Chapter 12
Chapter 12
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>Translator: Lord First
>Chapter: 12
>Chapter Title: The Morning Star (2)
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*
The express train departing from Saint-Matilène in Tilles and arriving in Frichenkaya in Krasilov passes through a total of four military zones.
Once, as it passes the Tilles 3rd Guards Division, and once more as it crosses the northwestern border.
Then again, passing the Krasilov Border Defense Division once, and the Frichenkaya Defense Headquarters once more.
This meant that, being so close to the front lines with the demons, the area was saturated with an incredibly dense military presence.
Therefore, using the process of elimination, there were only three stations where a terrorist attack was feasible. Of the thirty-odd stations this train passed, only those three lacked reinforcements within a day's journey, were sparsely populated, and had treacherous terrain.
‘One.’
The train carrying Ivan and Isabelle passed the first ambush point.
There were no assailants attempting to tamper with the tracks, nor were there demonic bandits on horseback raining down magic or cannon fire.
‘Two.’
At the second ambush point, the train continued to speed along the tracks.
Ivan gazed out the window for a moment before sighing and sitting back down.
A few hours later, in the quiet, the train passed the third ambush point.
‘What the…?’
The train had now crossed the Krasilov border. If it continued straight, it would reach Frichenkaya within a day.
Now, after crossing the plains, it was just one mountain away from Frichenkaya. Although it would pass through a forest, a division-sized military unit was stationed nearby.
This meant that from this point on, attempting a terrorist attack would be impossible. Ivan nervously stroked his pistol.
‘Was my prediction wrong?’
Wasn't the tutorial supposed to be a unified train terror event?
Was Esidis just exceptionally unlucky? Or, in the ‘original’ game, was the tutorial designed differently for each character?
He had considered that each might have their own unique story, but the initial setup was unlikely to vary so much. This was because it was an ‘academy genre’ story.
It should have been. It had to be.
Ivan bit his lip. What if he had misjudged again?
If this wasn't even an academy genre story, did this damn otherworld even have an ending?
Should he just kill himself? Was there any other answer? Without being able to predict the genre, he couldn't determine the ending.
The worst-case scenario was…
-What if the ending is only for the protagonist.
What if the essence of this world was the last war, the Hero's classic RPG journey?
Wasn't the Hero's seclusion definitive proof? Why did the Hero choose to live in isolation? Was that his ‘ending’?
Then what of the world left behind?
What about us?
No, what about me?
What am I supposed to do?
Ivan's thoughts grew increasingly tangled. No, I hate this. I don't want to remain in this godforsaken world any longer.
I want to rest. I want to let everything go and leave. I want to lie down on a plush bed in a comfortable home with a heater, wrap myself in a microfiber blanket, and sleep for a week straight.
He wanted to order all the food he craved and eat until he burst, to talk with people who spoke his language about games, novels, movies, dramas, and variety shows.
A world where death and poverty, starvation and fear are rampant.
And yet, he no longer wanted to live in this goddamned pre-modern fantasy world where concepts like ‘welfare’ and ‘leisure’ were faint.
“Hic… Ghasp…!”
A man sitting next to him let out a choked gasp, his face turning deathly pale.
A viscous killing intent, flowing from Ivan's body, was spreading like poison. But Ivan, no, Kim Seon-woo was in no state to control himself.
Sharper and sharper, so thick and dense it could actually harm someone.
Just as Kim Seon-woo's panic was escalating.
The train, having passed through a tunnel at the base of a mountain and crossing a bridge over a valley, shuddered with a great *thump*. It was a precursor.
-KRA-BOOM!!!
>-SCREEECH—!!
>-CRUUUUMBLE—!!
Not content with merely blowing up the tracks, the explosion collapsed the entire bridge, and the train was caught in the blast, sliding helplessly downward. The carriage twisted, and carrying its momentum, the entire car began to spin violently.
As his body lifted and the world turned upside down, Ivan reflexively gripped the train's luggage rack to steady himself, his instincts taking over as he scanned his surroundings.
Amidst the whirling space and the sliding scenery outside the window, he accurately assessed the situation.
The train is falling.
>The train was currently passing through the mountain range in western Frichenkaya.
The train is falling.
>A terrorist attack has occurred.
The tutorial wasn't over.
>I wasn't wrong.
There's still an ending.
Inside the falling train car, a smile spread across Ivan’s parched face. Slowly. And deeply.
He forcibly shoved the still-panicked, useless Kim Seon-woo down into his subconscious. It was time to take care of ‘what needed to be done.’
Fear, hatred, and confusion are not conducive to a mission. People often say to keep your head cool and your heart hot, but that's wrong.
This is what they teach in the Annihilation Squad. Keep your head, your heart, and your fingertips all cold.
