I slowly sheathed my cherished blade and forced my aching body to stand.
The leather greaves I wore over my prosthetic leg were shredded, reduced to nothing more than tattered rags. On the ground where I had been kneeling just a moment ago, a network of cracks spread out like spiderwebs. The earth hadn't quite shattered, but the recoil of the technique had left deep fissures in the soil. It looked like something out of a manga, I thought, feeling strangely detached from the reality of it all.
My left knee throbbed with a dull, insistent pain. A sickening sensation ran from my right shoulder down to my arm, as if my very sinews had been pushed to the point of snapping, and my fingertips wouldn't stop twitching. I knew with grim certainty that if I tried to push myself that far again, I wouldn't be able to move afterward.
My body and my Strength magic simply hadn't been able to keep up with the technique. It was no wonder my prosthetic leg had almost buckled; had I tried to swing from a proper stance, it surely would have shattered.
Still, this was nothing a bit of healing magic couldn't patch up. My leg was creaking, but it would hold for now.
"S-Senpai..."
Yulitia managed to squeeze out the word, her voice trembling. My Master, Atri, and Anze were all speechless, their eyes fixed on my profile as if their minds were struggling to process what they had just witnessed. I knew they had questions, but they would have to wait.
I limped forward, using my sheathed sword as a makeshift cane. I stopped beside the fallen Staffio and looked down at him.
A raspy, hollow voice drifted up from the ground.
"Cough... Heh, heh. I see... So you were the one... I truly shouldn't have underestimated..."
Staffio’s right arm had been severed along with the Scroll he held. A diagonal flash had nearly cleaved his torso in two; he was barely held together by the skin of his back. Yet, despite the horrific nature of the wound, only a small amount of blood seeped into the dirt. A serene, almost surreal smile played on his lips.
"My, my... Tell me... are you even... human?"
"I am," I replied flatly. "Just like you."
His eyes were quiet, lacking the malice one would expect from a dying villain.
"You defeated the monster and saved the girl... You should... look a little happier about it."
"There’s nothing happy about killing a man."
Staffio coughed weakly, spitting up dark blood. The crimson stain spread peacefully across the grass.
"If you climb this slope... and circle around the back... you'll find the ruins. The captured adventurers are there." He spoke with a strange, lingering calm. "I left four subordinates behind. They're just porters... they won't be a problem for someone like you."
"You’re remarkably composed," I noted.
"Heh... This is how it ends for people like me. I knew... this day would come."
If he knew that, then why? Why did it have to come to this?
"To think... a swordsman of your caliber... was reduced to this... losing an eye and a leg..."
His voice trailed off. There were no more words to be exchanged. The presence of life was rapidly draining from his body. His final words—I wondered who they were meant for.
"Truly, this world... is a wretched place... isn't it...?"
I watched him go in silence.
He was right. This was a wretched world. A degenerate fantasy where the only constant was the suffering of its inhabitants. In the Original Work, people like us were supposed to have been tortured to death long ago.
Staffio had likely snapped somewhere along the way. No one is born a villain. Perhaps he, too, had once dreamed of adventure, admired magic, and believed he could walk to the ends of the earth with his companions. Then, toyed with by a cruel fate, he had despaired and fallen until he reached this point of no return.
I understood his path, but I felt no sympathy. I could acknowledge his circumstances, but I could never call his actions right.
At the very least, I knew someone who was his exact opposite. The original protagonist had lost everything and fallen to rock bottom, yet he still crawled back up and walked on his own two feet. Even when he had no one left to protect, he fought like a madman to save whoever he could.
That protagonist had saved my life.
No matter the reason, I could never condone what Staffio did to Ruerie. I wouldn't regret cutting him down. I refused to live a life that would make my savior regret helping me.
"Ruerie."
I called her name. She looked up at me, her eyes brimming with tears. I reached my hand out to her.
"Let’s go. Your sister is waiting."
She trembled. She reached out to take my hand, then hesitated, shaking her head as a fresh wave of guilt washed over her.
