Ramsey was dead.
When Claesta brought the news, I didn't feel sadness or regret immediately. Those emotions couldn't keep pace with the reality of the situation. I simply accepted the fact for what it was. Perhaps I remained so strangely calm because, deep down, I had been carrying a small, suffocating weight for some time now.
In this godforsaken fantasy world, was it even possible to live without having a neighbor stolen from you?
Would there always come a time when someone would vanish in a horrific, senseless way?
The moment Claesta walked into my room with her eyes worn raw from crying, I had no choice but to quietly steel myself.
"He was... a truly noble man. It is almost impossible to believe he was a disheveled drunkard until just recently."
Claesta was resilient. In the short time it took to return to the Holy City after losing Ramsey, she had already processed her grief. She calmly and accurately recounted everything she had witnessed.
She told me of Ramsey’s death and the total destruction of Luther.
Currently, the air in the Holy City was tighter than usual.
While the majority of the residents went about their daily lives, knights with grim expressions were now scattered throughout the streets. As Rosche had mentioned the other day, the activities of Vampires—powerful members of the Demon Race—had been confirmed in the neighboring country, right on our doorstep. Led by the Church, a defensive network was being established out of fear that they might have already infiltrated our borders.
That was the thing—Rosche’s visit had only been a few days ago.
In this world, instant communication like smartphones or the internet didn't exist. I’d heard that research into magic tools called "Voice Transmitters" was progressing, but most information still relied on traditional human couriers. It wasn't hard to imagine that cross-border intelligence would take even longer to arrive.
There was no time for the luxury of being "on guard" against a potential arrival. By the time the report of Vampires reached us from the neighboring nation, the monsters had long since begun their shadow games here.
And Ramsey—along with the people of Luther—had already been slaughtered.
I was sincerely glad the Master and the others weren't here. Honestly, I had no idea what kind of look I was wearing right now.
As expected, it must not have been a very pleasant one. Claesta watched me with a pained smile.
"I do not mind if you resent me, Wolka-san. This happened because I took Mr. Ramsey with me as an escort."
"...Don't say something so stupid."
I forced the tension out of my stiff shoulders. Good grief. Claesta was the one who had to suffer through it all right in front of her eyes, and yet I was making her say something like that to comfort me.
I shook my head and tapped my prosthetic leg.
"Do you really think I’m the kind of guy who would blame you?"
"..."
Claesta closed her eyes for a few seconds as if enduring a sharp pang in her heart.
"Wolka-san. Mr. Ramsey's final words to you... I shall relay them exactly as he said them."
Don't die... no, that's not it.
Live, Wolka.
"............"
Finally, my emotions caught up. Not "Don't die," but "Live." That hit me much, much harder.
That old man. He started as a pathetic drunk, then went and died an impossibly cool death.
Facing an enemy he shouldn't have been able to beat, he fought to the end without running or hiding to protect Claesta. And as the young head of her workshop, Claesta would go on to save countless lives through her craft. In a way, Ramsey was a hero who protected not only Claesta, but every soul she would save in the future.
I wanted to believe that. I wanted to believe his life didn't end in vain.
If I sat here moping, Ramsey would probably manifest as a ghost and kick me from behind. He'd glare at me and say, "You must be pretty bored if you've got time to stare at the floor, huh?" I could practically hear that gravelly, unfriendly voice right now.
Claesta surely felt the same.
There was a tragic, fierce resolve in her expression—the look of someone who had realized her purpose.
"I will pour my entire soul into finishing your leg. I will bring you the ultimate prosthetic. I promise."
"...Yeah."
So, I would be fine. I could accept that part.
What I couldn't accept—the reason I was currently driven by the urge to drag a shitty God down to earth and hack them to pieces—was something else.
"Also... the person who saved us seemed to know you."
"...?"
