Chapter 57

The day after his meeting with El in the garden, Harold woke in the pre-dawn gloom, before the sun had even begun to crest the horizon.

After a swift preparation in his private room, he slipped through the research institute. Moving with ghostly silence through the deserted corridors, he made his way outside. Gripped in his hands were the two swords he had brandished in the battle against the Ice Dragon.

Once he had put sufficient distance between himself and the institute, Harold began to swing his blades with a ferocious intensity, exuding a pressure that suggested he was locked in combat with an invisible foe.

He didn't limit himself to swordsmanship; between the flashes of steel, he interspersed strikes—punches and kicks woven into a seamless flow.

This was a daily ritual he had maintained for nearly eight years. Compared to when he first began, his power, speed, and precision had reached a level that could truly be described as transcendent. To any onlooker, it would have appeared as a savage yet fluid sword dance.

In reality, he was simply practicing the inputs for the game’s "combo techniques." For Harold, it was a hobby that doubled as a practical necessity.

However, as the saying goes, "persistence is power." Even accounting for the high physical specs of Harold’s body, his prowess was undoubtedly the fruit of his own grueling effort. Without that dedication, the feat of instantaneously slaying two Ice Dragons would have been impossible.

Relying on his inexhaustible stamina, he pushed through two hours of continuous, high-intensity training. By the time he finished, he was drenched in sweat. Even so, he felt a terrifying amount of energy still surging within him.

After a quick rinse to wash away the grime, Harold strode back through the institute, which was just beginning to stir with staff. He walked with the arrogance of a man who owned the halls, his "villain switch" firmly engaged.

Thanks to that mental facade, he reached his destination without flinching at the hostile glares that, as usual, followed his every move.

He arrived at the institute’s airy dining hall. One wall was composed entirely of glass, allowing the rising sun to cast glittering reflections across the room. The hall served staff throughout the early morning, catering to those who had worked through the night.

Harold had been a regular here since arriving at the institute. Like everyone else, the kitchen staff despised him, but he had long since given up on being liked, so it hardly mattered.

He placed a casual order and took his breakfast to his usual spot—a two-person table by the window. While the hall was sparse now, Harold’s immediate vicinity remained a dead zone even during the lunch rush. People would rather stand than sit near him, all while casting insolent glances and whispering vitriol behind his back.

A person with normal sensibilities might have been driven to avoid the dining hall entirely, but with his switch flipped, it was a non-issue.

Harold’s social isolation was progressing perfectly.

As he ate, performing a somewhat melancholic self-analysis of his loner status, a boisterous group entered the hall. Among them were Lifa and El. The group numbered about ten, and aside from the two of them, everyone else was male.

Judging by their appearance, they were from the institute’s younger generation. Even so, the youngest man looked to be in his mid-twenties—making him a decade older than Lifa. While Harold idly wondered how old El actually was, the group settled at a long table near the center of the hall.

They were far enough away that he couldn't hear their conversation, but close enough to see them clearly.

It was likely a social gathering intended to foster camaraderie. Harold could detect a hint of ulterior motives from the men, but in a workplace where the male-to-female ratio was nine-to-one, such behavior was almost inevitable. While Lifa looked exceptionally young, by the standards of this world, she was at an age where dating or marriage wouldn't cause many raised eyebrows.

To Harold’s modern sensibilities, however, she looked like a middle schooler—or occasionally an elementary schooler, depending on her mood. Seeing a pack of adult men surrounding her gave the scene a distinctly criminal aura.

On the other hand, El’s gender remained a mystery to him. He found himself curious about how the men would react if it turned out El was also male.

As these thoughts drifted through his mind, his eyes met El’s. For a fleeting moment, El offered a small smile and a barely perceptible nod.

They didn't have the kind of deep bond that allowed for perfect non-verbal communication, but Harold interpreted the gesture as: “I’m guarding her well, so don’t worry.” Harold had warned El the previous day not to let Lifa out of his sight to prevent Justus from making a move.

El was a high-spec individual, so Harold trusted his competence. He gave a sharp flick of his chin in return—“I get it, just focus on your job.” El seemed to understand and returned to the conversation.

For El, this was likely a calculated effort to gather intelligence.

Satisfied, Harold returned to his own meal, silently finishing the familiar, bland fare.

