The Warrior's Resolve

Draksan gripped his axe tightly.

He stared at the man before him—Justin.

Memories of the man's atrocities flooded back.

Despicable.

Chief Justin. No, he had been promoted to director today, hadn't he?

Director Justin had hidden the fact that Lena had awakened.

Draksan only learned of it later, through Hardy.

When he appealed to reduce his sentence even slightly, the appeal was dismissed on the grounds that the deadline had passed.

Draksan had begged to be allowed to see Lena, even for a moment now that she was awake.

He had pleaded with Justin to let him confirm with his own eyes that Lena had truly awakened.

Every request was denied.

Justin claimed it was "because we must follow protocol," but that was a lie.

Draksan understood now—he was being sacrificed for some ideology, some belief, or for the supposed stability of society.

More than anger, he felt weary.

How long must he live only as a victim?

"Ugh, ugh!"

But once he became the chieftain, he would be free.

He could cast off this stifling law and order and live by the familiar, comforting logic of strength and violence.

"Ugh, ugh!"

"Kill Justin! Become the great chieftain!"

As chieftain, he could lead his kin and live in glory.

Slay anyone who stood in his way, take whatever he needed.

"Ugh, ugh!"

"Lead your kin to liberation!"

Once he became chieftain, there would be no more injustice.

No more hunting monsters only to be denied payment, unable to cover Lena's hospital bills.

If injustice arose, he would simply rally his kin and exact revenge.

Life would become far simpler and easier.

"Ugh, ugh!"

"Ugh, ugh!"

He would live a new life.

Not as the weak, but as the strong.

Thump, thump.

Just imagining it made his blood boil.

Steam rose from his overheated skin.

His vision began to blur.

Precursors of intermittent explosive disorder.

Draksan instinctively took a deep breath to suppress his rage, then suddenly paused, struck by a question.

Intermittent explosive disorder was an illness.

An illness that made one unable to control anger.

But that was only how the kingdom saw it.

Why should I suppress my anger?

Among barbarians—among the Rock Hunter tribe—warriors who could not contain their rage and rampaged freely were revered and praised as "berserkers."

The Rock Hunter tribe worshipped the strong and despised the weak.

And he was a strong man worthy of worship.

Why should he hold back?

Why should I?

Why had he struggled so desperately to suppress his boiling rage?

Suppression was the duty of the weak; rage was the right of the strong, was it not?

He surrendered himself to the rage and violence etched into his blood, to his instincts.

If he did, everything would become easier.

It was the moment he raised his axe.

"Draksan!"

A voice rang out.

His blurred vision cleared for an instant.

"D-Director!"

"H-He really intends to sacrifice the Director...!"

Naikle and the accompanying investigators cried out.

My prediction had been correct. The barbarians were trying to offer Director Justin as a sacrifice—to make Draksan their chieftain.

Eris raised a finger, preparing to cast a spell to wound Draksan's shoulder or arm and stop him.

"Don't."

I grabbed Eris's wrist to stop her.

In the distance, I could see Draksan's eyes as he held the axe.

"……We're too late."

His gaze was half-unfocused.

I knew, because I had treated him before.

Those were the eyes he had when the intermittent explosive disorder began.

Draksan's axe already rested against Director Justin's neck.

If he so much as let it drop, Justin's head would fly off.

Moreover, the barbarians surrounding Draksan were keeping us from approaching any closer.

If we tried to stop him by force, a battle would break out.

And if that happened, not only would Director Justin die, but Draksan's rage would only intensify.

……But it's not as if there's no way.

If Draksan could overcome his anger.

If he could control his rage and resist the urge to kill Justin—if, in the best case, he could even forgive Justin……

Is it possible?

I wanted to believe it was.

I wanted to believe that the time I had spent treating him had not been in vain.

"Draksan!"

But what should I say?

What words could calm Draksan's rage?

Clumsily prodding at his emotions would only backfire.

Long-winded persuasion won't work either.

I searched my memory and chose my words carefully.

"You know Hardy, don't you, Draksan!"

Not Lena, but "Hardy"—I couldn't explain exactly why that name came to mind.

It was instinct. A gut feeling that the name would move Draksan's heart.

I hoped my instincts were not wrong.

Hardy?

For a fleeting moment, a spark of light returned to Draksan's eyes at the name.

But that was all. He could not quite remember who it was.

"The son of the beast tamer Handler—Hardy!"

At those words, a hazy outline formed in his mind.

Hardy, Hardy, Hardy…… Ah.

He remembered. The son of the beast tamer Handler.

The boy looked even fiercer than Handler; Draksan had thought he would grow up to be a murderer.

It was embarrassing to admit, but the moment Draksan met Hardy, he had beaten him senseless.