Like the brutal winters of Krasilov. Like its long nights. Cold, quiet, meticulous.
The Annihilation Squad officer suppressed his presence and silently vanished from within the chaos-filled carriage.
Stepping on railings, treading on luggage racks, batting away tangled heaps of baggage, he moved up, up, up.
*
The last thing Isabelle remembered was a series of fragmented words.
A body thrown, vision shaking violently, a storm of excruciating pain.
Shattered windows and a cascade of earth.
And, the crumpled, tearing chassis of the train.
And, one more thing.
“Hah!”
Isabelle’s eyes shot open, drenched in a cold sweat. Darkness enveloped her. The incident had occurred just as she was watching the coniferous forests of Krasilov pass by, bathed in the evening glow.
She pushed herself up, a sharp pain lancing through her.
The compartment was buried in soil. As her eyes gradually adjusted to the dark, she could make out the mound of dirt that had poured in through the broken window.
And then, *drip, drip*, the sound of falling drops.
*Hahh, huuk.* The faint sound of ragged, heavy breathing.
“Are you… *huuk*… conscious… Milady?”
>“Sir August…?”
A man stood before her.
>No. He was pinned.
One of his arms was buried in the dirt, and a long steel rod protruded from his side.
The dripping sound was the blood falling from his mouth, his nose, and his waist.
“Why…?”
He had thrown himself in front of her to protect her. He had shielded her from the falling rocks with his body and taken the brunt of the train's debris with his back.
She stared at the knight with eyes full of horror. The knight, as always, wore a good-natured smile.
“Milady. You must… *huuk*…! You must escape…. The assailants will come. This was aimed at you… *huuk*…!”
>“Stop, stop! A-Answer me! Why…? Why would you do such a thing? Are you a complete idiot?”
Isabelle glared at the knight, her eyes trembling.
“Did you really think my father would be furious if I died? No! That man doesn't care about anyone!!”
>“I know.”
The knight smiled weakly. Who in Tilles didn't know? About that strange man who had abandoned his wife and child, secluded himself deep in the mountains, and refused all visitors.
At first, people thought he had gone to recuperate from his wounds after killing the Demon King.
>Later, they began to whisper that the Hero's mind had been twisted by the Demon King.
>Before four years had passed, they began to forget the Hero.
From the moment he killed the Demon King, or perhaps even before, the Hero was never an individual.
The man named Maximilian had faded away beneath the name of the Hero. Now, only his achievements and myths echoed emptily.
“You hate me.”
>“I do.”
>“Then why…?”
>“Because you are the Hero's daughter.”
Even as he was dying, the man's eyes shone with a strange clarity.
Even in this situation, Isabelle laughed as if finding it all absurd.
“So what does that have to do with anything? Do you really think my father would spare even a sliver of interest for his ‘daughter’?”
>“No, Milady. I never once considered Maximilian's interest.”
But, the Hero's daughter.
“Because a single individual was able to plant hope in the hearts of all humanity. Because I lived through those times. And… because it means that even such a great man is still just a 'person' who leaves behind a descendant and fades with time.”
Maximilian is also human.
It was a statement anyone could agree with, yet a sentence no one could truly understand.
But Isabelle was different. She is a person. She gets angry, jealous, and sad. A young girl suffering from a lack of affection.
Therefore, Isabelle's very existence meant that the Hero was, in the end, also human.
And this, in turn, meant that as long as one is human, one can become a hero.
That is what he believed. Even if he despised the person Isabelle was, he had no choice but to affirm the existence of Isabelle. She was hope.
The last seed left by the Hero; its very germination symbolized hope. In this era, where the survivors of the last war were rebuilding their shattered foundations.
She was a hope that could bloom even in this ravaged age.
Not the hope of conscripts fighting the Demon King, but a hope for the common individual living day by day.
If the Hero himself was called the symbol of victory, then the Hero's bloodline is the symbol of reconstruction. The symbol of a new beginning.
That was why, even while hating Isabelle, he had thrown his body to protect her.
Because he was a knight of Tilles. Because he was a man who could forsake the individual for the greater good. Because he, too, was an ordinary citizen who yearned for humanity's reconstruction.
“Impressive.”
As his words ended, a forearm shot out from the mound of dirt that had spilled into the carriage with a *thud*.
The arm fumbled, rummaging through the dirt for a long moment before sliding back out.
The cold air of the late winter night coolly filled the compartment.
And through the opened gap, the pale blue moonlight seeped in.
“Knight, what is your name?”
>“Dian August. And you are?”
>“Ivan Petrovich.”
The mound of dirt collapsed, and a man stepped into the compartment.
Backlit by the moon, casting a long, dark shadow.
“Do you want to live?”
>“If it's possible.”
>“It's going to hurt.”
Ivan twisted the cap off a healing potion.