Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Back in the slums,
Bell used to sit on a street bench and count the number of people passing by.
Vaguely, without meaning. One, two… he simply counted them.
As he did, sometimes people who were handsome or beautiful would pass by.
Bell called them—
People with “oiled faces.”
Whenever one of them passed, his attention would drift, and he’d forget his count. Then he would start over from one.
One day, a kid who found this meaningless behavior strange spoke to him.
“Bell. What are you doing there every day?”
“I’m counting people.”
“…Why?”
“Just because.”
The kid looked at him like he didn’t understand.
It was a natural reaction. Even Bell thought it was strange.
For slum kids, time was money.
They had to beg all day at markets or busy streets just to survive to the next day.
In that sense, what Bell was doing—wasting precious time—was practically madness.
Thinking back on it now, maybe it had been an act of rebellion against the world.
“...”
In Bell’s eyes, the world was divided into four types of people.
The naked. The clothed. Those with “oiled faces.” And nobles.
The naked were the lowest.
People like Bell himself—the slum dwellers.
Those born into a swamp of life they could never escape.
Unless they had strength or talent to become mercenaries, no profession in the world would accept someone born in the slums.
Poverty only deepened poverty.
That’s why their world was called a swamp.
Next were the clothed.
Commoners.
They usually had homes. Most had parents.
With effort, they could live decent lives.
Among them, Bell called the particularly attractive ones “people with oiled faces.”
Not nobles—but beautiful.
And then—
The nobles.
They stood at the very top, looking down on everything.
They despised not only slum dwellers, but even commoners.
Among them—
“...”
There were nobles who were ugly, bloated, and weak-looking—yet always had beautiful “oiled-face” people by their side.
Bell liked beautiful people.
It was instinct, etched into human DNA.
Bell himself was strong.
He fought for the slum kids, followed after Dex, and lived what could be called a decent life.
He had ability.
He was sharp for a slum kid, handsome, and well-built.
And yet—
He could never approach those “oiled-face” people.
Suddenly, Bell spoke to his friend who had been watching him with annoyance.
“I’m done.”
“…Suddenly? With what?”
“…Counting people. I’m done.”
“Huh? Why all of a sudden?”
Bell muttered quietly.
“Why are we begging?”
“What kind of nonsense is that?”
His friend snapped in irritation.
“Richard. If you could be anything, what would you want to be?”
“…What kind of question is that?”
“Just asking.”
Bell smiled faintly.
“…I want to be a king.”
“...”
“And I’d crush anyone who looks down on me. Break all the annoying bastards and make a world for myself.”
Bell smiled at that.
“I see.”
“Yeah. I want to be king.”
Bell looked up at the sunset.
“Richard. Some people are born as kings.”
“...”
“But you’re begging every day to become one. Step by step. Not even knowing if this path leads there.”
“…We don’t even know if we’ll be alive tomorrow.”
Bell scratched his head.
“Are we moving toward our dreams… or just running away from death?”
“Richard, you know… I want to date someone with an ‘oiled face.’”
“Like that noble over there on the bench. I want to sit with someone pretty and go on dates too.”
“But we can’t, right? I hate that feeling.”
Under the sunset-lit sky—
A slum child who had lived beside death remained anxious every single day.
He had to survive, constantly running from death that chased him without rest.
“Doesn’t it feel like we’re just endlessly running from a fate we can’t escape?”
A tear slipped down his eye.
“…Haa.”
After passing the trial, Bell felt terrible.
That so-called God of Death he met had said absurd things and disappeared.
As if becoming part of the Hero’s Party—and choosing to save the world—had not been Bell’s own decision.
As if it had all been predetermined.
As if his will meant nothing.
Bell was furious.
He had chosen this path himself.
He chose to sacrifice for the world.
Whatever “fate” meant, he hated how it made his struggles feel inevitable.
He wasn’t someone struggling helplessly against an unavoidable destiny.
He chose this.
And the glory was his.
He didn’t like the idea of some god trying to take credit.
Especially that word—
Apostle.
Written as “apostle,” but meaning “tool.”
What had the God of Death ever done for him?
Forced him into this life, burdened him with responsibility—
And then said he’d treat him well after death?
“...”
Bell felt an uncontrollable rage.
Clang.
When he awoke in the cave, a weapon was in his hand.
The Hero Party’s equipment.
For Bell, it was—as expected—a sword.
But it wasn’t holy.
It emitted a dark aura.
More like a demonic blade than a divine one.
Bell immediately left the cave and headed to the Papal Palace.
He didn’t know how much time had passed, but he figured he took longer than the others.
And indeed—
“Bell!”
When he returned, everyone else had already completed their trials.
“...”
Each of them held their own weapon.
The golden-haired hero Aden held a radiant golden sword.
The Saintess held a blue cross radiating divine power.
The mage Ricardo held a silver staff shaped like a crescent moon.
The warrior Malay held a massive shield infused with the power of the earth.
The elf Irina held a wooden bow imbued with the energy of Yggdrasil.
The guide Claire held a golden compass.
As Bell silently observed them, Aden spoke first.
“Now that Bell’s here, let’s set our next course.”
Silence fell.
“To the northern Demon Realm.”
“……”
Those four words shook everyone.
The northern Demon Realm—
The place of their first failure.
Three months ago, they had gone there to defeat the last executive and the Demon King.
They had chosen to hunt the final Sin first.
But that land—
Towering mountains stretching endlessly into the sky—
Was far more dangerous than expected.
Even beings who wielded mana, divine power, and aura felt their limbs freeze in the biting winds.
The monsters there were nothing like before.
Each one was a raid boss—requiring an entire mercenary group to defeat.
Some were stronger than the Sin executives themselves.
After days of fighting in terrible condition, they reached Lucifer’s castle—
“Welcome, counterparts of fate.”
The Demon King and Lucifer were waiting together.
That much had been expected.
But what they hadn’t expected—
BOOOOOM!
Was their overwhelming power.
“Arrogant.”
“You thought this was enough to kill me?”
Lucifer, the Sin of Pride, used magic beyond even Ricardo.
The entire Hero Party was defeated.
“…Bell, was it?”
“…You’re strong.”
Bell could not kill the Demon King, Satan.
Both Lucifer and Satan were monstrously powerful—like the embodiment of all the Sins combined.
Even Bell struggled.
Realizing the plan had failed, Bell grabbed his unconscious comrades and fled.
“Running away?”
Satan asked.
“Yeah. To get our equipment.”
Satan scoffed.
“Child. You will die by my hand.”
“Doubt it. Feels like I wouldn’t be able to die even if I wanted to.”
“Running from an enemy, yet you speak boldly?”
Carrying everyone on his shoulders, Bell looked at him.
“Killing you now wouldn’t mean anything.”
“My comrades’ lives matter more than your worthless death.”
“I won’t take long. I’ll be back soon—so clean your neck and wait.”
For a moment, Satan faltered at Bell’s chilling presence.
“…I’ll be waiting.”
Those were his final words as Bell escaped.