Chapter 258
Chapter 258
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 258
Chapter Title: Chapter 14. One Empire, Three Legends (17)
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The Professor took in the sight of his comrade's back, unmoving like a stone statue, as he bit down on a human neck dripping with fresh blood.
Today, he'd spent the whole day grinning and bulldozing through everything with boisterous energy.
But inside, it hadn't been all that cheerful.
Everyone must have felt the same. No one offered so much as a word of celebration or comfort—they simply watched in silence as Borca stood there with the enemy's neck clenched in his jaws.
Amid that sudden silence, Hyde spoke up, eyeing Lucilla's lips trembling and the others swallowing their breaths to hold back their emotions.
[I've always wondered where your nonstop joke-cracking personality came from. You see shit like this a lot?]
‘Every damn day since I was seventeen. Losing someone, resenting someone. Revenge. Laughing, crying. Dying. In a place where all that repeats dozens of times a day, anyone who takes every emotion to heart gets swept under. So you just laugh it off. Pretend you're having a blast, pretend it's all a joke.’
Just as tears can hold all sorts of emotions, so can laughter.
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....In my memories, my children took after their mother more than me. Dahlia was too good for the likes of me. Fierce, beautiful—even stronger than I was. If those merchants hadn't slipped her the poison, she wouldn't have gone down so easily.
Spirit Energy is a special gift that only a rare few of our kind can wield. Its strength lets you burn a short span of life for immense power. Some torch half their remaining years to match an ordinary knight, while others might burn the time it takes to nap and shatter a castle wall.
I inherited just a sliver of it myself. That's why I was given a choice: live two years as a great warrior, or two hundred as a powerless denizen of the forest.
....If they take after their mother, unlike me with my firefly-sized talent and physical blessings, they'll have been blessed with astonishing gifts and sturdy legs. Stronger than me, no doubt, with a magnificent mane to match.
But they don't know what I know. The moment I fall, they'll face every truth and despair from my past. That's why I have to win.
Heh heh heh. Some scholar once said, "No talent? Spend more time." Couldn't agree more.
So.... please don't take what happens to me from here on too hard. It's all my choice. I'd like you to face me as if nothing happened, same as always. Not like your usual pack, full of screams and laughter.
I'm not much of a storyteller, but.... let me share an amusing tale.
You know that, right, Captain? It's been ages since I started calling you Captain.
Wolves live in packs. Serving someone means accepting them as the pack leader.
Sure, the first time it came out of my mouth was at Storm Hill, but if I was already calling you Captain without realizing, looks like you'd caught my eye long before. Tail wagging before my head even knew. Pretty "dog-like," huh.
....Thank you for leading me into your pack, Captain. It was warm. Solid.
.
.
.
.
Don't forget. No matter what form I take, know it was a choice I made.
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That's why, when he saw Borca on his knees with one arm missing, his fur matted with blood and oil, his once-vibrant werewolf body rapidly aging, he pretended not to notice. Acted even more pumped up, if anything.
No one but Borca himself could know the weight of the memories he'd carried for fifteen years. It was about respecting his intent to handle it alone, accepting it.
The will was relayed via message magic when his scattered comrades converged in front of the coliseum. They were all shaken—Lucilla especially so.
In the end, though, the group moved on as if nothing had happened, cheerful and rowdy, just as that "last testament" asked.
“....You did well. I tried not to let you handle the end alone, but I couldn't hold back.”
As I stepped forward amid the group's stiff faces, Borca—who had just torn out the enemy's throat with his fangs—lifted the head and turned his body.
“Thanks for indulging my selfish stubbornness. As chieftain of the Screamless Liver Tribe, this was a duty I had to fulfill. But by breaking the long-held rule against trusting outsiders and welcoming a foreigner, this foolish werewolf named Borca had a debt of sin to pay.”
“So. You pulled off the revenge you've held for fifteen years. How's it feel?”
“....No idea. Really.... no idea.”
The Professor nodded at Borca's hollow voice as he hoisted the marquis's head—eyes so wide they couldn't even close in death.
He'd seen far too many like this. Some wept tears of blood for lack of power to avenge. Others achieved revenge only to weep again at how nothing changed.
And plenty more whose targets died pointlessly at another's hand, left to self-immolate on flames of misplaced fury with nowhere to go.
[Revenge is personal territory.]
‘There might've been better ways. If there'd been more time. Fewer entangled factions. If it hadn't been that urgent situation where his kids would die if they got the contract first. Maybe I could've talked him down, crushed them one by one, let him savor his duty after.’
But the moment he heard one kid was sick, Borca wouldn't budge an inch. He was already set on marching into that arena. To keep it from being in vain, we had no choice but to match his stride.
In the end, we couldn't excise the self-destructive revenge built up in fifteen years of rage and regret. With my limited skills, all I could do was tidy the surroundings so the outcome didn't spiral further, step in before those flames burned him out completely.
“It's a.... strange feeling. Fifteen years sharpening my claws for this moment..... It's so different from what I imagined. Why does my chest feel so utterly empty?”
When the werewolf broke the silence, his voice held no ecstasy, no rage—only desolation.
“Of course it does. Think about it: the things you lost versus your enemy. Which meant more to you? Obvious, right? Because the moment was too short? Because it ended too pathetically, too easily? Or because you figured out he's some immortal bastard who'll keep respawning, and killing him a hundred, two hundred times would finally burn out the knot in your gut?”
“....”
