The Debt Repaid in Full

The sound of someone bursting in cut the conversation with Theo Ramstair short.

As the thick darkness retreated before the bright flood of light, Flora finally allowed herself to breathe.

She had no idea who it was, but someone had come here. Wasn't that enough? They could be begged for help. She could tell them she'd been kidnapped. Theo Ramstair could be punished.

Truly, that alone would have been enough.

It didn't matter whether her mother stormed in, face twisted with fury, dragging every knight of the house behind her and ordering the man cut down. Whether her eldest sister raised her sword against Theo and screamed that she'd take his head right here and now. Whether her youngest sister swore in a bloodcurdling voice to burn him alive until not even ash remained.

Any of it would have been fine.

Even if it was a knight of her own house. Even if it was a knight from one of the sworn vassal families of Bagrand. Even if it was someone she wasn't particularly close to. Even if word had reached the imperial family or another noble house, and the Imperial Guard or some other family's knights arrived instead.

None of it mattered.

All that mattered was that a single thread of light had slipped into this pitch-black, dreary place.

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

—CLANG! HISS!

“Ugh!!!”

The newcomer kicked the door open and slammed their blade against Theo's, pressing the attack without pause until they carved into one of his shoulders.

Her eyes, adjusted to the dark, couldn't make out much in the sudden brightness — but she knew the voice of the man who had taken her captive. That sinister voice, now thick with rage and spitting curses, was being driven backward.

And yet...

Strangely, something about him looked familiar.

His frame was far leaner than Theo's, his build so slight it seemed Theo's back alone could swallow him whole.

A strange pang of déjà vu seized her, and she knew she had to see his face properly. Her eyes, long used to the dark, stung at the light — her forehead went cold — but she forced them open anyway.

Because she couldn't afford not to.

Because if the image in her head became reality, she felt she might burst into tears on the spot.

It's... someone else. It has to be one of the leaner knights from the household, that's all...

—SLASH!

A single arc of blood sprayed through the air.

The blood gushed up like a fountain, ran along the blade, and etched an ugly pattern across Flora's skirt.

It was a chilling sensation.

Because this blood — was not Theo Ramstair's.

“Just dumb luck, that's all. Yeah. A weakling like you swinging a sword couldn't amount to anything anyway.”

At Theo Ramstair's confident sneer, the man was shoved back.

It was no illusion. He was badly outmatched. It looked like he was pushing forward, but his physique alone was already lacking, and when the two blades locked and ground against each other, the trembling one was not Theo's hand. Not when he drove in with the strength of his shoulder. Not when the locked blades failed to hold their balance, tipped to one side, and finally cost the man his footing and a kick to the gut.

The one being pushed back — was the man who had come to save her.

And by now, her eyes were starting to adjust to the light.

What...?

Flora, who had been on the verge of relief believing they would escape this place soon, felt her chest begin to grow heavy.

She told herself it couldn't be. That there was no possible way it was him.

And yet, he was here.

A man's hair — its blue almost entirely washed out now, turned nearly black — was soaked through with sweat.

Karsein... why are you here...?

The person she had tormented so viciously, with her own hands. The person she had made miserable at every turn.

And he was standing here, sword raised, putting himself on the line for no one other than her.

Relief and avoidance — two contradictory feelings bloomed together all at once, and Flora could only stare blankly at the scene before her.

—CLANG! KANG! TING!

“You thought—you could—actually beat me?!”

Under Theo Ramstair's relentless slashes, each one brimming with murderous intent inside the pitch-dark cabin, Karsein was driven back.

His shoulder had been carved open. The blood running down from it gleamed unmistakably. The treacherous light from outside, as if it bore the man a grudge, laid his wound and the fresh blood bare for all to see.

HISS!

Another arc of blood flowed. It was Karsein's.

No...

Run.

Paradoxically, that was what Flora wanted to say to Karsein — the man who had come to save her.

Shedding pathetic little tears, Flora mumbled it to herself over and over. That was all a reckless little girl, kidnapped and helpless, could do.

