The Sinner
Rattle, rattle. The carriage interior was something you never quite got used to, no matter how long you rode. If mana overflowed within me, there'd be no reason to bother with something like this—but right now, with my mana depleted, hopping off and sprinting away wasn't exactly a smart move.
How much time had passed? It felt like ten days since that day, yet the blood-soaked horrors still lingered like events from yesterday, making my body shudder. This is all because of that woman, Lobelia. But which Lobelia should I blame? Hell, did I even have the right to blame her in the first place?
Wasn't it me who pushed her into this? Did I corner Lobelia—her—and awaken something inside? The thought flashed through my mind, and suddenly every death in Bellante felt like my fault alone. My head throbbed. Of course, I hadn't killed them myself, so it didn't hit that hard—but tracing back to the cause, it all pointed to me, stirring nothing but frustration.
After all, wasn't I the one who awakened whatever lurked inside her? I'd pondered it obsessively during those ten days of travel. But no matter how I turned it over, every hypothesis crumbled quickly, leaving me with just one nagging possibility that made my temples ache.
First: she lost her memories after unbearable torment. Even then, there should have been some dissonance from the trauma. More importantly, that first encounter—her demeanor was completely different. Not the defiant, brazen attitude you'd expect, but something aloof, almost regal, like she was proving this was how she'd always lived. It gnawed at me, pushing me to the second hypothesis.
A defense mechanism, I thought. But even if she delusionally believed herself the Demon King, no defense mechanism could so thoroughly ignore trauma. She couldn't fake it that well—and besides, the magic she used didn't add up. If she could cast spells like that from the start, why not use them during our first clash? The fact that she did it now meant there had to be a trigger. No matter how I racked my brain, it all circled back to that moment of dissonance, when her voice cut off.
So, yeah—I was definitely the cause. But what was that other thing? After wracking my mind for a while, the third hypothesis emerged.
"...Something inside her?"
Could something have been sealed within her, and I broke the seal? That would explain the empty Demon King's Castle. Why a doll served as her advisor. A Demon King who wasn't fully one would need protection. It fit too perfectly—the direction I'd avoided thinking about—and it left a strange taste in my mouth. My face twisted involuntarily, and I let out a sigh. By then, the sun had peaked and was already descending. Around 4 p.m., maybe. I muttered it to myself just as the carriage lurched to a halt.
I figured it was nothing, but then the coachman's voice rang out from up front.
"Pardon? A search? What are you looking for?"
"We're searching for the criminal Verilrude Anemos."
Criminal? Me? I furrowed my brow, and already the clank of armored footsteps approached. A heavy sigh caught in my throat. Why the hell was I a criminal? I wanted to protest my innocence, but something snagged in my gut, leaving it churning. Had they pinned all of Bellante's destruction on me? I was the only survivor, after all.
Biting my lip, I groaned, but staying put meant getting dragged off. So I stepped out of the carriage first.
"...The arch-traitor...!"
"Spears up! Send word to the capital—now!"
Shouts pierced my ears amid the growing chaos. I raised both hands in surrender and cautiously spoke.
"May I ask what crime I've committed?"
"Treason against the nation! Hands up! On the ground! We'll load you into the transport wagon!"
The bellow made me flinch despite myself. But I wasn't in a position to snap back yet, so I tried again.
"...And may I ask why?"
"Colluding with demons in Bellante and annihilating the town—you can't pretend ignorance of that sin!"
"I didn't collude."
"The king will judge that himself."
Colluding with demons in Bellante—probably referring to chasing after Lobelia and turning back. In hindsight, I'd diverted to save citizens from other magic beasts. You could call it heroism, or twist it into a plot with her, staging a show in Bellante. A matter of perspective, sure—but I didn't want to believe it. After all my devotion to this kingdom, earning the hero's title, how could they discard me like this in an instant? My lips parched at the thought.
I groaned, wrestling with it. In that split second, a flood of thoughts raced through. What if I let them arrest me and drag me to the capital for trial? What future awaited? Despair loomed. I'd either die branded a failed hero or be beheaded as a traitor, my head displayed in the square beside some demon's. No chance they'd commute based on my word. Nobles rarely overturned their own verdicts—pride wouldn't allow it. By now, they'd calculated everything post my "disposal."
"Get down now! We're binding you!"
The hero once worshipped as humanity's idol, the beacon of hope for all—plummeted in a heartbeat to the worst kind of rebel, scheming with demons. And it was unjust. They'd entangled me with demons so thoroughly it felt premeditated. But I had no intention of getting caught, smeared with this false charge, and dying. Not until I found proof myself. The moment I was taken, it'd play out exactly as they wanted—no rebuttal, just death.
