"Ah... damn it."
Silence followed.
Had he been suffering all this time?
Had he been bearing it in silence?
Had he been putting on a brave face, pretending nothing was wrong, just to spare Lieselalte and the others from worrying?
Wolka covered his eyes with the back of his hand, as if trying to shield his vulnerability from the world. Those few, whispered words made Lieselalte’s blood run cold and her breath hitch in her throat.
He hadn't uttered a single complaint when he learned he'd lost an eye and a leg. He hadn't shown even a flicker of sorrow. But now, right before her eyes, he finally showed a moment of raw, bitter frustration.
She had suspected as much. Even without a leg, Wolka never stopped moving. While he was still confined to a wheelchair, he had begun practicing his sword swings, and the moment his prosthetic leg arrived, he had immersed himself in rehabilitation with singular focus.
It was all for the sake of swinging a sword once more.
There could be no other reason. After all, he had dedicated nearly his entire life to the blade. Even if he had lost an eye and a leg, there was no way he could simply give up.
There was no way he wouldn't harbor regrets.
"I see... So this is what it means to lose a leg."
"Ah... Wolka...!"
Those were the first words of despair he had ever let slip. The weight of the sin she had committed was thrust before her eyes once again.
She had vowed to stay by his side as long as she was permitted, promising to protect him this time. She had tried to convince herself she was making some small atonement—and now, she wanted to tear her own soul apart.
What kind of Master am I...?
She could do nothing. She couldn't ease even a single ounce of her disciple's suffering. On the contrary, wasn't she the reason he was suffering in the first place?
Seeing him like this, she finally understood. Wolka would never abandon the sword. He couldn't. Perhaps Wolka himself had only just realized the finality of it. From this moment on, he would likely begin searching for every possible way to swing a blade again.
However, a prosthetic was just a prosthetic. It couldn't restore his leg to what it once was. No matter how advanced the replacement, he might never regain the self that moved freely with flesh and bone.
If that happened...
Wolka might eventually reach a path that strayed far from the laws of humanity.
If he reached that point, what would he do? Would he, as a mere man, reject the devil's temptation? Or would he reach out without a moment's hesitation for the sake of his sword?
She knew the answer. For Wolka, the path of the sword was everything. Therefore, the only atonement Lieselalte could provide as his Master was to do everything in her power to support him so he could fight again.
She knew that.
She knew it all too well.
But the memory wouldn't fade.
The loathsome silhouette of the Life Reaper still haunted her.
The spray of blood.
Wolka sinking into a crimson pool.
The sensation of a precious life fading away within her arms.
Because it was Wolka, he would likely train until he could move as well as any other swordsman, even with a prosthetic. Even with one eye, he would fight as if he possessed a spiritual sight that transcended physical vision.
But no matter how far he went, he would never be the Wolka he was meant to be. His lost eye and leg would forever be shackles, and next time... they might truly claim his life.
Wolka will die.
Just the thought made her feel like she was losing her mind. She wanted to scream. Her vision went dark, her mind filled only with the desperate plea of "No." Even though she was the one who had effectively stripped the sword from him, and even though she understood his greatest wish, she still found herself wishing he would just live a quiet, safe life.
The part of her that was a Master wanted to grant her disciple's wish.
The part of her that was a companion wanted him to never face danger again.
"Uugh...! hic... uuuuuhhh...!"
"M-Master... it's okay. I told you, I'm okay. Please, don't cry..."
Wolka was the one truly suffering, yet he was the one trying to comfort her.
His kindness felt like a whetted blade. Lieselalte could do nothing but let the sobs overflow.
Yulitia stood before a wall of grief so heavy it threatened to crush her, doing everything in her power to hold back her own tears.
If I could take his place, I would offer up this body right now.
Why did it have to be Wolka? If someone had to be sacrificed, why couldn't it have been her? Wolka had his swordsmanship, Lieselalte had her magic, and Atri had her raw power—all of them were unique, top-tier experts. But Yulitia was different. She was replaceable.
That was why she felt she should have been the one to pay the price.
Even if such a thought was an insult to Wolka, who had staked everything to save them.
Regardless, Wolka’s sword should never have been broken. "Cutting in the same instant the blade is drawn"—those simple words described a motion he had perfected with such selfless devotion that it had become a transcendent art. Yulitia had believed that his Quick-draw Technique would be spoken of by all who saw him, eventually making his name famous across the entire kingdom.
If only he hadn't lost his leg.
When Wolka had taken his stance before the clay doll, it had looked as if he had regained his missing limb. His aura was clear and sharp, like a single blade. After his struggle with the Life Reaper, he had stepped into an even higher domain.
It was a peak reachable only by those who stood at the edge of death, burned through their very souls, and overcame their limits when all hope seemed lost.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Her skin crawled. A shivering sensation surged through her brain like a sweet poison, eroding her thoughts. He had only taken a stance—that was all—yet the sight of the swordsman named Wolka was enough to drive her soul to madness.