"B-But...! I lied to you all... I caused so much trouble..."
"Stop right there," I said, cutting her off. "Who do you think you're fooling?"
I’m not a man of many words, but I had to say this. Having one girl in our party crushed by guilt was already one too many.
"We knew this was a trap from the beginning."
Ruerie blinked, her voice small. "...What?"
"Did you honestly think your plan was so flawless, so perfect, that you’d fooled us completely? Do you really think you're some kind of master criminal?"
"N-No! That's not it! I just..."
"Exactly. You didn't fool anyone. Sure, the Ruffians used you, and you played your part in their scheme. but in the end, you didn't trick us, and no one got hurt because of you."
I let out a huff.
"Don't go acting like a villain when your methods were so transparent we used them against you."
I wished I could have been gentler, but my words came out blunt and scolding. I’m sure my face was stuck in a frown, making me look far more angry than I actually was. I just couldn't stand seeing her wallow in self-pity and give up when she was so close to her goal.
She had endured everything those bastards threw at her for the sake of her sister and her friends. That was all she needed to focus on. She was only one step away from saving them.
"You’re a terrible liar, you don't have a malicious bone in your body, and you care about your sister more than anyone else."
Whatever guilt or apologies she had could wait until after the rescue.
"You’re just a normal adventurer. And a normal girl."
Ruerie’s eyes wavered. The darkness that had clouded her gaze seemed to lift, replaced by a flicker of the girl she used to be.
"Hic..."
The emotions she had been bottling up finally overflowed.
"Waaaaah!"
She broke into a heavy, gasping sob, tears streaming down her face faster than she could wipe them away. I stood there, frozen. I had definitely messed this up.
"R-Ruerie? Sorry, my tone was a bit harsh. What I meant was, uh..."
"Waaaaah!"
"Ruerie...!"
I looked around helplessly. Saying things like "Don't get the wrong idea" was definitely the wrong move. Between my lack of social skills and my naturally unfriendly face, I probably just looked like a giant, terrifying man yelling at a middle-schooler. I could feel my Master's judging gaze burning into the back of my head.
Eventually, Master and Anze stepped in to comfort her, and Ruerie finally began to calm down.
Trying to give a pep talk to a girl was a thousand years too early for me. If this were the original protagonist, he would have been cool and dependable, even if he were blunt.
I sighed to myself. I really was just a mob character after all.
Truly, Atri wondered how much more this man intended to make her heart ache.
He was a warrior who burned his very life to become a war god, a man who had single-handedly annihilated a Reaper that even the Arsvalem Tribe could not defeat. He had protected his companions without losing a single soul. That alone was enough for Atri to dedicate her entire being to him, yet he continued to show her wonders that left her with nothing more to offer but her soul.
When Wolka had dropped to one knee and prepared his draw, Atri felt as if the world had frozen. In that absolute silence, where the wind died and even time seemed to hold its breath, she had seen the moment he cleared the guard of his sword.
That was all she saw.
It was the same as before. It was the same flash he had used to bury the Life Reaper.
That was the pinnacle—the ultimate strike that only those who had transcended their limits at the threshold of death could achieve. It didn't matter if the enemy was out of reach, if they held a hostage, or if they were an immortal monster. That bolt of lightning would strike them down regardless.
Techniques that could strike from a distance weren't entirely rare, but they were usually manifestations of magical energy. They were more akin to spells than true swordsmanship.
Wolka’s strike was different.
Quite literally, he was cutting through space. His sword had reached a dimension that transcended martial arts and surpassed magic itself.
And he had done it with a prosthetic leg. Even in a compromised position, forced to take a knee to prevent his equipment from shattering, he possessed that terrifying clarity.
Atri felt her heart burn with a longing she couldn't describe. How fortunate she was to have encountered such a warrior. She wanted to boast to Granny back home immediately. Granny might be skeptical at first because of his age, but once she saw that flash, she would be the first to scream for Atri to drag him back to the tribe.