But.

“Pathetic little pest, you know that? So many people have suffered because of you. Yeah? Just hurry up and die already—die, I say—”

—CLANG! SLASH!

“Ugh?!”

“I've got you all figured out. A bastard whose head is stuffed to bursting with nothing but inferiority.”

He didn't run.

Theo Ramstair.

He was, in name and in fact, Karsein's principal enemy of Chapter 1 — no different in substance from Emma or her maids.

His conduct alone made it plain: the man was cunning and crafty to the bone. He isolated Karsein with surgical precision, learned exactly how he was treated within the ducal residence, and manufactured scenes that were, to any outside observer, perfectly calculated to invite misunderstanding.

Worse, he sat at the very top of the probationary knights and would be a fully ordained knight within a few months. From Karsein's position, he was an opponent who ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠could never ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be beaten.

But the Theo Ramstair I was looking at was no strongman of that caliber.

He was pathetically, endlessly weak. So deficient that he couldn't even accept himself as he was.

And that was exactly why he had tried to borrow the strength of others instead of relying on his own.

Men like him live by a single iron rule: never touch anyone stronger than yourself. Instead, torment the weaker without limit. If someone looks useful, take them in and use them; gang up in numbers to crush them under pressure. And then believe that is power. Believe that the strength of a crowd herded beneath you is your own strength — even though such a hollow illusion could never, not once, truly be theirs.

He had never built anything layer by layer, brick by patient brick. He had forcibly borrowed what belonged to others and made it look like his own construction. He had never put in the work. He simply used easier, more convenient means — releasing people like tools to seize dominion over them. Hastily. Impatiently. Unable to wait.

That was the whole of it: a man who had never once raised a tower of honest effort, resorting to shortcuts.

Why does someone do this? Because they are lacking. Because they gave up. Because they envied and resented those who had. Because they stepped off the road everyone else was building through sheer persistence, and looked away.

Inferiority.

He simply couldn't overcome that petty, wretched feeling — all while rationalizing, uglily enough, that this method was the right one after all.

Maybe that was why he and Flora were alike, in the end. Maybe it was inevitable that all of them were my enemies in this episode. The third daughter, and Flora too. They shared the same intersection: that thing called inferiority. Because each of them had been living with the thought that they might have what was theirs — their own family — stolen away.

And so.

—CLANG! SLASH!

“Ugh...?!”

I will not lose.

I refuse to lose to Theo Ramstair — a thug who, in the end, possessed no real strength whatsoever. That was what Yoonji had taught me. That was how ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Hyunsung had drilled it into me.

“Do you even understand why I'm cutting you down right now?”

“Shut that mouth...!”

“You never learned to swing properly — you just picked out weak targets and slashed away. So of course you never built any real skill underneath.”

“I told you to shut up, you commoner bastard!!”

WHOOSH! WHOOSH!

A sword with nothing but raw strength behind it, like Bruce's, is an easy thing to deal with. A little better, perhaps — but six of one, half a dozen of the other. A man who had never trained his body honestly, faking his way through with one shortcut after another, had never even achieved balance in his own flesh.

Now I could see it. His weight was pitched forward, yet his movements were those of a marked coward with conspicuously poor initiative — his legs did nothing but act as a prop behind him. Charging in mindlessly and crushing things down with brute force. Beyond that, the man had no technique whatsoever.

—SNICK!

His muscles twisted, caught in a counter he never saw coming, and I laid a light gash across his arm.

—SNICK!

Gritting his teeth, Theo Ramstair came charging again. This time I opened a light cut on the other side.

Twice. In a row.

By now, any thought of coincidence would have been discarded. And sure enough, when he could no longer stomach the feeling of being toyed with, he lunged —

—and I seized his blade, wrenched it aside, and drove a fist straight into his face.

“Guhack!”

He went down in a heap. The fool sprawled there, already gasping for breath — when it should have been me, by rights, who ran out of wind first.