But it wasn't enough.
Unable to unleash even a single strike, Wolka had shown a rare moment of tearful weakness, and Yulitia finally realized the true weight of what had been taken from him.
Because of me... Because of me, this happened...
A regret beyond words tore at her from the inside.
If only she had done something.
If she had fought alongside him, shielded him—anything. If only his injuries had been just a little lighter.
He might not have lost his leg.
Wolka would never give up. Even in this broken body, he would suffer and struggle to move forward.
But there was no guarantee his effort would be rewarded. The proof was right there; his prosthetic had snapped under the load of a single draw. One could argue it was only a model for daily use, but what guarantee was there that a better one would save him?
No matter how hard he struggled, he might never reach his former self. He might be crushed by a cruel fate once again.
Precisely because he loved the sword so deeply, Wolka might truly break one day.
Yes—Wolka was suffering now because of her.
The pain he would endure from here on out was all her fault.
"Uugh...! hic... uuuuuhhh...!"
Lieselalte was weeping. Even Yulitia, the newest member of the party, felt like her heart was being gouged out. For the Master, who had been with Wolka much longer, the pain had to be incomparable.
I can't forgive this. I can't forgive my own helplessness. I am too weak.
I will... I will...
She reached out and placed both her hands over Wolka’s right hand. It was a swordsman's hand, calloused and scarred from years of relentless training.
Deep down, she didn't want him to push himself anymore. She didn't want him to know any more pain.
But as someone captivated by his sword, she couldn't bring herself to deny the path he chose.
No... more... I need to do more...
Therefore, she decided she would handle every burden other than the sword.
I have to erase it...
Daily chores like cooking and cleaning. The dangers of battle. Or the voices that would mock a one-eyed, one-legged man for trying to master the sword. Every obstacle that was unnecessary for Wolka’s path...
I will eliminate them all.
He could leave everything else to her.
Yulitia’s heart sank further into a darkness where not even a glimmer of light could reach.
Atri quietly solidified her resolve.
As she watched Wolka show his weakness for the first time, she knew Lieselalte and Yulitia were thinking of a thousand different things. They were likely agonizing over what they could do and how they could heal him—things far beyond Atri's simple way of thinking.
Atri knew she wasn't as clever as the other two, nor was she tactful enough to provide emotional comfort. But that lack of complexity meant there was no hesitation in her mind.
Atri would stay with Wolka.
If he took up the sword again, she would guard his back.
If he chose a life of peace, she would protect that tranquility.
If he aimed for the pinnacle of martial arts despite his injuries, she would climb with him.
If he abandoned his humanity for the sake of the blade, she would fall with him.
They would be together forever. Along with Lieselalte and Yulitia, they would always be together.
Anyone who interfered would be slaughtered.
Fighting was what Atri did best.
So, just as Wolka had always done, Atri would now protect everyone.
Even if the day came when they faced the Life Reaper again, it wouldn't matter.
Atri would kill it.
Next time, she would succeed.
Whether it was a monster, a human, or a god—anything that disrupted their peace had no right to exist in this world.
"Hup."
"Whoa—"
Atri lifted Wolka’s head and sat down, pulling him into a lap pillow.
"Hey," he started.
"It's fine."
Wolka tried to protest, but with his hands held by Lieselalte and Yulitia, he realized resistance was futile. He gave up and rested his head on Atri's lap.
"Mm."
She ran her fingers through his grey hair. She had never imagined she would have such precious companions. Back in her homeland, Atri had been so strong that no one her age could match her; she had grown up never knowing the need for allies. During her solo travels, she had even viewed companions as weaklings she was forced to protect.
Meeting Wolka had changed everything.
She had found irreplaceable friends and a warrior she could truly revere.
Yes.
Atri reached a conclusion with absolute certainty.
I definitely have to claim Wolka someday.
Granny had told her that finding the right man, claiming him, and continuing the Arsvalem bloodline was a sacred duty. Wolka was the warrior Atri was willing to die for. Therefore, she would claim him.
Atri didn't know much about life outside her tribe, but she assumed Lieselalte and Yulitia might have been taught the same thing. If so, they could all claim him together. She recalled hearing that superior blood should be passed on to as many of the next generation as possible, so that had to be the right way.
And in the end, she would give her life for him on some battlefield.
For the Arsvalem Tribe, there was no greater honor.
Anzesheit was filled with shame at her own uselessness.
To Anze, Wolka was the first person she had ever failed to save. The childhood trauma of losing him when she felt she could have done something had shaped her life, eventually causing her to awaken her power as the Saint of the Heavenly Sword. She believed that the reason a frail girl who had never held a weapon had gained such power was because her meeting with Wolka had been the most significant moment of her life.
But even with the power of a Saint, she was repeating the same mistakes.
