Chapter 13

The heat in my head wasn’t cooling down—it was flaring up even stronger.

That said,

I hadn’t completely lost my mind.

Just…

‘What’s the harm in putting up a struggle?’

Enduring, and enduring, just keeping it all bottled up…

…until this very moment, what have I gained from it?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

All that’s left are wounds and scars.

They can’t be seen by the eye.

So the perpetrators, without any remorse, kept on doing their dirty deeds over and over again.

Partyna, wooden sword in hand, glared at me with sharp eyes.

She was just as riled up, but even though it wasn’t a real blade, just holding the sword seemed to change her demeanor instantly.

“Take this!”

Before her cold voice even reached my ears,

her figure blurred and vanished.

‘?!’

Reacting visually would be too late.

Instinctively tilting the sword in my hands, I raised it to my right side.

Clang!

The collision of wood against wood rang out sharply first, assaulting my eardrums.

But more intense than the sound itself, the tangible impact transmitted through the wooden sword was far stronger.

“Ugh!”

“Is this all you’ve got?! Grip it tightly! Fight back harder, I say!”

Forced effort.

She has the privilege of enhancing her body using mana like it’s no big deal.

But what about me?

‘It’s meaningless anyway.’

A fleeting resistance, a desperate struggle—that’s all I’m capable of.

Just that much.

Crack!

Even while seething with anger, it felt painfully obvious she was pulling her punches.

“What’s this? Planning to just take it lying down?!”

“…”

Futile provocation.

As if getting heated up would suddenly grant me strength I don’t possess—something I know better than anyone.

And besides…

…I don’t even have a trump card.

No hidden ace up my sleeve either.

‘…’

But.

That’s not a reason to avoid the confrontation.

It doesn’t give legitimacy to suppressing my rage.

Must the weak simply shut up, lower their eyes, and endure every ounce of humiliation thrust upon them?

Just like a mute, or a blind person?

Absurd and unjust humiliations.

Meaningless slander, denigration—they must just accept it all silently, bear it all without question?

There’s no freedom for those who don’t resist.

No rights either.

Though I know this all too well… why haven’t I fought back until now?

“…!”

Because it’s meaningless.

Because it’ll only lead to greater losses.

I understood this logically, calculated it all too clearly, so…

…I closed my eyes, blocked my ears, and gave up thinking altogether.

I just breathed in and out, watching the sun set, the moon rise, the sun set again, the moon rise once more…

Like a rotten old tree, or a withered weed twisting in the wind.

Silently enduring, that’s all I could do.

If there was one hope left,

it was…

…the vow to leave this place someday.

The conclusion drawn after countless layers of time had passed.

That was my sole hope,

my only lifeline.

“When do you think you can keep this up?! If you don’t stand your ground! If you don’t attack, the enemy won’t retreat or turn away!”

Pointless talk.

Truly useless preaching.

Or rather, at this point, it’s just mockery, ridicule, disdain.

So what?

Getting hit is routine.

The shame that comes with it even more so.

After all, in mock battles, it’s always been me rolling around on the floor.

Lowered gazes, countless condescending looks from above…

…they’re all too familiar.

Thus, getting hit, enduring it, and feigning collapse—all of it feels nauseatingly routine.

I adapted to it all eventually.

At some point, I even accepted it as a survival skill, swallowing it all down willingly.

Crack!

The wooden sword I was trying to hold couldn’t withstand the impact and started cracking halfway through.

It probably didn’t shatter completely because she intentionally held back.

She’s skilled enough to control it that precisely.

“Grab another sword.”

“…”

Not at all.

Defying her words, I tossed the wooden sword aside instead.

“What are you planning to do now?”

“Why? Afraid of going barehanded?”

“Quit this pointless provocation. You look ridiculous even holding a sword; do you really think this stance makes any sense?”

“In a real fight, they won’t wait for you to grab another weapon when yours breaks. What an extraordinary code of chivalry you’ve got there!”

