Chapter 5
Chapter 5
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 5
Chapter Title: The Old Man Carving Stones (2)
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Sixty long years had passed since the outbreak of the massive conflict that history would later record as the Great Continental War. It was a period of absolute devastation that laid waste to half of the known continent and claimed an uncalculable number of lives, beginning with the terrifying and unchecked rampage of the Demon King.
Kingdoms that had stood for centuries fell to the cruel claws of monsters and demonic beasts, leaving behind a wake of destruction and a sea of displaced humans who had lost everything. The war dragged on for a grueling ten years, a decade in which nobles and commoners, men and women alike, all rose together in a desperate attempt to halt the demonic invasion.
Even children who had not yet reached their tenth year were forced to take up arms to protect their own lives or the remnants of their families, as the war plunged every human and diverse race of the continent into a state of perpetual terror.
Parmon had been a central figure in that era of blood, serving as a renowned knight and a high-ranking noble of the Empire. Before he had even reached the age of forty, he had achieved the legendary realm of Sword Master, a pinnacle of martial skill that no one in the long history of the Empire had ever attained at such a youthful age.
He had once foolishly believed that his blade alone could fell any number of demonic beasts or dark entities, but his youthful arrogance eventually returned as a bitter and agonizing reality. The people of the territory he had sworn to guard were torn limb from limb, and his fellow knights, soldiers, and loyal servants all met the same miserable ends without distinction.
His sword, which he had dedicated to protecting the weak and serving as the shield of the Empire, ultimately failed to safeguard a single soul under his care. As the war persisted, the familiar faces around him vanished one by one until he came to deeply resent the Sword Master realm he had once carried with such pride.
His immense strength became a curse that prevented him from dying alongside his fallen comrades, yet it lacked the absolute power required to save them all from the overwhelming hordes. The crushing weight of his immature command haunted him long after the treaties were signed, with the final moments of every subordinate appearing in his dreams every single night.
He eventually let go of the sword that felt like a source of misfortune, believing that a blade which protected nothing had no right to be held in his hand. He wandered the continent aimlessly for decades, visiting the sites where his men had perished to carve statues in their likeness, allowing the stone fragments to embed themselves in his heart like profound sorrow.
They often say that forgetfulness is a blessing granted to humanity, but Parmon tore that blessing apart countless times as he struggled to recall every detail of their faces. He hoped that these statues would stand tall where his men had fallen, and with the help of mage comrades, he spent his entire fortune to erect a magical barrier to hide his work from the eyes of monsters and common travelers.
Unless one was a supreme master of the magical arts, finding these statues should have been impossible, yet today, a white-haired young man had arrived at his sanctuary. The youth possessed the mana of an ordinary person and showed no signs of being a knight or a sorcerer, yet he had moved through the barrier without Parmon even sensing his approach.
The young man then spoke words that shook the old man to his core, recounting the specific tale of a knight born without arms and of another who had cast himself off a cliff to deny the demons a kill. He knew of the soldier who stayed behind in the snow to avoid being a burden, and even recalled a subordinate's secret wish to adorn their family crest with fresh green leaves.
These were intimate stories that Parmon himself had begun to lose to time, and he knew that no fraud or madman could possibly weave such specific and accurate tales. His eyes, which had memorized the faces of thousands, were not so weak as to be deceived; the hammer fell from his grip because he recognized the undeniable truth in the stranger's voice.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk... Old man, you really should put an end to this pointless and exhausting nonsense," I said, letting out a series of pitying sighs.
"What is the point of clinging to the spirits of the dead with such stubbornness?" I asked, looking at the silent statues.
"Am I truly the one holding them back?" he whispered, his voice cracking with age.
"It is precisely because of your lingering attachment that these departed souls find themselves unable to move on to the next life," I replied, sensing the spirits who had already achieved their desires and should have ascended long ago.
"How could you possibly know whether those spirits are present here or not?" he challenged, though his resolve was clearly wavering.
"Good grief... do you still doubt my words? Very well, let me show you," I said, ringing the ceremonial rattle with a sharp 'Ting-'.
"Hmm... I believe this one over here is named Tilberg?" I noted, and I watched as the old man’s expression hardened like the very stone he carved. No emotion could penetrate the mask he wore to hide his longing, but I continued anyway.
"He says he is deeply sorry for the wound you received while trying to protect him during the retreat."
The old man remained silent, his gaze shifting to the empty air I was staring at as I pointed toward another spectral presence.
"And this young one over here... such a shame to die at such a tender age. He says he finally managed to take down an enemy with the dagger you gifted him before the end."
The old man’s rigid lips finally moved as he whispered, "Are they truly here with us?" His dazed eyes trembled with a mixture of sorrow and pain. "Was it my devotion to these statues that bound them to this place?"
The wails of the spirits echoed in agreement with my words, their emotions swirling through my own mind as if they were my own memories. The old man turned toward the void and cried out, "Depart now, all of you! I promise I will remember you forever, so you must find your peace!"
He named every person he could recall, speaking of precious memories and promising to tell their descendants of their deeds. He vowed never to carve another statue if it meant they could finally be free of this world.
I did not interrupt him, for this was the true role of a shaman: to resolve the grudges between the living and the dead and guide them both toward the right path. It was a blessing for the old man to finally release a lifetime of karma and resentment, even if not a single word he spoke was technically correct.
"Tsk, tsk... these are merely stone carvings, no matter how much emotion you have infused into them," I muttered. The statues could not bind the dead; the living's grudges were resolved by the living, but the spirits were bound here by something else entirely.
"They are bound here because of you, old man," I said, ringing the rattle again. "No one here harbors any resentment toward you. They do not want you to spend your final years carving these things; they simply want you to be happy."
One spirit approached at the sound of the rattle, merging into my body for a brief moment. My speech pattern shifted, adopting the unique intonations and mannerisms of the departed soldier.
"Good grief... our stubborn captain was always so stingy with his praise... did my words about wanting another arm really bother you for all these years?"
"Platz? Is that truly you?" Parmon gasped, his face twisting as if it might crumble under the weight of the revelation.
Another spirit leaned into me, and I spoke again: "Captain! You always loved meat and strong liquor, didn't you? Please, go and enjoy some for once and live your life well!"
Many spirits entrusted their final words to me, and not a single emotion they projected lacked warmth or love for their old commander. Their only wish was for him to live happily in the world they had died to protect.
The shared emotions of the living and the dead finally found their proper places, and as the connection faded, I felt my physical strength beginning to give out. At the very least, I had accomplished the task I had set out to do.
As the sound of the rattle died away, I struggled to speak through my own physical exhaustion, unable to stop the drool from escaping my mouth. "F...Food... please... I need food..."
"Who are you truly?!" Parmon cried out, his face colored with a deep pity. He seemed to think I was a comrade he had overlooked during the war, someone who had starved to death and was still craving a meal in the afterlife.
"I will prepare a feast for you right away! Please, tell me your name so I may honor you properly!"
My lips quivered as I forced out the final few words of the conversation. "It is me..."
"Yes! Please, hurry and tell me!"
"I said it is me..."
"I am so sorry... I cannot recognize your face after all these years!"
"It is me... Chris..."
"Chris...?" Parmon whispered, his eyes welling with tears as he felt deeply apologetic for failing to remember the name.
"No... I am not a spirit... I am actually here," I wheezed. "I have simply been starving since yesterday..."
"........."