In her heart, she wanted to be with Wolka. She had dreamed of making him a Royal Guard and spending peaceful days together at the Cathedral.
But she couldn't.
Wolka had already found companions who could never be replaced.
Lieselalte, Yulitia, Atri... I envy you all so much.
Anze could only watch from the sidelines as Wolka was surrounded by people who loved him.
Wolka trusted his party with his life, and they loved him in return. It was obvious just by looking at Silvery Grey. Even Wolka, who rarely showed emotion, seemed to relax his expression when he was with them.
That was why he had been willing to sacrifice everything to save them.
Anze wanted to be a source of strength for him too.
But the most she could do was heal the minor scratches he earned in training. Her Holy Magic couldn't restore his eye or his leg. She couldn't stand beside him as a companion, and he didn't seek the Cathedral's support.
Even now, Wolka didn't need her.
She truly, truly envied them.
Wolka... what can I do for you?
If you need a better prosthetic, I will use every information network the Church has to find one.
If you want justice against whoever lied about the dungeon, I will judge them in the name of a Saint.
If that dungeon is an eyesore, I will erase it from the face of the earth.
Wolka... how can I make you need me?
He was the person she had failed once before. She wanted him to be rewarded for all the grueling training he had endured.
If he only asked, she was ready to support him with everything she possessed, for as long as it took.
If Hakua heard these thoughts, she would likely just scoff in exasperation.
"You've really got it bad, haven't you?"
The moment Wolka took his stance, it was clear his swordsmanship had reached a new domain.
Even Rosche, who had been watching from the shadows of the church building, felt the air grow still and his skin prickle.
If Rosche felt this much pressure from a distance, a normal person standing in front of Wolka would likely be paralyzed, unable to move a single finger.
Rosche smiled, offering a silent tribute to his friend.
I see. You've opened the door, haven't you?
It wasn't common knowledge, but there were legends about how a brush with death could elevate a person to a higher dimension. A door that only opened for those who stood their ground against certain doom, burned their lives to the wick, and forced fate to submit. Among S-rank adventurers, there were a few who had awakened through such a crisis.
It was still considered a "legend" because there was no way to achieve it without a miracle.
No sane person would intentionally seek the "brink of death." A manufactured crisis carried no weight. Even if one stood there, there was no guarantee the door would open; most simply died or were permanently broken as warriors.
It was a blessing from God, granted only to those who performed their own miracles.
If we ever have a match with our fiftieth victory on the line... I might actually lose to you.
As a Holy Knight, Rosche didn't intend to lose if he used everything at his disposal, including magic. But in a pure contest of blades, he likely couldn't match Wolka anymore.
That realization only made it more painful to see Wolka burdened with such heavy injuries.
As the prosthetic shattered and Wolka fell, Anze and the others rushed to him immediately.
Rosche didn't join them just yet.
"Truly..."
His blood boiled with frustration. If Wolka hadn't lost his leg... knowing the heights he would have reached only made the current reality harder to swallow.
The Life Reaper. A monster that reaped the lives of warriors. To defeat it one-on-one while protecting others, even after being mortally wounded... even a Holy Knight like Rosche might not have managed it.
But Wolka had done it. He had spat in the face of death and saved his friends. For a man like that to be given such a cruel trial—even if Rosche wanted to curse God, no one could blame him.
Compared to his party or Anze, Rosche had known Wolka for the shortest amount of time.
But because they had sparred over a hundred times, Rosche felt he understood Wolka’s devotion to the sword better than anyone. He knew better than anyone just how much suffering Wolka had endured to reach this point.
Therefore, he was certain.
Wolka was not the type of man who could abandon the sword for a quiet life.
Wolka himself had surely realized that the moment he gripped the hilt. From here on, his path would slowly become clear. Rosche and Anze were ready to help him whenever he was ready.
The only concern was his party members—Lieselalte, Yulitia, and Atri.
They had watched Wolka nearly die. The terror they felt had to be beyond imagination. To what extent would they be able to support his return to the life of a swordsman?
For Wolka to return meant they had to accept the possibility that he might actually die next time.
Because they loved him, that decision would bring them immense pain.
Rosche shrugged his shoulders.
"Wolka. The one you have to face might not be your own body, but the companions right beside you."
The man wasn't a complete social disaster, but he definitely lacked the words to explain himself.
I wish he'd learn a thing or two from me! Rosche thought, tossing his hair gallantly even though no one was watching. He stepped out from the shadows with a practiced, refreshing air.
With a broken prosthetic like that, Wolka would need a shoulder to lean on.
And they definitely needed someone to play the part of the cheerful fool to blow away this suffocating atmosphere.
"Well, well, Wolka! It seems you've gone and done it again! Making such lovely Mademoiselles cry—really, you're a hopeless fellow! Listen here, you need to understand a woman's heart a bit better—"
Before his friend, he remained the same flamboyant, unchanging self he had always been.