“…How low do you plan to fall?”

Fall? Freeze your ass off.

“Why? Did my father teach you such nonsense?”

“Carriel—seriously! There are things people shouldn’t say! And things they absolutely should!”

Why…

is she more angry than me?

She hasn’t even insulted herself.

Especially since the subject she’s mocking isn’t even her—it’s my father.

Carriel bit her lip and shot back.

“Trying to straighten your head, huh? All talk, was it? You too? If that’s what being a knight means, why not just farm or chop wood and live quietly?”

“Don’t… regret it.”

Ah.

I feel the chill running through my skin.

Crawling along like it’s biting into my muscles,

penetrating deep into my bones with its heavy weight.

But then…

‘Isn’t that impressive?’

It’s not that great, though.

At least that’s not killing intent.

Not the kind of aura or willpower someone emits when they’re ready to kill—that much is clear.

Still, there’s no mercy or compassion forthcoming.

With a single stomp, cracks spider-webbed across the ground violently.

And with that, she surged forward, summoning a fierce gust of wind, charging ahead with unmatched speed and momentum.

Far beyond anything she’d shown earlier.

But then…

“?!”

I narrowly dodged.

Follow-up attacks came too.

By the slimmest margins, I evaded again and again.

Her wooden sword grazed my hair.

But not even my scalp was touched, let alone my skull or brain shaken.

Despite cutting through the air with a terrifying whistling sound,

it didn’t land.

It didn’t touch me.

Every single strike missed by a hair.

This pattern continued endlessly.

Occasionally,

her strikes grazed my skin, scratching it raw, tearing bits off, leaving cuts here and there which bled profusely, but…

None of them connected as fatal blows.

“…”

Maybe I should be moved.

Who would’ve thought—I’m dodging Partyna’s attacks barehanded!

Which leads me to realize.

I become acutely aware of it.

A grating metallic screech echoed in my mind.

Screech—!

Despair.

That emotion weighed heavily on my heart.

For years, rolling over and over,

working hard, suffering tirelessly,

regretting and using that regret as motivation, gripping the sword, swinging it with inferiority as a whip, manipulating mana, patching up deficiencies, brainstorming solutions…

I’ve tried everything.

And yet,

merely meeting the Demon King and facing death, making vows, enduring it all…

in just this short amount of time…

…I’ve somehow managed to respond to an onslaught I once thought I’d never be able to oppose.

‘Hah!’

Of course.

Counterattacking is impossible.

Switching to offense is something that definitely won’t happen.

I’m barely balancing on a tightrope with one foot, after all.

An endless barrage of arrows rains down, mercilessly targeting my whole body until I collapse.

They keep raining down, piercing through me.

Moreover,

armed cavalry charges like a sandstorm, like a tidal wave—a calamity I can’t withstand barehanded.

But that’s not all.

Sometimes, I get trampled underfoot by giant sea monsters or crushed beneath beasts in hordes,

ripped apart limb by limb by armed forces rushing in from all sides, dying repeatedly in the process.

In the end, all I’ve accomplished is…

…struggling to survive a little longer.

But even that has clear limits.

‘Ducking and weaving isn’t enough.’

I know.

I know all too well.

But the Demon King declared he wouldn’t offer a way out.

He dismissed it, telling me to figure it out myself.

‘Didn’t he say I’d regret it if I didn’t take his advice when he offered it? Why didn’t I seize the chance then?’

Do I regret it?

Am I resentful?

‘Don’t make me laugh.’

Regret? From when exactly, I don’t know,

but up until this very moment, every step of my life since birth has been filled with regret.

There was once a time when I deluded myself into thinking I was great, incredible…

That too is now a faint, distant memory.

Reality is cruel, cheap, disgusting.

All that remains for me is…

Shattered, broken, cast aside…

a pathetic scrap of pride.

Crack!

“?!”