So there was only one thing left to do. I clenched my fist and smashed the approaching soldier's head.
Thud!Clang.
The armored body flew back, and the air shifted palpably. I knew full well this choice was wrong. It could brand me an enemy of Lugbelk Kingdom for good. But clearing my name required staying alive first, didn't it?
"Treason!"
"Kill him!"
"The traitor's fleeing!"
No time to grab my things—there never was. I kicked off the ground and bolted toward the empty fields. Only one place came to mind, so I backtracked the way I'd come.
Thud! The earth cracked under my leap, and I glimpsed soldiers coughing, struggling to pursue—but the distance grew, their voices and figures fading.
Damn it, damn it! The silver lining so far: I'd conserved mana the whole trip here by carriage. I gathered every drop and poured it into my legs. Faster—the faster I escaped, the better. Physical enhancement kicked in as I ran and ran.
I pushed forward, passing the village I'd returned through. I had no idea how it'd come to this, but surely killing the Demon King—bringing back her head—would clear my name? So I ran. Whether it was truly right, I couldn't say. If Lobelia really was the Demon King, then what? Apologize? Kill her because she was a demon, a Demon King? No clue.
Still, that desperate hope—answers might be there—propelled me onward. A full day passed like that. Mana exhausted, I finally reached Bellante. But nothing remained. Just blood-scented ruins.
No food to buy, no proper shelter. Corpses still littered the streets in gruesome tableau. I sighed. Everything I'd built—gone. Precious family, lost. Beloved lover, lost. Cherished subordinates, lost. All because of demons, so I'd hated them. Everything built, crumbled. Trust shattered. No home to return to. No status left.
Was every cause human this time—did that mean I should hate humans? Tearing at my hair yielded no answers. I wanted to storm the Demon King's Castle right then. Lobelia was probably there. But I couldn't—not yet. I'd burned every ounce of strength sprinting here in half a day; my body needed rest. Another trek to the castle would drain most of my mana anyway.
And once there, then what? If that Lobelia wasn't the demon I knew—if she was the one I'd glimpsed—would I kill her? Unable to choose, I groaned blankly, at a loss.
To sleep in the cold space, I swept the floor. Lying down, the chill seeped in, hard and unyielding. How did anyone sleep here? But what choice was there? Nowhere else. Ugh.
"How the hell do you sleep on a floor like this?"
Discomfort wrapped around me, inevitably summoning thoughts of that demon. Spoiled by a bed every night, I'd forgotten how cold and hard the ground could be. It dragged Lobelia to mind, narrowing my brow.
What was this feeling? Pity? Sympathy? Or guilt?
Gurgle. I'd skipped a meal amid it all, and hunger gnawed. No point wasting rations on snacks—now I regretted it.
"Tch."
Head already a mess, now my stomach complained. Irritation surged. But a meal was vital for an adventurer; I couldn't skip it. Even in ruins, something edible had to be around. This was Bellante—surely not barren of food. I trudged about, desperate for anything to fill my gut, ideally mana-restoring. But magic beasts had scoured the place; no mana sources left—I'd given up on that early.
How long did I wander? Hunger only worsened. But reaching the inn that doubled as a tavern brought some relief. I slipped through collapsed walls, rummaging the first floor for a pantry. Peering through debris gaps, sure enough—food scraps rolled about, some intact.
Closer inspection revealed the horror: ingredients crushed under rubble or filthy on the floor. Unusable even for cooking. A fugitive like me couldn't stroll into a restaurant and pay anyway. So if it was edible, I'd take it. I reached for a fallen morsel.
Irritating memories surged. A starving whine echoed. A child's desperate plea.
Why think of that now? My hand froze, face twisting. Clenching it into a trembling fist, the scene sharpened in my mind: starved Lobelia, gnawing her nails until pride broke, finally picking up a potato from the floor.
I hadn't witnessed it, but the scent on her mouth and hands screamed it.
"...Haha."
A dry, self-mocking laugh escaped. That demon rejected it as humiliating, shameful—only scavenging at death's door. And here I was, one skipped meal in, starving, rationalizing it as survival, reaching for floor filth. Absurd.
'Uwaaaah! Aaaah!' A voice replayed my atrocities. I'd inflicted trauma on Lobelia, stolen her bed. Starved her, tormented her with hunger, used it to heap humiliation and shame. Pestered her relentlessly even as she endured. And in the end, my mistakes ruined everything. This wasteland was why.
I couldn't blame her for the deaths—the cause lay with me. Yeah, my fault. If only I'd treated her better. Dried-up tear ducts cracked open. I wept there, filthy body curled tight, uncaring.
And prayed.
"...Sorry. I'm sorry..."
If evil existed, wasn't I it?