“A pile of stones slapped together with cheap tricks instead of a tower built on solid ground means nothing at all. That's why you can never beat me.”

“You...!”

“Say it honestly. You've never once applied yourself, have you?”

He'd only ever slunk away through some underhanded exit, every single time.

“AAAAARGH!!!”

The eyes that had glinted with madness rolled back completely. He swung his sword like a man possessed, with everything he had.

But nothing connected anymore. The blood that had clung to my blade, even briefly, had long since been flung away — smeared onto the floor and hardened into a dark crust. From the moment that first blood began to dry, I had not allowed him a single strike.

—THUD!

Another fist, rammed into his face. His nose was broken now, blood dripping in a steady stream. It wasn't enough that the ugly true face hidden beneath that pretty exterior had been stripped bare — he was a wretched sight besides.

It was about time to wrap this up.

He had planted his sword in the floor and was barely holding himself upright with it. I leisurely leveled my blade at him.

“A disgrace to your rank. That sword of yours is nothing but a walking stick, it seems.”

“You worthless commoner...!”

It was a crude, obvious provocation — and he came lunging all the same, right on schedule. He'd never known, when he was the one taunting Karsein, how deeply that boy must have been seething inside.

So I'm going to pay you back for all of it — with interest, many times over.

Even if it means breaking the promise I made to Yoonji and Hyunsung.

───!

The blade, struck with brutal force, went flying through the air. It caromed off the ceiling and clattered down onto the floor, collapsing with a bright ring —

—split clean in two.

“A-a mana-infused sword... breaking...?”

“It's not a matter of mana.”

“What did you say?”

“You wouldn't know, swinging it around like a madman. Where and how to grip it determines which part of the blade grows weak. How the load shifts through body and sword depending on where your center of gravity sits.”

“Don't make me laugh. You're saying that I — that I was utterly defeated by the likes of you...?!”

Yes. Of course he couldn't accept it. I still remember, even now — the defeated faces of those thuggish punks who'd come sneering at me just for belonging to the group, and got beaten black and blue for it. That was you exactly, Theo Ramstair.

—SPLURT!

“GUAAAAGH!!!”

As the blade bit into flesh and spewed bright red blood, a cry of agony finally tore from his own mouth.

“You failed to harm me, and instead you pinned a false crime on me. And in doing so, you cut down an innocent man so badly he lost the use of his arm. So doesn't it follow that you should receive exactly the same?”

“Wh-what? Don't tell me you—”

—CRACKLE-CRACK!

With the sickening sound of something being torn apart, Theo Ramstair's scream rang through the cabin. The sword embedded in his back was ground deeper and deeper, still twisting, until the cabin floor was soaked through with blood.

“Whatever reality you'd rather not accept is none of my concern. But if you destroy someone else's reality, you pay a price to match.”

“S-stop. Sto—AAAGH!!”

—CRUNCH!

I can feel it through the tip of the blade. Just now — a bone cracked. So that he could savor every moment of the pain, I gently tapped the fractured bone with the point of my sword.

“This is for Radiel Grupein.”

“AAAAARGH!!”

“This is for Mark Redeltain, who's been run ragged because of you.”

“GUAAAAGH!! S-stop, stop!!”

“This is for Karsein Bagrand, who turned into the very perpetrator he despised because of your petty inferiority complex.”

“AAAAAH!! P-please! Please, stop!!”

And this last one — I suppose it belongs to someone I don't know at all. The me I used to be.

“If your arms still worked, I suppose you could slave away in the mines for a few decades and buy your way back out with bribes, just like before. You are a knight in name, after all. But what happens if your arms are no longer functional, like now?”

“N-no. No!! Stop it right now—!!”

“You reap what you sow, you bastard.”

Get ignored to your heart's content. Suffer many times over — tens of times, thousands of times — the pain those people endured. And then rot away in a labor camp carrying it.

—CRACK-CRACK.

The fractured bone snapped clean through. The man would never fully use that arm again. Even if a surgeon from the modern world rushed in this very instant and operated, a complete recovery would be impossible.