It took less than ten minutes to clear his plate. As he stood to leave, the dining hall suddenly began to buzz with a different kind of energy—a commotion centered entirely on him.

He knew he was hated, but this reaction felt off. He stopped in his tracks, wondering what was happening, when a voice called out from behind him.

"Where are you going, leaving us behind? Harold."

It was El. Beside him stood Lifa, her hand being tugged by El. She looked decidedly awkward.

Harold glanced back at the table they had just vacated; the men were staring at him with looks of pure, unadulterated loathing. Their collective resentment was so intense it made even Harold flinch.

From their perspective, it must have looked as though the two beauties had ditched them to chase after their most hated enemy. The sheer malice in the air was frightening in a way he wasn't used to, so he decided to ignore it.

"Where I go is none of your concern," Harold barked.

"It is. I told you yesterday I wanted some of your time, didn't I?"

"That was for the daytime."

It was barely 7:30 AM—early morning by any rational standard. Very few people would describe this hour as "daytime," though perhaps El was one of those rare exceptions.

"I heard you’re basically free all the time, Harold. So, I thought we’d start a bit early."

"Even so, that doesn't excuse your failure to confirm the schedule."

"My apologies. Did you have other plans?"

"……"

He had nothing. He was so free he could have left on a month-long vacation at a moment's notice. If anything, he desperately wanted to suggest a trip to the Sumeragi hot springs; his Japanese soul was perpetually yearning for a proper bath.

"If you're free, then please. It’s our first date as a trio, and I thought the more time we had, the better."

"D-Date!?" Lifa shrieked.

Her voice echoed through the hall, ensuring that every single staff member heard the shocking word.

In an instant, waves of killing intent—a literal Satsui no Hadou—erupted from the largely single male staff. It felt as if they might charge at him any second, screaming, "Perish with the dust!" While Harold was confident he wouldn't lose a one-on-one duel, against a mob of men transformed into vengeful asuras, even he might fall to a lucky "Messatsu" strike. Having his heart stopped by a crowd of angry researchers was not on his to-do list.

(...Wait, no! This is no time to be thinking in fighting game terms!)

He scrambled to pull his racing thoughts back in line. The sheer impact of the word "date" had sent his brain into a tailspin.

Judging by Lifa’s shock, this was El’s solo improvisation. El wasn't the type to draw unnecessary attention without a reason; he had surely dropped this "date" bombshell with some hidden objective.

But Harold was the only one in the room who could possibly understand that.

To anyone else, it looked like the ultimate scum of the earth—a man hated by all—was about to swan off into the city with two beautiful girls. At this rate, some "hero" driven by righteous indignation might try to "rescue" them before Harold could sink his poisonous fangs into them.

To avoid being dragged into such a tedious mess, Harold opted for a strategic retreat.

"Oh, Harold! We'll be waiting at the main gate! The time is—"

El’s voice followed him out, loud enough for everyone to hear. It was a merciless follow-up, confirming that El was intentionally making them targets of gossip. Harold wished El had given him a heads-up before choosing such a troublesome method.

The day was already turning into a massive headache.

◇

Despite having his mental energy drained first thing in the morning, the time El had designated arrived. Harold waited at the front gate of the institute, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed and a sour expression.

"Hey, sorry to keep you waiting."

El arrived, looking entirely unbothered. Faced with that bright, guiltless smile, Harold found he didn't even have the energy to complain. He just wanted to know why.

Rumors of the dining hall incident had apparently sprinted through the institute; resentful glares were pricking his skin from every window. It wasn't dangerous, but it was incredibly irritating.

What concerned him more, however, was Lifa’s bizarre behavior.

"G-Good morning..."

She was listless. She refused to meet his eyes, and her voice was trembling with nerves. Harold quickly deduced the cause.

(Don't tell me she's still this depressed just because Justus played her?)

He had lectured her repeatedly about not showing openings. She likely felt a crushing sense of guilt for failing him and was now bracing for a verbal lashing. She looked like a small animal waiting to be kicked.

When he took a step toward her, Lifa flinched.

Ignoring her reaction, he stepped into her space and clamped his left hand onto the top of her head. He squeezed. The Iron Claw.

"Ow, ow, ow, ouch!"