“Nah. It had to feel that way. You can't even compare their value. Your family, your life—they mean way more to you than your enemy's suffering. Emotions like that don't just resolve. Sorry to say, but that anger and guilt you've carried will torment you for life. Revenge might be a brief escape, but every time you face those memories, it'll bubble up like bile. You realized it the instant your fangs sank into that neck. This isn't the end. You'll carry that burden forever.”
That's why revenge has no true end. No matter how many enemies you rip apart, it can't match what you've lost. Pile up all their heads on the scales of vengeance, and the weight of what you lost still crushes it.
Hearing the Professor out, Borca stared blankly at the enemy's head in his hand. The marquis's eyes gaped wide, as if he couldn't believe his moment of death. Ask if he'd regret this instant, and he'd swear no.
But what if he killed the marquis, the marquis's Second Prince, the empress who gave the orders, every noble, minion, knight, and squire tied to it—and the emotions and regrets stayed the same? If all that's left is this hollow blood-scent lingering on his lips?
“What're you thinking?”
“....I'm afraid. Now this emotion has lost even its direction. Knowing it'll circle my chest forever instead of lashing out.”
He was terrified. Like a debtor facing an eternal, unpayable debt. Like Sisyphus beholding the boulder that would roll down forever. Borca, confronted with the guilt he must carry for life, began to dread the days ahead.
And then, a rough hand yanked the werewolf to his feet.
“I get that feeling all too well, but that's beside the point. Get up. It ain't over yet.”
“Then.... you mean keep killing enemies to the bitter end, even knowing how it ends?”
“You idiot. The thing that dragged your ass out of the gutter for fifteen years wasn't some junk-food revenge obsession.”
The Professor pulled a church potion from his subspace pouch and dumped the whole thing over Borca's head. It wouldn't regrow a severed arm, but it could staunch the bleeding and knit his broken thigh and knee in seconds.
“Your kids. The ones you just handed back their freedom with your own hands. Bet you didn't even say hi because 'not qualified yet' or some shit. You're plenty qualified now—go greet 'em, catch up on lost time.”
He'd forgotten. No—not forgotten; he'd deliberately shoved it from his mind because he hadn't prepared for life afterward. He'd planned to burn everything he had left here and vanish. No need to dwell on what came next.
But now. Thanks to comrades who'd betrayed his plea at the last moment, werewolf Borca's life had been granted a brief reprieve. Now he could hold an impossible sight close to his heart.
His children heading back to the forest—and at their side, a one-armed werewolf.
While Borca stood speechless at the ineffable scene, the Professor picked up the needed piece from the pile of worthless contract papers and handed it over.
“Go. We'll handle the rest as planned. You just worry about your own shit.”
“....That's.”
“You get it, right? Your shit only. Starting now.”
At the Professor's repeated emphasis, Borca's gaze shifted from the contract to him.
“We're gonna keep hitting the roughest, deadliest spots from here on. Everyone's busy enough watching their own backs—so an old, decrepit, stubborn werewolf who lost an arm playing lone wolf? Total baggage. No one's gonna miss you.”
“Yeah. Just like you said in that letter—'as if nothing happened,' we'll head for the empire.”
“Honestly, the guy's so huge, traveling together felt cramped anyway.”
“I-I.... was uncomfortable too, hic! Every full moon he'd h-howwl all n-night.... hic, ugh! Couldn't sleep.... No Borca.... is f-fine! Better.... even....”
As the group aired their gripes one by one, Borca had to grit his teeth. A ragtag bunch more or less dragooned into joining while captive at the church. Just over seven months, but not a single easy moment—constant chaos every three days had even his iron werewolf liver churning with nausea.
“He's not as dumb as he is gruff. You get it now? That enough?”
Those comrades. The pack that had dragged him here when he'd lost everything and wanted to quit on life—they were cutting him loose now. Knowing the debt weighing on his heart, they played it casual. Lightening his parting steps.
“Captain. But....”
“Fifteen years, Borca. Fifteen years—not just for you, but for your two kids too. No reason to stick around here anymore. I trust you'll make the right call.”
It was warm encouragement, the gentlest of exiles. The Professor, Lucilla, Ottoman and Aldrich, Notum and Yggdrasil—they all knew what a good soul Borca was, how he'd give everything to repay what he owed.
It was consideration for a comrade who might never make up the lost time, even giving his remaining life. Letting him go without the burden. Granting him peace at the end of fifteen years' torment.
The serene faces of the two old mages. The noble girl's wide eyes and gritted-teeth quiver. The elf's ever-calm, quiet smile. The troll blinking her innocent eyes and nodding emphatically.
At that gruff kindness laced with warmth.
Borca set down the head in his hand. He extended his remaining one.
“....I won't forget. Until the moment I die. Forever.”
“Not the type anyone forgets easy.”
One by one. Exhaustion be damned, the werewolf took his time shaking hands, as if committing every touch and scent to memory. Some faces smiled. Some offered kindly understanding smiles. Some burst into tears and flung themselves into his blood-soaked embrace. Some soaked his chest with tears bearing blessings for the road ahead.
“Goodbye, Borca. Go.... well....”
They farewelled a comrade with little life left. One they'd likely never see again. Unless someday they stood at his gravestone, pouring liquor and swapping old tales—his final receding figure.
Crunch. Rustle.
The werewolf, cradling all those emotions close, turned toward the stairs. Careful footsteps over crumbled stone filled the space between them. As that bloodied back vanished down the steps, a young girl's mournful sobs seeped into the quiet.
The Professor grinned in satisfaction at what Borca had left behind.
“....We won, you piece-of-shit bastard.”
The marquis's head rolled on the dust-covered floor. In Borca's hands, there was no trophy head—only the powerless contract.
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