasn't a speed anyone could react to.

Faster than a blink, Harold was behind him.

Ritzelt tried to turn, but he was far too slow. Before he could even rotate his torso, Harold’s blade sang through the air.

With a sickening, wet thud, Ritzelt’s right arm flew into the sky.

Harold didn't stop. He followed through with a backhand slash that tore through the heavy armor, then slammed a Goudashou into the man’s chest, following up with a roundhouse kick that launched the massive mage into the air.

The onslaught was relentless.

He followed the floating body up with an upward slash, then bathed him in a Thunderbird, blasting him back several meters. He closed the gap instantly with another Air Dash.

Then came the storm of steel and bone—slashes, punches, and kicks delivered with blinding speed.

Ritzelt’s ornate armor was a ruin, shattered and stained with filth and blood. The man inside was in even worse shape. In a span of barely fifteen seconds, Harold landed over fifty strikes.

By the time he was finished, Ritzelt had been knocked into the upper atmosphere. From a point even higher, Harold tucked into a forward somersault and drove a full-power Housenkyaku into the man's gut.

"Drop dead."

With the sound of something internal shattering, Ritzelt plummeted toward the earth. Harold followed him down a heartbeat later.

Ritzelt hit the ground with a heavy, dull thud. Harold landed beside him.

Silence returned to the forest, broken only by Harold’s jagged, desperate gasps for air.

In the corner of his vision, he saw Ritzelt’s finger twitch.

Even after that beating, the man was still breathing. He was on the verge of death, but his durability was terrifying. Apparently, those muscles weren't just for show.

But he was still alive. He wasn't dead yet. He had to be finished.

Through his fading consciousness, Harold tightened his grip on his sword and leveled it at Ritzelt’s throat. One more thrust and it would be over.

"Ha... Harold...?"

A familiar voice. The voice of someone he had fought to save.

He turned to see Robinson, Sid, and Aileen, their faces masks of confusion. Cody was standing near them as well.

It seemed his gamble had paid off. The moment he saw they were safe, the last of his strength evaporated.

But how had they recognized him? He found the answer in the mask dangling precariously from his ear.

(Ah... it fell off during the fight... yeah, of course they’d know...)

In his battered state, Harold failed to realize the implications. He was wearing a Sarian Empire uniform. He had appeared in the middle of a war zone involving the Knight Order and the Stella Clan.

He didn't realize what exposing his face in this context truly meant.

"W-What are you doing here...?"

Cody was visibly shaken, a rarity for him. Harold had no energy left for his usual vitriol. He spoke only the essential facts.

"...This man... Sarian Major General Ritzelt... the Empire is behind this raid... leave the Stella Clan alone... the mastermind... is—"

At that point, Harold reached his limit. His consciousness flickered out, and before he could deliver the final blow to Ritzelt, he collapsed onto the blood-soaked earth.

---

In a room that looked like a high-tech research facility, surrounded by the heavy, rhythmic thrum of machinery, a man sat hunched over a report, reading it with intense curiosity.

His long white hair was unkempt and reached his back, and his gaunt, hollow cheeks gave him a sickly appearance. His skin was as pale as his hair, as if it had never seen the sun, and the deep dark circles under his eyes spoke of chronic sleep deprivation.

He looked like a man who had long ago abandoned a healthy lifestyle, but his face was currently twisted into a look of genuine amusement.

"I see. The plan was a failure... but we secured the samples, so let's call it a success. More importantly, this boy..."

The probability of failure had been near zero. But the world was full of irregular variables. No matter how much one refined the odds, they never reached a true hundred percent.

Therefore, the failure itself wasn't the issue. The issue was why it had failed.

The "Irregular" this time was Harold Stokes, a mere thirteen-year-old boy.

The youngest recruit in the history of the Knight Order. A deserter on his very first mission. And just when everyone thought he had vanished, he reappeared wearing the uniform of the Sarian Empire.

One might assume he was a simple traitor or a spy, but that didn't fit either. He had been found having slaughtered Imperial soldiers—including a Major General.

Harold’s motives were a mystery, but one thing was certain: he had known about the raid on the Knight Order in advance. The Director had been confident that the leak risk was non-existent. Yet, Harold had obtained information. And extremely accurate information at that. What kind of intelligence network could a child possibly possess?

"...A truly fascinating specimen. Harold, will you become my strength? Or will you stand in my way?"

His laughter echoed through the sterile room—a quiet, chilling sound laced with madness.

A sharp knock at the door cut through his reverie.

"Director, it's time."

"...I’m coming."

In an instant, his expression smoothed over like a mask, becoming flat and devoid of life.

His assistant, accustomed to this behavior, looked at him with a hint of curiosity. "Did something good happen? You look... happier than usual today, Director."

"...I simply found a research subject that caught my interest."

"That’s nice, but please stay focused on our current project. We're in the final stages, Director Justus."

"Yes, I'm aware."

Justus Freund replied, his dull, lightless eyes staring toward some distant, unreachable horizon.