He watched her writhe in agony for a few seconds before releasing his grip. Predictably, Lifa snapped out of her funk and glared at him with watery eyes.

"What was that for!?"

"If you're finally awake, we're leaving."

Without waiting for a response, Harold passed through the gate. Lifa followed close behind, shouting protests. Through the noise, Harold caught El’s voice, colored by a dry chuckle.

"I suppose that makes us even for the other day? ...Probably."

The "probably" was unnecessary, but Harold was secretly impressed by how accurately El read his intentions.

The reason he’d resorted to the Iron Claw was because, knowing Lifa, a verbal "I forgive you" wouldn't have been enough to stop her brooding. Furthermore, he knew that if he tried to offer clumsy words of comfort, his cursed mouth would likely just spit out more insults.

It was a form of kindness—one that was nearly impossible for anyone to recognize.

Lifa remained grumpy until they reached the central district, but the moment they stepped onto the Royal Capital’s bustling main street, her mood shifted instantly. She began scurrying from shop to shop with wide-eyed wonder, letting out gasps of "Wow!" and "Look at that!" She was a total tourist. Her depression had vanished as if it had never existed.

Watching her back with a faint, internal sigh, Harold spoke in a low voice meant only for El.

"What was the point of that circus this morning?"

"I figured if we’re already under suspicion, we might as well be proactive about standing out."

It was a bold move, but Harold couldn't see the long game. By making them the center of attention, El had effectively ensured the entire institute was watching them. Perhaps it was a way to make it harder for Justus to approach them in secret?

Without more knowledge of the original plot, that was the best guess he could make.

"By the way, Harold," El said, changing the subject. "Did you manage to prepare that proof of identity I asked for?"

Lifa was currently mesmerized by a display of whimsical trinkets in a nearby window. So she does have some girlish interests, Harold thought rudely.

"Carry this, and you will be recognized as one of mine."

Harold produced a silver key engraved with a specific emblem—the sigil of Frieri. It was an exquisite piece of work, commissioned from a craftsman in a distant town during a previous mission to avoid leaving a trail in the Capital.

Along with it, he handed over a letter written in his own hand, containing secrets only he could know and a formal declaration that El was to act as the organization’s commander.

"Is this the key to the hideout?"

"It is a decorative ornament. Nothing more."

The key was purely a recognition device; it served no mechanical purpose. However, Harold figured that if it ever fell into the wrong hands, the thief would waste their time trying to find a door it fit. It was a bit of a decoy.

He had already distributed similar items—bracelets and copper coins with the same mark—to the existing members. The high-quality craftsmanship had cost him a small fortune, but Harold was the type of person who valued the right aesthetic.

El turned the useless key over in his hand, looking puzzled, but eventually tucked it away.

"I see. And where exactly is this hideout?"

Harold silently handed over a second piece of paper. The location was not in the Capital—Justus’s backyard. However, it wasn't so far that they couldn't respond to emergencies, nor was it a small village where a group of strangers would stand out.

It was a relatively developed, high-population city far enough away to be outside Justus’s immediate sphere of influence. That was where Frieri’s heart beat.

"Do not commit the blunder of losing that."

"Understood. Now, let's put the business talk aside and enjoy the sights."

"I have no need for sightseeing..."

Having lived in this city for over five years, there wasn't a corner of it he didn't know. He let out a sigh. To think all this trouble had been stirred up just for a five-minute conversation.

El, however, kept his smile.

"Come now. This city might be old news to us, but for Lifa, it’s—whoops."

A passerby brushed against El’s shoulder, causing him to stumble. He wasn't going to fall, but Harold reflexively reached out and steadied him by the shoulder.

His frame was incredibly delicate. El’s official age was never stated, but he looked to be around fifteen or sixteen. Harold felt a brief flicker of doubt—was it really possible for a boy that age to be this slender?

It was a thought he hadn't dwelled on before, but El truly was the most mysterious figure in the original story.

"Thanks. You're surprisingly gentle."

"Don't speak nonsense, you slowpoke."

Embarrassed by the rare compliment, Harold snatched his hand away. El let out a soft chuckle at the reaction.

Pretending not to notice the laughter to hide his burning cheeks, Harold set off to retrieve Lifa, who was wandering so aimlessly she looked like she might get lost in the next five seconds.