Brought down by shock, he collapsed in a foam of spittle.

I looked upon the scene with complete detachment. It wasn't quite murder, but I was cutting a man with a blade, destroying his body — and even knowing that, not a tremor ran through me.

...Perhaps this, too, was Karsein's rage, pouring out through me. Thinking that, I turned around.

Flora was staring at me, ashen. She looked thoroughly shocked. Two people willing to kill each other had fought and bled right in front of her — far too much for such a little girl to witness, whatever else might be said.

Not that it stirred any sympathy or concern in me, of course.

I'm reaching my limit, aren't I.

To be honest — I pushed myself too hard. Karsein's body was frail to begin with, and I had poured out that level of focus in mere seconds. There was no way that was normal. How was a modern man supposed to calmly handle a situation where blades crossed and lives were on the line? I'd never experienced blood spraying, skin splitting, bones shattering — not with this body, not with my mind.

I was exhausted. Body and soul, both.

Judging by the progress window, this was apparently the end of it — thank goodness.

I clung to my fading consciousness with everything I had and pulled the gag from Flora's mouth. Then I cut her bindings, freeing her hands and feet...

My work here was done. My vision was starting to blur at the edges.

“K-Karsein!”

There. With the episode cleared, the bad ending should be fully averted.

“───! ─────!!”

In the moment my senses were slipping away, Flora seemed to be saying something to me...

Don't know. Right now, I'm just going to lie down right here and sleep.

Just watching him fight with a sword in hand had made her heart hammer wildly. Every time a thread of blood streamed down, she shrank in on herself; every time his clothes tore, or he was trampled and pierced in one place after another, it swelled up again. Beat after beat — pounding, shrinking, swelling — and in the middle of it all, Karsein had felled Theo and was already walking toward her.

The shackles were gone. The rope binding her hands had vanished. Even the gag had fallen away, and her mouth was free.

But her eyes remained fixed on Karsein.

—Thud.

“K-Karsein!”

When he suddenly collapsed, her heart lurched. She caught him at once with both arms, the rope marks still raw upon them — but she was far too frail to hold him properly. All she managed was to cradle his head so he wouldn't be hurt further.

But Karsein's eyes had already closed.

“W-wake up! Wake uuuup!!”

Fear seized her in an instant. The scene from the dream flashed through her mind — the moment he collapsed and never got up. Blood was seeping from Karsein's wounds, one after another, all across his body.

“B-blood...”

The blood smeared thick across both her hands felt horrifying. It was a sickening sensation. When it had only been the liquid that leaked out of her own scrapes, blood had seemed nothing more than a nuisance. But now, with Karsein's blood — blood that was not hers — coating her hands to the wrists, no such petty thought would come at all.

“I-I don't want this. I don't want it...!”

She was terrified. That this blood was Karsein's. She was frightened. That it was spilling because of her — from wounds he'd taken for her sake. It felt as though Karsein might die just like this, as though the scene from that dream was about to come true.

Shedding pathetic, chicken-drop tears, Flora pulled him into her arms and began to beg.

“Please, please, somebody help hiiiim!!”

Perhaps that desperate cry carried beyond the cabin. Before long, the two elder daughters of the duchy arrived, and emergency treatment for Karsein began at once.

The physician was saying something, but she couldn't hear it. Even when he said the wounds were light, her ears had simply shut themselves.

In that moment, Flora was still clutching Karsein's hand tightly, weeping.

“I-it's all my faulth tho, please wake uuuup...”

She prayed and prayed. That he would wake — the boy who had come to this because of her. That he would not burn away and vanish, like in the dream.

“I'm thorry... tho please, *sniff*, wake up...”

I'm sorry for making you like this because of me. I was wrong. I'm sorry. So please don't fall like this — please, get up.

Her words slurred and crumbled, and she couldn't actually put them into her mouth. But at last, all those feelings that had tasted only of displeasure were finally loosening. Only once she had forced even a fragment of those words past her lips could she fully accept them.