Claesta’s words pulled me back to reality. She explained that a traveling man had rushed to Luther after hearing of its collapse and finished off the persistent Vampire. It was thanks to him taking over the escort duty that they managed to bring Ramsey’s body back to the Holy City.
But among the people I knew, someone strong enough to solo a high-tier Demon...
"His name was Glen. Do you know him?"
"!"
My breath hitched.
In the "Original Work"—of which I remembered less and less every day—that was the name of the man most deeply engraved in my memory.
And in this world, it was the name of the benefactor who had saved me when I was a hair's breadth from death.
The protagonist of the original story: Glen.
I see. So his name would surface again here.
"...Yeah, I know him. A little. Where is he now?"
"He left immediately after escorting us to the Entertainment District. He said he didn't want to be near crowds."
That sounds like him, I thought idly. In the original story, Glen held a deep resentment toward the Royal Capital and the Holy City for failing to help his hometown. But it wasn't just a political grudge; according to his character settings, he literally couldn't stomach being in crowded places. Seeing people living in peace triggered memories of his destroyed home, causing intense psychological aversion.
"He said he was going to find and kill the remaining Vampires. He seemed to harbor an incredible hatred for monsters..."
That was certain. I didn't recall anyone in the original script who hated monsters more than he did. A man who lived only to exterminate them wouldn't stop after killing just one Vampire.
"I’m sorry. I wasn't able to convince him to stay."
"...Don't worry about it."
I shook my head.
"He's the one who helped me when I was wounded. He's likely trying to avenge Luther in his own way."
"I... see."
If the monsters that destroyed Luther were still at large, Glen wouldn't consider any option other than hunting them down. Besides, even if I had met him, I didn't know if I could have properly thanked him. Too many things were happening at once; I didn't have the mental capacity to process the existence of the "Original Protagonist."
This was twice now. I’d had the chance to meet the character I respected most, yet fate only brought us together in the wake of tragedy.
If our paths had crossed differently, perhaps we could have...
I wished it could have been another way.
"...I will return to the workshop now. My only goal is to finish your leg as soon as possible."
"Yeah, I’m counting on you. Things being as they are, the sooner the better."
Thanks to Glen, one of the enemies was dead, but the "Father" and the "Test Subject" were still missing. There was no telling if they had other allies. I had to face the reality that the Holy City was likely their next target.
And as powerful as the Holy City was, I doubted they could effortlessly brush aside enemies capable of wiping out a town in a single night. Even the Seven Flowers Canon in the Royal Capital had been decimated by a sudden demonic assault in the original timeline.
Knowing that future, I couldn't be optimistic. If it happened here, people would die. More friends would be killed.
If that really came to pass, I...
"But please, let me say this."
Claesta saw through me. She looked me straight in the eye and spoke with quiet, firm conviction.
"I am not making this leg so you can go off and die like Mr. Ramsey."
"...Yeah. I know."
After seeing Claesta out, I was left alone in my room, sinking into a heavy mire of thought. I tossed my prosthetic aside and collapsed onto the bed, covering my eyes with the back of my hand.
"............What a joke."
I could accept Ramsey’s death.
But what was the meaning behind Luther’s destruction? How many were killed? Who survived? The Old Sister who treated my wounds, the Receptionist who wished for our happiness, the rookie who wanted to stand by Yulitia’s side, the veteran who lent me his shoulder... that peaceful, quiet town...
"This wasn't supposed to happen..."
My head throbbed. My vision spun. A heavy, numbing cold spread through my chest.
Doubt. Why was the "Protagonist" here now?
He had saved me twice. My life and Claesta’s return were both thanks to him. But I couldn't ignore the question of why he had returned to Luther in the first place.
I desperately clawed through my hazy memories of the original plot. At the start of the story, after mourning the deaths of "Silvery Grey," wasn't he supposed to head north toward the Royal Capital? If the destruction of Luther had been in the original script, I definitely would have remembered it.
The protagonist was where he wasn't supposed to be. People were dead who weren't supposed to die.