Why—why are you doing this, gah!

Your father killed my wife. My wife……!

In the Rock Hunter tribe, a murderer who killed one of their own would have his entire family slain. So Draksan had thought it was acceptable.

With nowhere else to vent his grief, he had taken his anger out on Hardy, who resembled Handler.

I'll prove it. That I didn't inherit the murderer's blood! That I can live a different life from Handler!

Even as blood poured from his broken teeth, Hardy had said those words.

At first, his paltry conviction had seemed laughable. Draksan thought the murderer's son was all talk.

But as he watched, he realized it was more than empty words. Hardy lived more honestly and uprightly than anyone else.

He truly seemed determined to prove he could live differently from Handler.

Get out, get out! You murderer's spawn, trying to hurt my business!

Even when he lost jobs because of his father's crimes.

Save my son, you bastard—!

I'm sorry, I'm sorry……

Just like when he first met Draksan, Hardy was struck by victims without warning.

Yet he held fast to his conviction.

He donated the money he earned from cleaning work and occasionally volunteered at orphanages.

Even while being pelted with eggs and tomatoes, he regularly apologized to the victims—despite it not being his sin.

Isn't it hard? Your father…… No, sorry. Because of Handler, you can't even get a job. And it's not even your fault, but you're the one getting beaten. You're the one going around apologizing.

It's strange to hear Draksan, who tried to beat me to death the moment he saw me, say something like that.

That was because I didn't know you well yet, you brat……

I'm joking, brother. Still, even if it's hard, I have to prove it.

That conviction? The one about living a different life from Handler?

Yes, that. To be precise—

One day, after they had grown quite close and were drinking together, Draksan asked, and Hardy answered:

It doesn't matter how you were born.

It doesn't matter much how you've lived, either.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

There is only one thing that matters.

How you will live from now on.

Draksan imagined the future in which he killed Justin and became chieftain.

It would be comfortable, even enjoyable. He could wield his overflowing strength wherever he pleased.

But it would not last. Repercussions would follow Justin's death.

Forces hostile to violent, cruel barbarians would rise. He would have to fight them.

Even if he won, another similar force would appear to kill the barbarians.

If he lost, he would be persecuted. To escape persecution, he would have to fight again.

He would kill and be killed, endlessly—perhaps forever……

Someone had to break the cycle.

Draksan raised his axe.

Swish!

He cut.

Not Justin's neck, but the ropes binding him.

"Draksan, Draksan Kaligus! Are ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you defying Sabina's command?!"

Draksan looked calmly at Dementor, who was berating him with bloodshot eyes.

"My enemy is not Justin."

"You are no warrior! To reject Sabina's command! You will fall into the frozen hell where kin fight and devour one another in cold and hunger!"

Dementor screamed.

"I am still a warrior."

"You are not a warrior! Draksan! Kill Justin even now! If you don't kill Justin, you are no warrior! You are nothing but a cowardly excuse-maker!"

"You are not the ones who make me a warrior……"

Draksan swept his gaze over the barbarians surrounding him.

"I am the one who makes myself a warrior. A warrior must choose his own enemy. Fighting as others dictate is not a warrior—that is a mercenary."

The enemy a warrior must fight was not the mages or the kingdom that persecuted barbarians. Nor the investigators of the Public Security Bureau. Nor the barbarians themselves.

"I have chosen my enemy."

The world. The world that forces people to fight and kill one another.

Unjust fate and life.

This damned illness that robs one of reason and breeds rage.

"I am a warrior."

Draksan looked at Dementor.

Clear reason had already returned to his eyes.

He had overcome his rage.

"S-Sophistry—!"

Dementor could not finish.

Whoosh—swish!

"Kieeeek!"

Dementor's legs were severed by a sudden gust of wind.

The cleanly cut knee stumps were Eris's work.

Now that Draksan's reason had returned, she had not hesitated to suppress him with magic.

"If you surrender without resistance, we will take it into consideration at trial. Drop your weapons!"

"Resistance will result in immediate lethal force!"

The investigators stepped forward.

"D-Don't surrender, fight! Fight, I said!! Keeeek!"

Though Dementor screamed with his legs severed, the barbarians did not fight.

Many laid down their weapons and surrendered.

They were not obeying the investigators.

It was because of Draksan.

They had followed Dementor's words and fought under his command.

That is not a warrior—that is a mercenary.

Draksan's words had convinced the barbarians to surrender.

"D-Dementor! Dementor! It's your fault, you……!"

"Sabina, guide me to the warrior's mountain, Sabina!"

"Ugh, fight, fight!"

Even the barbarians who resisted pathetically were quickly subdued by the investigators' force.

