Chapter 97

Zen walked the familiar path between the fields, gazing at the clusters of golden flowers lining the roadside. If he had taken the carriage he usually drove for work, the journey would have been over in minutes. After over an hour of walking, his destination finally came into view.

It was a nondescript town landscape dotted with houses. One of these homes, which blended perfectly into its surroundings, was a place Zen frequented. As a wagon driver for House Stokes, he often made the trip to visit the man who lived there.

The garden, while modest, was meticulously tended. In one corner sat a small vegetable patch where succulent Red Gult—a sight Zen had long grown accustomed to—were ripening beautifully. Both the garden and its owner seemed to be in high spirits.

With those thoughts in mind, Zen rapped the knocker on the front door. After a brief pause, the door opened with a click.

"Yes? Who is it?"

"Hello, ma’am."

"Oh, Zen-kun! Please, come in."

Zen was greeted by a woman in her sixties or seventies. She led him into the living room, where a white-haired elderly man sat deep in a chair, waiting.

This was Norman, Zen’s former colleague who had retired several years ago.

"Hey there, Norman-san," Zen said with a smile, offering an intentionally casual greeting. Norman returned the smile warmly.

"Hello. You look well; that’s the most important thing."

"You too, Norman-san. Oh, I brought a little something."

Zen handed over a woven wooden basket filled with an assortment of bread baked at his home.

"Thank you, as always. Come, have a seat."

Prompted by Norman, Zen sat across from him.

Since his retirement, Norman had enjoyed a peaceful life free of major illness, yet there was one thing he could never stop worrying about. Zen understood that feeling perfectly; it was the very reason he made the time to visit, sharing the rare reports that reached him.

It had been five years since he—Harold—had left House Stokes to join the Order of the Holy King. Zen and Jake had taken turns sending regular letters to keep him informed of the family’s affairs. Even now, though Harold had left the Knight Order, he remained in the Royal Capital, and the correspondence continued.

In response to the letters sent every few months, Harold would provide a reply roughly once for every three reports they sent.

"So," Norman asked, "what did he have to say this time?"

"No specific orders. But as usual, he seems concerned about the state of the family."

This was a refrain Harold had repeated for eight years. He had stated with absolute conviction that House Stokes would eventually fall. To delay that fate, he had devised the LP Farming Method and even brought his then-fiancée’s family into the fold to turn it into a massive business venture.

With the support of House Sumeragi, the Stokes Territory's finances had managed to stabilize, but popular support for the family remained abysmal. Walking through the town, one could practically feel the population thinning as people moved away. While tax revenue had seen a temporary spike thanks to the LP Farming Method, production limits on the land meant the growth had likely hit its ceiling.

Since Harold had always spoken of "delaying" rather than "stopping" the downfall of House Stokes, Zen figured the current situation was exactly what Harold had anticipated.

"I see," Norman said, his eyes casting downward sadly. "It seems there is still so little we can do to help Lord Harold."

Zen felt that sentiment like a physical ache.

Harold had been brilliant since childhood. Though his tongue was sharp, he was kind-hearted, resourceful, and possessed a strength of both body and mind. Above all, he was diligent and never neglected his training.

He could handle almost anything on his own. Serving a man like that was a source of pride, yet it was equally frustrating to feel so useless in the face of his struggles.

"Oh, he also asked about Lord Huey. I suppose he has a soft spot for his younger half-brother, despite the age gap."

"He never cared for his own status or power, so I imagine he has no interest in a succession dispute," Norman noted.

"Right. It sounds like he just wants to dote on him. He even sent a shipment of clothes and toys for Lord Huey the other day."

Two wooden crates' worth, to be precise. Perhaps because his position made it difficult to visit in person, a mountain of gifts—doubling as birth celebrations—had arrived.

To those who only saw his harsh, unapproachable exterior, such a gesture would be unimaginable. For Zen and Norman, however, it was hardly a surprise. When Norman retired, Harold had sent expensive pottery to commemorate the occasion; when Zen got married, Harold sent a monetary gift with two more zeros than the standard market rate.

The accompanying note had been characteristically blunt: “You’ll have plenty of expenses.”

Zen had been so intimidated by the amount that he hesitated to accept it, but knowing Harold’s personality, he knew the gift would have been forced on him regardless. He had tucked it away untouched, keeping it for a rainy day.

That was simply the kind of man Harold was. He wore the mask of a cold-blooded noble, but he was deep in human compassion. Unfortunately, because he hated showing that side of himself, the reality was that most people were still terrified of him.

Thinking about how to bridge that gap, Zen reached for the cup in front of him. Just as his finger hooked the handle and he began to lift, the weight suddenly vanished.

The cup fell with a sharp clatter, and coffee splashed across the table.

"Whoa! S-Sorry about that..."

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah. But the cup..."

It was the very cup Harold had sent Norman for his retirement. Knowing how much Norman cherished it, Zen felt a wave of guilt.

"Don't worry. All things with a shape must eventually break," Norman said. "...Though, that is quite the clean break."

"Huh?"

Zen looked down. He had thought the cup had slipped, but the handle was still gripped firmly in his hand. Looking closer, the connection between the cup and the handle hadn't shattered; it was severed, the cross-section perfectly smooth as if it had been sliced by a blade.

Norman was right that things eventually break. But no matter how much it had been used, would age really cause a break like this? Zen felt a chill, as if he were looking at an omen of disaster.

"...I wonder if Lord Harold is safe," Norman whispered, wiping the table with a cloth.

Zen had no answer to give him.