This world had completely diverged from the original story.
And the trigger for that divergence...
"Was it because we survived?"
Then what?
Are you telling me the people of Luther were slaughtered because we didn't die when we were supposed to?
Are you saying the Master, Yulitia, and Atri were supposed to be brutally murdered according to the "Script"?
God... you really are a piece of shit.
".................."
I felt sick.
Suddenly, I had an overwhelming urge to swing a sword.
"Hey, Glen! How long do you plan on moping? Get up! And don't you dare puke here! Hey, don't cover your mouth with your right hand—you'll get it all over me!"
"...Shut up. Just be quiet, Shal..."
While Wolka was seeing Claesta off at the inn, Glen was struggling with a wave of nausea in the shade of a tree on the outskirts of the Holy City.
As he slumped against the trunk, the gem embedded in his right glove shrieked in protest. The impatient, androgynous voice was the same one the crimson Magic Sword had projected during the battle with Melfius. The oval gem—which looked like a common pendant to the untrained eye—was the sword’s dormant form.
The Magic Sword’s name was Sharnos.
To Glen, they were a partner in revenge and a constant headache he frequently wanted to rip off and throw into a ditch. Sharnos had a short-tempered, passionate personality and a tendency to chatter incessantly whenever they found an opening, regardless of the risk of being discovered.
"Honestly, are you still this pathetic around crowds? You can handle being surrounded by dozens of monsters, but a few people make you wilt?"
"Shut up..."
Since they were also the one who had hammered combat and magic into Glen, they often adopted a nagging, mentor-like tone. Glen lowered his head.
"You already know why. Crowds remind me of home... and how everyone could be dead in the next second."
"Tsk."
Sharnos clicked their tongue.
"You idiot... don't say things that make it hard to tease you."
The sword fell silent for a moment, their momentum dampened.
Glen took a deep breath and looked up, seeing the imposing forts surrounding the Holy City. He had never planned to set foot here, but he had a promise to Ramsey to keep. He had only gone as far as the Entertainment District near the gates, but even that brief exposure to a city so full of life and vigor had been taxing.
The thicker the air of "peace," the harder it was for Glen to breathe. The memories of his own peaceful home being turned into a slaughterhouse in an instant would resurface, encroaching on his vision like a physical weight.
That was why he had left the city immediately after fulfilling his duty to Claesta. He was currently waiting for the nausea to pass.
Even without the trauma, however, Glen wouldn't have stayed long. He addressed the gem.
"...Hey, Shal."
"What?"
"Do I... really look that suspicious?"
He had been fine while traveling with Claesta. But the moment he went off alone to buy supplies, he had been stopped and questioned by knights four times. News of the Vampires had clearly spread, and everyone was looking at the stranger with wary eyes.
Sharnos didn't hesitate.
"Well, you certainly don't look like a normal person. I keep telling you to pay more attention to your appearance."
Glen wore black clothes to hide the stains of battle and a reddish-black cloak that looked as though it were soaked in dried blood. If it were just the colors, he might have passed for a somber traveler, but...
"It's the hood. That hood is the problem. You're practically introducing yourself as a man who doesn't want his face seen."
He wore the hood low, shielding his eyes.
He had a reason. By narrowing his field of vision, he could slightly mitigate the nausea. It wasn't that he "didn't want to be seen," but rather that "he didn't want to see." He never entered a city without it.
But explaining that was difficult, and taking the hood off only made things worse. His long red hair and red eyes were a problem—specifically the eyes, which were a trait commonly associated with Vampires.
A nineteen-year-old human traveler hunting monsters—it was absurdly difficult to convince people of that simple truth. He had grown tired of the hassle and retreated. The fact that no one believed his age had been a particularly stinging blow. Do I really look that old? he wondered.
"I’m just not built for social interaction..."
"I knew that. You're a brat who can't even walk through a town without a babysitter."
"..."
