Chapter 116: From the Ashes
After the battle ended, it took the allied forces two full weeks just to handle the aftermath. Not only the direct casualties, but they also had to deal with the monsters trapped between the outer and inner walls.
"……Even the massive beasts couldn't break through the walls."
"From what I heard, they used stones that fell from the sky to build it. Turns out that wasn't just empty talk."
The problem ca after.
"Uuugh!!"
A young soldier retched. His comrade recited a prayer to Kriya. The inside of the fortress was filled with traces of things crushed, burst open, and torn apart.
Swarms of flies drifted through the putrid stench. The dirt floor was a ss of blood, mud, and rotting entrails, and strips of human flesh hung in pieces from the walls.
The soldiers deliberately kept their eyes on the ground to avoid eting the gazes of the dead. Each ti their boots pressed into the mire, a sticky, squelching sound rang out. They lay awake every night, and just when they thought they were getting used to it, a stench beyond imagination would hit and send bile rising to their throats.
Naturally, there was no morial service.
Crackle, crackle!
The sll of burning lingered around the walls for days. Separating the monsters from the people was the best the survivors could manage. At first, everyone swallowed their tears — but after several days, death had beco simply sothing to be cleared away.
Through that tragedy, Adrian Deconti ca staggering out.
"Burns quite well. Very lively."
The Prince of Latia passed through the restored gate and made his way back to the allied forces' encampnt. Slung over his shoulder was a bag filled with bottles of liquor.
Tap, tap.
He perched on a rock and drained the remaining alcohol in one go. He soon reached out for the next bottle — but only grasped empty air. He had instinctively extended his right hand.
"Ha, still thought both sides were intact."
The right sleeve hung empty, swaying in the wind. His lips curved without him realizing it. At that mont, Isabela — a colleague from the investigation unit — cautiously approached and sat beside him.
"Adrian, I understand your sense of loss. But the Divine grants each person their own portion. We still need you. So please……don't tornt yourself too much."
Her consolation only served to chip away at his pride. His right arm was gone. For one who walked the path of the sword, it was a death sentence.
"Each person their own portion…… That's not a story my father would enjoy."
"Your father—"
"The incompetent, useless king of Latia. He had leaned on his exceptional son to survive, but in the end, it all collapsed. What will he do now?"
This ant, in effect, the fall of the Latian royal family. The politicians of the republic would question the very reason for the monarchy's existence.
In a single night, everything had co to an end.
Just then, his gaze t that of a Master. The prince's hidden ntor — a man with the disposition of a stern soldier — Belmar Robertis.
"……Pathetic fool."
"……."
Adrian silently dropped his head. The words stung, but he had no strength left to snarl back. Even the Neural Accelerator lay dormant. Fortune and fate no longer pointed toward anything. He could not tell where he needed to go, or even where he was standing.
Life was this hollow.
That was the mont.
Crack!!
A hand struck the back of his head. He turned, but there was no one there. No — soone was standing just a little lower than an ordinary person.
The dwarf Basim, unable to bear watching any longer, had stepped forward.
"……You scraggly little stump?"
Thwack!
"Gah!!"
A thick fist drove into his forehead. Adrian rolled once and picked himself up, expression bewildered. It was too painful to be a joke.
"What do you think you're——"
His flare of indignation lasted only a mont. He watched the other man shake out his hand.
Basim wasn't exactly in good shape either.
"Damn it……the bone's not fully set yet."
"Right then, who told you to hit anyone."
"Soone was practically begging for attention."
"……."
He had nothing to say. Adrian pressed his lips shut, and the dwarf exhaled through his nose with a look of contempt.
"How long do you plan on crawling around the floor? The heat's let up, and I nearly punched you thinking you were so kind of insect."
Is this his way of being concerned?
The words that followed made it clear.
"Human — who are you? What are you, exactly, that you'd whine like you're about to drop dead just because one arm got lopped off?"
"So it was mockery after all. And here I thought you were worried about ."
But no sneer ca back. No denial either. Instead, in a grave tone, the words drove straight into his chest.
"I am Basim. And you can't even manage that short an answer, can you. What have you been doing with yourself all this ti?"
"……Anyone can give their na, can't they."
At that, the warrior who resembled a boulder called out to soone.
"Gregor!"
"Hmm?"
"Who are you!"
The old man who had lost his mory was still chewing sothing with his cheeks puffed full — yet he raised a fist and brought it down with a heavy thud against the surface of his shield.
"See that? There are people in this world who don't even need to state their own nas. They don't act like a blockhead the way you do."
Adrian's lips stirred, but Basim cut him off with a gesture and continued bluntly.
"Life is a string of struggles, no matter what. Getting bent, broken, swallowing humiliation — that's more often the rule than the exception. But if you have belief in yourself, you'll never truly fall. Your arm getting cut off? Your swordsmanship declining? That's all a problem for later. Right now, just decide — will you keep going, or will you be a cripple and……ah, well, you literally are one now."
"……."
"Ahem, anyway. So just decide whether you'll die like a dog or not. You're an eyesore."
Truly cold. And yet, in so way, these were also the words he had wanted to hear most. He needed bitter reproach, not comfort or pity.
Still — he had no idea yet how to move forward.
Unable to bear the suffocation any longer, Adrian left the spot. He slung the liquor bag over his shoulder, picked a suitable tent at random, and stepped inside.
"……Adrian."
"Oh — sorry about this."
Was it the drink, or had he gone the wrong way?
Vice-captain Marik was lying on a cot.