Of course, Atri knew her sins were not so easily forgiven. If she hadn't been so careless, Wolka wouldn't have lost his eye and his leg. If he were still whole, he wouldn't have to mourn the path of the sword he thought he had lost, nor would he have to blame himself for being a burden.
That was why Atri would live for him, offering every strand of hair, every drop of blood, and every fragment of her soul. She would follow him anywhere, until the very moment her life finally flickered out. That was her atonement, her wish, and her reason for being.
Then, Atri tilted her head as a sudden thought occurred to her.
She wondered how many children Wolka wanted to have.
Ruerie was still sobbing.
She had been enduring the agony of isolation and fear ever since her companions were taken. As she finally let her emotions pour out, Liesel and Anze stayed by her side to comfort her, while Wolka stood a short distance away, looking dejected because he thought he had scared her.
Yulitia watched the scene, feeling a single tear roll down her cheek. She didn't bother to wipe it away. She simply hugged herself, her breath hitching in her chest.
She had been so afraid. She had been terrified that Wolka’s sword had been lost to the world because of her mistake. She had sobbed in secret, unable to tell day from night. Before Wolka had woken up, she knew she had been a pathetic mess.
But she had been wrong.
The silver lightning that had haunted her nightmares—the secret technique that had slain the Life Reaper—was still there. Yulitia took pride in her ability to learn almost any sword technique after seeing it only a few times, yet she knew that this was a peak she might never reach, even if she spent an eternity trying.
Wolka’s sword was not broken.
It felt like destiny. That she was born into a family of knights, that she had been blessed with talent, that she had been cast out by her brothers, and that she had chosen the Magic School—it all felt as if it had happened just so she could meet him.
I was born for this, she thought, her heart swelling with an emotion so intense it felt like drowning.
However, her realization didn't erase her mistakes. The more she yearned for him, the more a dull ache throbbed in the depths of her soul. He had lost an eye and a leg, and he still blamed himself for his perceived weakness. Even if his sword remained, Yulitia felt she had no right to feel absolved.
In the end, they had been saved by his sword again. As she was now, she could never hope to ease his suffering or truly stand by his side. The gap between them was vast, and if she didn't change, she would eventually be left behind.
She wasn't as skilled as Wolka, as strong as Atri, or as magically gifted as Liesel. She had no unique power of her own. In this party, she was the only one who could be replaced.
If he ever decided he didn't need her... if he abandoned her...
"Yulitia... Do I really look that scary? Is it my face?"
Wolka’s voice was uncharacteristically hesitant. Yulitia turned to him and gave him a soft, gentle smile.
"Senpai."
"Yeah... You can be honest with me."
"I’ll always stay by your side," she said softly. "I’ll work harder than anyone else."
She wanted to be the one to remove his pain, to support him in everything he did. If he carried a dark past that he couldn't share with anyone, she wanted to be the one to heal those wounds.
"So... please don't discard me, okay?"
"Sure... Wait, what?"
A mix of pure, burning devotion and a dark, festering insecurity pulled at Yulitia’s heart, dragging her deeper into the depths of her obsession.
The sun began to dip below the horizon, and the brilliant red of the western sky began to give way to the creeping shadows of twilight.
The young man scrambled through the forest, his face pale and his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Only a few minutes ago, he had been the man known as 'Lloyd.' His cheerful, easygoing persona was gone, replaced by a mask of dirt and cold sweat. He radiated a feral mix of rage and hatred, punctuated by a terror he couldn't quite suppress.
He was currently dragging a broken leg, desperately trying to escape with his life.
"Dammit... what the hell is wrong with them? This shouldn't be happening!"
Silvery Grey, an A-Rank party.
They were just a bunch of teenagers. He had genuinely believed that with enough numbers and a few hostages, they would be an easy mark. Most young adventurers in this kingdom were good at killing monsters but turned into cowards the moment they had to fight another human. The last A-Rank party they had hit was exactly like that—they had collapsed the moment a single girl was taken hostage. He had been convinced that A-Rank was just a hollow title for kids.