---

Harold had lost count of how many times he had asked himself how things had come to this. In truth, he had been asking that question ever since the day eight years ago when he had somehow ended up in the body of Harold Stokes.

It was a bit late for regrets now.

Even though his combat abilities were top-tier thanks to Harold's body, the soul driving it was Kazuki Hirasawa—a perfectly ordinary guy. He had survived this long by using the "cheat" of his Original Story knowledge, but at his core, he was mediocre. He wasn't a genius or a master strategist; without the game's script, he never could have outmaneuvered Justus or held his own in negotiations with Tasuku.

Because he knew his own limitations, Harold had obsessed over sticking to the Original Story's path. He believed that was the only way a common man like him could survive.

But this world, while similar to a game, was a living, breathing thing. Things didn't always go according to script. Eventually, those deviations piled up until he was forced to make a choice: abandon the flow of the Original Story entirely. He had decided that, at this stage, going off-script offered the best chance of ending the story safely.

Whether that decision was right or wrong remained to be seen. However, at this very moment, his worst fears had been realized.

A gale-force wind brushed past his skin—a blast so violent he thought it might lacerate him just by proximity.

Harold ducked at the last possible second, putting distance between himself and his opponent. To call the man "impressive" would have been an understatement, but the thought crossed his mind nonetheless.

"The title of Knight Order Commander isn't just for show, Vincent."

Vincent van Westervoort. The prodigy who had become Commander of the Order of the Holy King at a young age. In Brave Hearts, he was a boss character who blocked the protagonist's path in the final act.

And now, Harold was trading blows with him.

Harold hadn't expected to fight Vincent at this point in time. In fact, he hadn't expected to fight Vincent at all. The reason for this predicament was brutally simple.

"Harold Stokes... Hostile entity... Prioritize... elimination..."

Vincent’s eyes were vacant. His speech was a disjointed, mechanical repetition. He was clearly not himself.

Justus was finally trying to kill Harold in earnest.

After parting ways with Rainer’s group in the Sumeragi Territory, Harold had returned to Harrison, squeezed out the location of the final Secret Treasure, and headed straight there. Naturally, he had acted without Justus’s permission.

Six of the treasures were already in Harrison’s—and by extension, Justus’s—possession. But since Harold no longer intended to play by the script, he planned to spend the next few months in total resistance. He figured that if he stole the final treasure, he could stall Justus's endgame.

It was a mediocre plan, and Justus had seen right through it. Instead of the treasure, Harold had found a brainwashed Vincent waiting for him in the ruins.

"Hey! Pull yourself together! Why are you attacking me?"

"Prioritize... elimination of Harold..."

Vincent repeated the command, his eyes glowing with an eerie light. Harold had tried to get through to him several times, but it was useless.

Vincent lunged, his greatsword carving a crater into the earth. Harold evaded the massive swing and blurred toward the man's exposed back. There was no winning a head-on clash against Vincent’s raw power; Harold had to rely on his signature high-speed combat.

However, his strike from the rear was caught by a single arm—Vincent blocked the blade with his gauntlet. Even a blow backed by Harold's speed and strength was stopped effortlessly. It felt like striking a fortress wall.

Then, Vincent swung his greatsword with his right hand alone. The speed was terrifying—sharper and faster than any ordinary knight. It wasn't just a slash; it was a crushing blow.

In a game, a regular hit would just shave off some HP. In this world, a single direct hit was a death sentence. Harold considered using R Guard, but the risk of being crushed through his defense was too high, so he focused entirely on evasion.

Vincent’s heavy armor and weaponry meant his movement speed wasn't a primary threat, but his power and durability were off the charts. Worst of all, his reaction speed when swinging or parrying was fast enough to keep up with Harold’s velocity. Maintaining that speed seemed to take a toll on his body, but in the split seconds that decided life or death, Vincent was a match for him.

He was a heavy-hitter with monstrous durability, but knights of his caliber didn't reach the top with power alone. There were almost no openings to exploit.

Harold was left with two choices.

First: Abandon the treasure and run. With his speed, escaping Vincent wouldn't be difficult. But if he did that, the last treasure would fall to Justus. Even if that was the "Original Story" path, Harold suspected the timeline was accelerating. If he didn't act, Rainer’s party might not be strong enough to win when the final event triggered.

Second: Defeat Vincent here.

In the original game, Vincent was manipulated by Justus into fighting Rainer’s party near the end. Harold had thought he had prevented that by stopping the events that would have broken Vincent’s spirit—like Cody leaving the Order or the loss of the Order's prestige.

But because Vincent hadn't been broken, Justus had simply moved to a more direct method: brainwashing. He wasn't using Vincent against the Protagonist (Rainer); he was using him to kill the Villain (Harold).

"Damn it...!"

If he retreated now, a brainwashed Vincent would become a permanent piece on Justus’s board—a wildcard that Justus would surely play at the worst possible moment. Without his knowledge of the script to guide him, Harold knew he wasn't smart enough to counter such a move. He would be perpetually reactive, and eventually, he wouldn't be able to stop Justus at all.

He had to settle this here. From another perspective, this was a golden opportunity to eliminate one of Justus’s greatest assets.

Harold steeled his resolve.

"...Vincent van Westervoort. I’ll make this place your grave."

It was a fight he wasn't sure he could win. A fight where losing meant death. He hadn't wanted to use his full power until the very end, but making excuses would mean nothing if he ended up dead. He had to give it everything he had.

"Let's go!"

Harold roared. The jade crystal embedded in the longsword in his right hand began to emit a faint, pulsing glow.