As if waiting for this exact moment,

Carriel stepped forward, palm wide open, intercepting the straight thrust of the wooden sword.

In the situation where the tip of the wooden sword pierced through his palm and exited through the back of his hand,

he pushed forward even more, gripping the sword tightly in an instant.

“What… what are you doing?!”

“Bite down on it tightly.”

Before anyone could react,

he had already swung his opposite fist, striking Partyna squarely in the face.

Crack!

“Urgh!”

A knight, no matter what, should never let go of their sword even unto death.

“Are you in your right mind?!”

Words aren’t needed.

The first punch caught her off guard, but the second won’t connect.

Judging it too late to block with her remaining hand, she used her forehead to absorb the blow.

Naturally, Carriel’s weakened punch shattered like seawater hitting a reef, dispersing pathetically.

But still,

Carriel swung his fist again without backing down.

“Guh?!”

Her gaze wavered.

Was it bewilderment at what Carriel had done to his own hand, or fear?

That confusion allowed him two, three chances to attack.

But that’s all.

Once the brief opportunity faded, Partyna grabbed Carriel’s mangled fist with her free hand.

Surprisingly,

she even used her gaping mouth to catch the damaged fist Carriel had let go of.

And then, she flipped him clean over.

‘Oh…’

This is bad.

What is this?

As I fell forward with her motion, unexpectedly my body flipped, and the impact hit me from the back.

Piercing through my innards, reaching my heart and lungs, the shock rattled me entirely.

“Cough!”

My breathing stopped abruptly, and my consciousness began fading instantly.

It’s utter chaos.

My left palm is shredded from the wooden sword, and thanks to the swing, my arm joint is twisted and possibly shattered.

Thrown to the ground, my breathing is labored, and though my right hand is mashed and bitten into pieces, affecting both fingers and wrist…

Is this familiarity with pain really this miserable?

Even amidst this, I struggle to rise, flailing desperately.

Using the wooden sword piercing through my palm as a support, even leaning on my broken left arm joint, I try to get up somehow.

The excruciating pain hits me like a tidal wave, far beyond what gritting my teeth can handle.

“Aaaaahhh!”

Rolling on the ground, thrashing about.

Yet I refuse to give up.

Absurdly,

even in this agony,

I, incredibly,

feel an overwhelming sense of liberation I’ve never experienced before, tears almost streaming down my cheeks.

The sky is dark, the moon pitiful, but the stars shine brilliantly.

The air is cold yet burning hot, my entire body feels ablaze, and the wind blowing is feeble, but…

In all of this,

for this moment, I feel no resentment, no hatred, no absurdity at all.

‘A…’

Thud thud, fragments of blood, flesh, or something else keep falling continuously from my left hand.

Yet I feel no fear, no regret, no sorrow whatsoever.

I’m drowning in a base satisfaction.

…Have I been insane all along?

Or maybe…

“Now! What in the world are you two doing?!”

At that voice, my senses snapped back.

“Partyna! Carriel! What… what is this…?”

Ah.

Mother.

Look at me.

I’ve done it.

The prodigy who joined Father’s knight order at the youngest age ever.

I…

‘Gave her a taste of it, alright?’

Her expression, Mother’s expression, turns truly disheartened.

From the corner of my vision, Partyna’s face also darkens with despair.

And so,

I laughed quietly, joyfully.

Smiles and laughter escape involuntarily.

I can’t hold them back.

The pain is amusing, the suffering delightful.

But this euphoria will only last a little while, won’t it?

Ultimately, all of this will culminate in their condemnation of my lowly self.

But does it matter?

Ah, still, it doesn’t matter.

After all, I…

…won’t be here much longer.

I’ll soon vanish from this place forever.

Feeling an inexplicable sense of relief and accomplishment,

I could finally let out a scream.

That day, unusually,

the moonlight overhead looked pitiful,

but the starlight spread wide, shining more splendidly than ever.

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