Even the Windmill party had been a joke. They had eaten the poisoned food without a second thought.
He had assumed Silvery Grey would be the same. By age alone, they were the youngest group of the bunch.
The results had been catastrophic. His partner, 'Cain,' had been sliced open and left to die. The young man himself had a shattered arm, a mangled leg, and blood obscuring half his vision. Every breath felt like a knife in his lungs.
A dark, twisted smile flickered across his face. He was losing his mind to the humiliation and the pain. It was that man’s fault. Everything had been ruined because of him.
"I’ll kill him... I’ll find a way to kill that bastard... I'll make him watch while I break those women..."
He stumbled through a thicket and suddenly found himself in a familiar clearing—the fork in the road where Staffio had driven the carriage. In his panicked flight, he had circled back to the beginning.
"Huh?"
He froze.
There, in the middle of the animal trail, was a knight. He looked impeccably clean, as if he were out for a stroll, as he casually tossed a series of blood-stained corpses into the bushes.
"Oh? If you're the one running away, it seems the party over there is finished," the knight said, his voice light. "Judging by your state, the outcome must have been quite grim for your side."
The young man stared, speechless.
"Ah, don't mind this. I couldn't just leave them in the middle of the road, could I? Honestly, you villains are a nuisance even after you're dead."
The young man recognized him instantly. This was the knight who had been traveling with Silvery Grey. He had been deemed the biggest threat, so they had sent eight of their best men to kill him. They had crossbows and high-level magic scrolls. No matter how good he was, a lone knight should have stood no chance against eight experts.
Yet here he was.
There wasn't a drop of sweat on his face, nor a single speck of blood on his armor. He looked as if he had just finished some light yard work.
Had he killed them all? Alone? Without taking a single scratch?
"Don't worry, I'll see to it that the remains are handled properly later. I wouldn't want to leave them for the wolves... there we go."
The knight tossed the eighth body into the brush and dusted off his hands.
"Now then... I believe there's one more to account for."
The knight's voice dropped, and every instinct in the young man’s body began to scream in terror.
This wasn't a fight. This wasn't even a slaughter. It was something else entirely. He tried to run, but his legs were lead. His knees buckled, and cold sweat drenched his clothes.
"W-Wait! Please! I'm sorry! It was just a mistake, I swear! I'll change, I'll be better!"
"Who are you begging?" the knight asked, his expression unchanging.
"Please! I'm begging you!"
"The one you should be begging is that girl, Ruerie. Your pleas mean nothing to me. Besides, your sentence has already been decided."
The knight drew his sword without a hint of hesitation.
"To think you would dare lay a hand on a person who is the Incarnation of God... do not think your life alone is enough to pay for such a crime."
"The... Incarnation of God?"
What was he talking about? In this kingdom, there was only one group of people who held that title—the Four Saints of the Holy City.
The young man felt a sudden, sickening realization.
It was as if a thick fog had suddenly lifted from his mind. He was hit by a wave of nausea so violent he doubled over, clutching his stomach.
"Wait... how... why didn't I notice? That Sister... that face..."
"I see you finally understand," the knight said coldly.
"Why?! How could I have missed it?! It's impossible! Why did nobody—"
"You should feel honored," the knight interrupted. "You have witnessed a fraction of a divine miracle."
It didn't matter why. It didn't matter how. The only thing that mattered was that they had tried to hunt a group that included a Saint and her protectors. This wasn't bad luck. It was the inevitable weight of his own sins coming back to crush him.
"This is bullshit... this is a joke... it's not fair..."
"Is that so?" the knight mused, looking entirely bored. "You had no problem inflicting suffering on those children, yet you complain when it's your turn?"
The last thing the young man heard was the ancient liturgical prayer of the Chrys Knights.
"Justice for the sin. Holy Annihilation for the wicked soul."