Most surrendered; few resisted. Subduing them was easy. Dementor's hoarse screams echoed loudly.

"……"

Amid the chaos, Draksan silently stared at Justin.

The rage no longer boiled within him.

Strangely, his heart felt at peace.

"I will go to the warrior's mountain. I fought and gave my life for my kin. We did nothing wrong. You persecuted my kin first. We did nothing. I was alive during the mine revolution. I know your sins. My daughter died too. I know your sins. You will fall into the frozen hell and devour one another. You will."

Dementor muttered those words the entire time he was being taken away.

They were like curses, yet rather than terrifying or unpleasant…… they evoked a strange pity.

From Dementor's body emanated the stench of profound sorrow and rage.

So old that it had become indistinguishable from body odor itself.

Like the chronic smell of alcohol that clings to an alcoholic's body.

"Hah, hah……!"

While the barbarians were being arrested, Director Justin caught his breath and calmed down.

He must have thought he was going to die. His breathing was ragged.

His eyes trembled. He looked bewildered.

"Are you all right?"

Ignoring my question, he muttered while staring at Draksan.

"Why didn't he kill me? Why……? He had every reason to kill me, so why……?"

Director Justin looked as though he could not even understand why he was still alive.

Meanwhile, Draksan approached me.

His expression was gentler and calmer than ever before.

There was none of the anxious gaze typical of patients with intermittent explosive disorder.

Could it be……

I asked cautiously.

"How are you feeling?"

"Good."

"Ah, I mean, the state I was referring to……"

"I know. You are asking about the symptoms of intermittent explosive disorder."

Draksan smiled.

"It is good. The rage that always simmered inside me seems to have completely vanished."

"Ah……"

"How to put it…… That is how it feels. As though I have overcome it to some degree. Though it does not seem to be a complete cure."

Intermittent explosive disorder was difficult to cure completely.

Even if one believed it cured, it could suddenly relapse, just as it had with him in the past.

I did not think Draksan had been suddenly and completely cured, either.

But at least, as he said, it seemed he had overcome it to some extent.

Draksan gazed quietly at Director Justin.

"……If it had not been for you, Teacher, I might have committed an irreversible act. It is all thanks to you. Everything."

"I only helped a little. You overcame it yourself, Draksan."

A few words from me could not have changed Draksan's heart.

Nor could they have improved his symptoms.

It could be said that the illness healed because he received long-term treatment from me. But.

Intermittent explosive disorder was an illness that did not heal easily, no matter how diligently one received treatment.

So in the end, it was Draksan who had overcome it himself. His rage and hatred.

"This will likely be our last farewell. I will be going to prison now."

"What do you mean, last? I will visit you from time to time. Even if it is just for visitation……"

"There is no need. It would be troublesome for you. You must have many others to meet besides me."

Draksan glanced behind him. Two investigators stood there.

Though he had saved Director Justin, Draksan was still an escaped convict. He needed to be ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠taken into custody again.

But perhaps because everyone had witnessed Draksan saving the director……

The investigators had stepped back and were waiting for us to finish our conversation. They even bowed their heads, as if trying not to burden us.

"I am glad I can go with my illness somewhat improved. This too is all thanks to you, Teacher. Thank you. Truly……"

Drip, drip.

My eyes widened.

Tears were streaming down Draksan's cheeks.

"Thank you so much, thank you……"

Draksan kept thanking me, shedding tears calmly.

It was the first time I had seen him cry for a reason other than rage.

Perhaps that was why he made no effort to wipe them away. He did not try to hide his tears.

Eventually, Draksan boarded the magitech vehicle with the investigators.

Since the investigators were not being forceful, it looked more like an escort than an arrest.

"……Please bring Lena with you when you come to see me. I would be grateful."

"I told you not to read it, not to read it! How many times did I say that! Why do you keep—!"

Draksan shouted, his face flushed red.

He even tried to snatch the letter from my hands.

"It is so moving that I cannot help but read it again."

"Nonsense!"

"Oh, are you getting angry?"

At my teasing remark, Draksan took a deep breath and exhaled.

"……No."

Watching Draksan forcibly try to regain his composure was amusing.

Normally, such teasing during treatment would be forbidden, but Draksan's condition had been quite good lately.

I also know he is not the kind of person to get angry over something like this.

To put it simply, Draksan had been set free.

Well, not completely free.

More precisely, his sentence had been suspended in the appeal trial.

Considering he had received fifteen years in the first trial, this was not just a dramatic reduction—it was shocking.

It all began with a single petition.

"Please do not let Draksan Kaligus, the hero who saved Sawhin, go to prison."

The petitioner was a boy named Ian.

He was one of the children who had been at the ranch the day the bear monster appeared in Sawhin.