He had sustained serious injuries, but survived thanks to Ella's swift healing. Bandages were wound around his entire body, and the parts of his face that had been directly exposed to the cold energy had lded together as though seared by fire.
They were scars that would never fade.
Perhaps that was why.
He felt an inexplicable kinship.
"Neither of us is looking too good, are we."
At that, Marik struggled to produce a weak smile. Only then did Adrian snap back to himself. The man had survived — but he was not in any state for leisurely conversation.
He waved his hand and turned hastily to leave.
That instant.
"Forget it, I'm talking nonsense while I'm drunk. I'll get out right—"
"I ran away once."
His footsteps halted. As though roots had burst from the ground and seized his ankles, he knew he should go, yet could not move.
Then, through shallow breaths, a quiet voice drifted to him.
"The wound from back then was deeper and uglier than this one."
"……Even deeper than this? Is that truly so?"
Unable to et the man's eyes, he asked in a short murmur.
Without a mont's hesitation, Marik answered.
"Yes. The real scars, I found, are left not on the body — but in the heart."
With that single reply, envy and jealousy ca rushing through him. The man had found his freedom. He had forgiven himself, and in turn been forgiven.
"……Thank you for the counsel. Rest now."
Adrian Deconti fled from the tent as if he were escaping sothing.
'Why are they different from ?'
For a while, the question wound on and on, one after another. Instead of lifting the bottle to his lips, he stood watching the Mountain Rabbits and sank into thought.
"That stupid bastard apparently……"
"Bwahaha!"
Jokes and laughter piled on top of each other. They mourned the dead and grieved — yet they forcibly pulled fallen comrades back to their feet. Their mouths were rough, but their hands quietly patted the backs of the wounded.
From the outside alone, it was not easy to understand.
Hisssss!
What broke the silence was the sound of rebuilding, rising from deep within the city. The voices of those slting iron, repairing collapsed hos, distributing food, tending to the injured.
He sensed instinctively that he needed to find the answer to his question. In place of his swordsmanship and his lofty standing, he needed to find a new path.
***
Belmar Robertis, Master of Latia, gave an almost imperceptible frown.
"……Pathetic fool."
Disappointnt seeped through the tail of his words.
Adrian Deconti.
He was a prince of the mariti kingdom, and one of the rare few Belmar had personally trained who possessed a true swordsman's gift. But he was not pointing a finger at the man's failure.
Anyone can break. Anyone can be wounded at any ti.
The issue was—
'Was that truly the extent of his resolve?'
Losing one arm does not sever the path of a swordsman. The problem lay in his heart. He had let go of himself in the hollow despair of losing what he had built up over the years.
That was what saddened him.
But overcoming it was entirely the man's own burden to bear. If not — then this was simply as far as he had co.
'Realize it on your own, and rise.'
At that, Belmar set aside his feelings for his student and stepped into the tent. Inside, the complete opposite was unfolding.
The interior of the tent was thick with the musty sll of dicinal herbs mingled with a disagreeable raw odor. Ella sat at Calix's side, reciting a prayer with a pale, drawn face.
Crack, crack, crack.
The sound of bones snapping and reconnecting echoed through the space. Muscles twisted finely, and blood seeped out between them. Flesh dissolved and soaked into the cot — yet new tissue was pressing up from within.
It was clearly not an ordinary process of recovery. His entire body, breaking free of its existing laws, was regenerating in so unfathomable way.
Royce, Volga, Hadiya, and the others watched this bizarre sight in silence. Their eyes held a mix of shock and disbelief, and their fingers fidgeted restlessly.
Then, at so point, Volga opened his mouth.
"Ella, at this rate he'll actually die. What on earth is the problem?"
A tone of anxiety — his voice trembling finely.
Even for a Rank 4 Cleric, it was not a question easily answered.
"The Sacred Energy……doesn't work on him."
Ella completed the incantation with a colorless face, but the cluster of light blooming at her fingertips failed to reach its source. On the contrary, it was being swallowed in reverse.
Fear showed in her eyes.
Left as he was, she felt he might not hold out — yet there was nothing she could do. At that point, Belmar Robertis stepped forward and reassured them.
"That's enough. This is simply the process of the body healing itself. It will take ti."
The gaze of the Mountain Rabbits' leader t his. The presence of the Master had grown familiar enough by now that there was no sign of surprise at all.
"Will he truly be all right?"
"There's no need to be swept away by fear, is there. This could be the process of surpassing his limits."
Belmar's affirmation quieted the confusion. He did, in fact, know of a phenonon similar to this.
'It is a reconstitution of the flesh.'
The process known as the 'New Birth' — the one that occurs just before becoming a Master. Only, its pace was far too slow. Rather than erupting all at once, it was progressing very gradually.
Moreover, the level at which mana was condensing fell short of what that would entail.
'It's certain he hasn't yet crossed the wall. He hasn't even reached the end of it.'
Without a doubt, the realm of a Master lay at a considerable distance. He would need to surpass his limits many more tis yet. Even so, Belmar did not look down on Calix.
Zap.
His instincts sounded a warning again. Sothing pierced through his skin, threatening Belmar Robertis's 'Authority'.
What is this power?
Clear and pure as an ancient lake, yet murky and foul as a pit filled with filth. Had this young man not already proven his worth—
'I would have cut him down without hesitation.'
It was a feeling even a swordsman who had reached the supre realm had never experienced before. A primal sense of crisis born from the unknown. Fortunately, he possessed sufficient composure and judgnt.
'Then are you the continent's hope — or its calamity?'
That was what he wanted to know.
And it was one month later that Calix opened his eyes.
Reviews
All reviews (0)