He had always been socially awkward, but years of living only for revenge had effectively killed his communication skills. He often wished Sharnos could talk for him, though he knew Sharnos’s foul mouth would only cause more trouble.
Sharnos exhaled sharply.
"Good grief... Are you really not going to meet that man?"
"...Knowing he's alive is enough."
The "man" Sharnos referred to was Wolka. The adventurer who had defeated a Grim Reaper before Glen’s eyes and protected every one of his comrades. Or, to put it in terms of Glen’s own perspective: the name of the man still burned into the back of his mind.
Claesta had mentioned she was an acquaintance of Wolka’s and had updated Glen on his condition during their journey. At that point, any reason for Glen to stay in the city vanished.
But Sharnos wasn't satisfied.
"Hah! Who was the one wandering through dungeons like a lost soul because of his lingering regrets? You should at least see with your own eyes that he's still breathing while you have the chance."
"..."
Glen grimaced. It was a direct hit. After carrying the dying Wolka to the church in Luther, Glen had vanished before the treatment was finished. Despite that, he hadn't been able to shake the image of the man. He had been so haunted by it that he’d failed to head north as originally planned.
"If you cared that much, you should have stayed at the church. Instead, you slinked away like a coward—"
"I couldn't stay."
Glen shut them down. He shook his head awkwardly.
"I’m a jinx. A bringer of death. I felt like the treatment would fail if I was anywhere near him. That's why..."
He simply hadn't had the courage to wait for the outcome.
Sharnos let out their loudest sigh of the day.
"Haaaah... You're a hopeless case. You've got it bad."
"...Shut up."
But it was the truth. People who shouldn't have died were always being sacrificed around him. Even now, Luther had been destroyed, and a man like Ramsey had been forced to give his life.
And the fact that Ramsey had been Wolka’s friend was a cruel irony.
If Glen had arrived sooner, Wolka wouldn't have lost an eye and a leg.
If Glen had arrived sooner, Wolka wouldn't have lost a friend.
From Wolka’s perspective, Glen was likely a more cursed omen than any Grim Reaper.
Sharnos spoke as if meeting him would be simple, but what could Glen possibly say to him? What could he even hope to hear in return?
He didn't believe he had the right to stand before that man.
"..."
It was a strange feeling. Ever since contracting with Sharnos, he had lived like an automaton, throwing himself into battle for the sake of revenge. He’d felt his humanity slipping away with every drop of monster blood he spilled.
Yet now, a complex storm of emotions swirled within him. Respect for the man who risked everything for his friends; envy for the will that crushed a cruel fate; regret for being too late; and a single, tiny, ugly sliver of jealousy that he and that man were so fundamentally different.
He couldn't remember the last time his heart had been shaken this much by another person.
"If things had been different..."
Would there have been a future where they could have walked the same path without regret or envy?
He scoffed at the fleeting dream and exhaled.
"...Let's move."
"You're sure? We don't know if there will be a next time for either of you."
"Yeah."
Knowing he was still alive with his comrades was enough. Now that his nausea had passed, Glen stood up and turned his back on the Holy City.
As he began to walk, the memory of their first meeting resurfaced once more.
It was, as far as Glen knew, the ultimate perfection of the sword.
It was entirely different from Glen, who merely swung a powerful Magic Sword. Through a refined, ultimate technique, pure magical power, and a state of complete No-mind that transcended the human realm, an immortal reaper had been cut down in a single stroke.
Glen had seen it with his own eyes.
Deep within the dungeon Gouzel, the situation had been hopeless. The Magic Sword in Glen’s hand had already realized that the entity waiting beyond the teleportation trap was a Grim Reaper. Yet Glen had fumbled the restart for the trap, taking over three minutes. He had been forced to pay the price for his lack of magical understanding and his reliance on brute force.
He shouldn't have been in time. He should have arrived to find nothing but the corpses of slaughtered adventurers.
