Author's Preface
“This…is annoying.” Skadhi turned his gaze skyward, observing the shattered world barrier. “It seems both Madam Crowler and Melethusda have failed. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting something like that. Those comrades of yours are quite strong, boy.”
He shifted his attention to avenger, Derrick Foster. “You put up a good fight, boy. It’s been many years since someone was able to give me such severe injuries.”
President Bhattacharya had an endless array of wounds, stemming from light cuts to deep lacerations. His right ear was gone. His left arm was broken. This was the closest he had come to death since his ascension as an Apostle.
And yet…
“Even that wasn’t enough.”
Derrick’s power increased dramatically, that much was undeniable, yet even his power wasn’t infinite. His Mang had nearly run out, and with it, the effects of his Uniqueness—[ Golden Rule ].
“If I had to guess, your ability allows you to convert your conviction, or rather, your ideals, into tangible strength. It’s more than just anger, but a certain future you wish to create. It’s a rare trait—something close to divinity—yet you aren’t quite there.”
“—!”
Skadhi grabbed the young man by his bloodied-blond hair, slamming his face into the concrete floor. Again and again, he smashed, crushed, bludgeoned, and bruised, only Derrick’s face had been covered crimson.
“That’s why I can’t stand you, you know that? You meet nearly all the conditions to achieve that future, yet something within your being is preventing you from seeing it.”
“You…!”
Those words irritated Derrick to no end. Something was clawing at his mind, desperate to peer at his psyche. What was he hiding? Or rather, did he know he was hiding anything at all? What was the potential that Skadhi saw in him?
It didn’t matter, and he didn’t care. He had nothing to learn from scum. As long as he still drew breath, then he would follow his path all the same.
“Ngh…!”
He summoned all of the strength in his being, yet his arms refused to obey. They merely collapsed under their own weakness, falling limply to the floor like a puppet cut loose from its strings.
“Tell me, why are you fighting?”
“...”
“It doesn't make any sense. Why would a dainty kid like you put himself in the middle of a war? Why would he fight with such ferocity when he doesn't want to? You don’t believe in justice, and you don’t believe in war either. I call bullshit.”
“...”
“You’re scared, aren’t ya? Judging by your build, you can’t be any older than 21. Hell, maybe even 18. Everything you do feels forced, like someone playing a character that’s a tad out of their expertise.”
“—!”
Pain.
An overwhelming surge of pain coursed through Derrick’s brain.
“Stop…talking…”
“Hehehe…awww, well look at you. The fabled hero of justice, cursed to fight a noble fight! Hilarious!”
“Damn you…”
“If you hate killing, then stop doing it. Simple! Or perhaps you like killing people, eh? Wouldn’t blame ya, really. But if that’s the case, then toss aside that masturbatory ideal you hold so close! Become a saint or embrace your life as a sinner. You can’t have both.”
“I…”
Derrick knew this all too well. One day, he would have to walk a single path. He could not bring himself to abandon the ideals of the adoptive father, for whom he both loved and despised dearly, yet he could not discard the words of his older brother.
An inherent contradiction. An error. A human failure.
If only he could lay down his sword and isolate himself from the world. Oh, what bliss it would bring! To be relieved of this burden, this duty, would be a gift sent from the heavens itself!
“Hahaha…”
“...What? What’s so funny, boy?”
“You…know nothing.”
What a fool you are, Derrick thought, You presume to know me with such little information. How comical!
Perhaps you are right. I am but a coward, endlessly terrified of violence, unsure of my true path. I was raised within the noble house of Foster, and later adopted by a humble priest. By anyone’s standards, I’ve lived a privileged life. I should have lived an ordinary life, a life without fear or death.
However…
His mind returned to the Garden of Eden once more.
Would such a child, who was raised with nothing but auspicious blessings…murder his own brother in cold blood?
To be raised with love, yet smiting said love all the same. What else could one consider that creature but a demon? A walking calamity?
“Hehehe…” Derrick lacked the strength to vocalize his retort, leaving him with nothing but withered laughter.
“Tch,” Skadhi sucked his teeth. “What a waste of time. I will dispose of you here and now, you worthless bitch.”
He raised his hand blade high, the scene reminiscent of a convict sent before a guillotine. With one swift chop, Derrick Foster’s life, pitiful as it was, would come to an end.
Derrick could never become a hero, for heroes themselves did not exist.
And yet…
“—!”
“Derrick!”
A hero had arrived all the same.
Ereth, son of the Legendary Hero
———
“Hey there, boy. Mind butting out of our chat? I’ve got a bad dog to put down.” Skadhi’s speech was laced with malevolence, betraying his outwardly calm expression.
I deigned to reply, instead focusing my energy on Derrick. His breathing was shallow, weak like a dead man, and his Mang was but a flickering spark. Large segments of flesh seemed loosely bound together with twine. No, not quite. It was too thin. Were these his blood vessels?
“I don’t much like being ignored…”
Skadhi Bhattacharya extended his outreached hand. I met his gesture with one of my own—a sword strike.
“—!”
Our attacks clashed, sending both of us reeling back. Both he and I were clearly exhausted from our respective battles. The chances of me unleashing another Crepusculo Perfusus was next to none, but I doubt that Skadhi had any more angels or subordinates as well.
My only choice was to break.
I lifted Derrick over my shoulders and ran in the opposite direction. My blood ran hot. Nerves firing. All of my Mang had been concentrated into my legs, my movement steady and fierce like rushing winds.
“...”
Skadhi Bhattarcharya merely stood there, observing our escape. My hypothesis was correct. This man won’t follow us. Not now. Not only was he low on energy, but he needed to recuperate his forces now that our army had invaded. Centralizing his force against the two of us would be foolhardy. Consider this the game’s half-time.
“Damn…what happened to you, Derrick?”
Upon closer inspection, his body was even worse for wear than I imagined. His eyes had rolled into the back of his head. His blond hair was drenched in blood, likely his own. And yet, his right hand refused to let go of his sword.
“You’re a valiant warrior, Derrick, so don’t you dare die on me!”