Then, a silver flash bisected the world.
It was a brilliance that lasted only seconds. The reaper, cleaved by silver, saw its lower half remain suspended in air while its upper body slid to the ground. Then, like scattering sand, it dissolved into particles of black mana and vanished.
"—"
Glen couldn't move. In the lingering illusion of that silver light, he forgot to breathe, forgot to blink. He just stood there.
"Wha—What the...?"
Even the Magic Sword in his hand was stunned.
"...He killed it? Impossible."
There was no mistake. The blue flames erupting from the pillars went dark. The eerie chill vanished. The green miasma cleared, leaving only the desolate dungeon floor.
The presence of death was gone.
In its place was only...
"Is that... him?"
No-mind.
A pure white aura draped over the back of the man who had slain the reaper.
Honestly, at that moment, Glen doubted the man was even human. In his travels, he had seen those called S-rank, but even they felt more "normal" than this. This was a presence from another dimension, as if the man were a vessel for a god.
Glen finally surveyed the room. Three female adventurers were with the man. They were collapsed on the ground, their wills broken, but they appeared physically unharmed.
In contrast, the man was covered in blood, a walking wreck. It was clear he had stood at the front and fought a desperate battle alone.
Wait...
The realization hit Glen like a physical blow.
He protected them. He did it alone.
To protect his comrades who couldn't fight. Facing a reaper that everyone feared as certain death.
He had overturned a hopeless fate by himself.
That was why he looked the way he did—a man who had transcended his limits to reach the pinnacle of the sword. To Glen, who had failed to protect anyone, that back looked...
Suddenly, the white aura flickered out. The man lost consciousness and collapsed.
"Wolka! Wolka!! Noooooo!!"
The mage girl shrieked and lunged toward him. The small swordsman and the brown-skinned warrior followed.
"Senior! Pull yourself together! No, no, no...! Don't die! You can't die!"
"Wolka, open your eyes! Please! Please!"
Hearing their agonizing cries, Glen finally remembered what he had to do.
"Move!"
He dashed forward, pushing past the girls to check the man’s pulse. He bit his lip. The man was young—probably younger than Glen himself. He felt a wave of self-loathing so intense it made him sick for taking so long with the trap.
The mage girl froze, her face wet with tears.
"Who—who are you? Stop! Don't touch him—"
"Please."
Glen was terrible at talking. He couldn't remember a single successful conversation with a woman in the last several years.
But this time, the words came out clearly.
"We can still save him. I won't let him die!"
"!"
Glen told a lie. There was no guarantee. The young man's wounds were so horrific he couldn't understand how he had stayed standing. In all likelihood, it was already too late.
But his desire to save him was genuine. He didn't know his name or his face, but he refused to watch him die.
I won't let this end here!
This man shouldn't die. He couldn't be allowed to die. If Glen—a man who had saved no one—was allowed to live, then there was no justice in the world if this man, who had protected everyone, was taken away.
Driven by that pure impulse, Glen began emergency treatment. Fortunately, he was an expert at patching himself up. He emptied his Storage, using every tool and potion he had to stop the bleeding.
"Wolka, no! Don't leave me alone! Please!"
"Senior, we won! You did it! So open your eyes! Please, not like this!"
"It's my fault... I was the one he shielded... Wolka...!"
To these girls, this man was everything. They were in the depths of despair, able to do nothing but scream. Their desperate struggle to protect the flickering candle of his life reminded Glen so much of himself when he lost his home that his chest ached.
He poured everything into the treatment. He didn't say it aloud, but his heart was screaming.
Don't you dare die and leave them behind. Don't make them feel the way I do.
Because unlike me, you aren't the kind of person who deserves to rot in a place like this.
It was different from the hatred that usually rotted his soul.
It was a pure, fierce, crimson anger—a refusal to accept a tragic ending.
He realized then that even after everything, he still had these emotions left in him.
He could still feel the heat in his hands from that day.