Porter: Johann 20
“Urgh...!”
Lately, skimping on meals had left him constipated. Vints squatted low, straining with everything he had. It was a pathetic sight.
After a brutal ten-minute battle, he finally finished his business. He wiped himself clean and stood, then washed his hands thoroughly with water from his canteen. Normally, he wouldn't bother with such meticulous cleanup, but the mage was around now. He couldn't let her see him looking filthy.
“Time to head back.”
Turning toward where the rest of his party waited, Vints suddenly sensed a suspicious presence. Instinctively, he drew the greatsword from his back. Even rusty, his draw was lightning-fast—a true hero bearing the stigma.
“Who's there!?”
A shadowy figure writhed about five meters ahead. Tension strung the air taut, like a bow drawn to its limit.
If it was a monster, it would charge without a word. His grip tightened on the hilt, his toes digging into the ground, ready to counter at any moment.
“Urgh...!”
What came back was a groan. Not a monster—there was something human in it.
Vints cautiously sheathed his sword, though he didn't fully relax. It could be a monster's trick.
“Hey! Who are you? You okay!?”
“Mmph...!”
Definitely human. Suspicion easing, Vints approached the dark shape. Up close, the blurry form sharpened into focus.
The groan came from a collapsed human, not a monster. The man was a wreck, covered head to toe in wounds.
“Hey! Don't tell me you're...”
No doubt about it. The missing Flame Hero from this dungeon. Vints remembered his face all too well—the bastard who'd stolen his beloved mage.
“Hey!”
“Mmph...!”
Thirsty, from the sound of it. Up close, the hero's state was dire. His gear hung in tatters worse than rags, blood streaming from his lower body.
His left arm was gone—who knew where. It was a miracle he was alive. Without the stigma's power, he'd have died twice over.
“Mmph...!”
He kept begging for water. Vints unhooked his canteen and trickled some into the man's mouth. As moisture hit the mummy-dry face, a flicker of life returned to those rotten-fish eyes. Still, he looked half-dead.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“Gulp! Gulp! Gulp!”
The Flame Hero drank with ferocious vigor, unbelievable for a dying man. Most in his condition couldn't muster the strength to swallow, but he guzzled like a man possessed. His will to live was inhuman—bordering on madness.
“Hah...! Hah...!”
Draining half the canteen, he panted raggedly. Somehow, he dragged himself upright.
His half-corpse appearance was goblin-gutted hideous, yet as he steadied his breathing and gathered himself, an immense killing intent radiated from him. Vints recoiled instinctively.
“The Priest... I'll have revenge... revenge for the Priest...”
He muttered like a man haunted, eyes fanatic, like some cult zealot. It was chilling to behold.
“Hey, you alright? Cursed or something?”
“Hah... I'm fine. Thanks for the water. You saved me.”
The Flame Hero answered surprisingly coherently.
“The Adventurer's Guild is in an uproar looking for you. Charging into this dungeon solo? What the hell were you thinking, pulling a stunt like that?”
“Revenge for the Priest...”
He mumbled nonsense again. Vints noticed a ragged scrap clutched in his right hand, crusted with dark blood—nothing like his own shredded gear.
“You look totally out of it. The mage joined my party just to find you.”
“The mage...? Oh, the mage... I did her wrong.”
Her name hit him like a gut punch, regret twisting his face like bitter potion on the tongue.
But he shook it off, steeling himself like a knight marching to holy war.
“I can't go back until I find the Priest's body.”
His voice rang resolute. Vints tilted his head.
Wasn't their Priest back in Start Village?
The mage had said so. So who was this Priest he meant?
Did I mix them up?
“The Priest? Your party's Priest? The blonde with the white skin and huge tits?”
“Yeah. She died in this dungeon because of my mistake...”
Vints eyed the cloth clutched in his fist—like a man grasping straw as he plummeted off a cliff.
“This is the Priest's keepsake. I can't go back without her body.”
“Uh... I might be confused here, but your Priest is...”
Vints started to spill the truth but clamped his mouth shut. Dark possibilities swirled in his mind.
What if he told him? The guy returns to the village, rebuilds his party, and the mage goes back to him...
'He's lost an arm. A one-armed cripple can't hack it as an adventurer. No way...'
Anxiety bloomed. He pictured the mage abandoning his healthy self for the cripple, himself on his knees begging, only for her to turn away coldly.
'If only this guy wasn't around...'
The wicked thought was irresistible. Winning love demanded more than kindness these days—bad boys were in vogue, right?
Vints reassessed. The Flame Hero before him teetered on death's edge—one arm gone, bleeding out badly. A miracle he still breathed.
His hand drifted to the greatsword's hilt on his back. He envisioned the draw.
One swift pull, straight into the chest. No need for stigma power—a single lethal strike. Mangle the corpse a bit, blame a monster. No one would question it in this hellhole.
Show the mage the body, shatter her heart. He'd slip into the void, the steadfast man by her side in grief.
The ultimate romance fantasy.
'Perfect!'
One tiny sin for the woman he loved. Who could blame him?
Resolution hardened.
“Hey, what do you think you're gonna do in that state?”
Vints tossed a question to distract him.
“Little rest and I'll be good. Managed to staunch the bleeding somehow.”
Unnecessary effort. If he'd bled out, Vints wouldn't have to get his hands dirty.
Even now, the bastard thwarted him.
Vints cursed inwardly as he drew his sword. A backstab—the guy had no guard for it.
“Farewell!”
Blade perpendicular to the ground, he swung down. Aiming for the heart—pierce the back, instant death.
Whoosh!
In that instant, lava-hot flames erupted. They formed a barrier, blocking the sword from the blind side.
“Kgh!”
Vints leaped back. The ambushed Flame Hero whirled around.
“What the hell are you?”
His blazing eyes lanced with killing intent. Vints realized: this guy was leagues beyond him.
Had he awakened something in the dungeon?
No time to think defense—his thoughts severed. The Flame Hero's sword had slit his throat. The spinning world was his last sight.
Thud!
Vints's head hit the ground.
And in that moment, a booming voice echoed from behind.
“Hero! Got the shits or what!? Why aren't you back!? We're heading out!”
A burly man appeared with the shout—combat robes marked him as a priest.
“How long does it take to take a...”
About to chew out the hero, the Priest fell silent at the scene. A speechless tableau: silence stretched between them.
The Priest broke it first.
“You... the hero the mage was looking for? Then why is our hero...?”
“......I can explain.”
The low voice made the Priest backpedal.
“W-Wait, you're a mimic, aren't you?”
“No. I'm human. He got what he deserved.”
“What?”
The situation defied comprehension. A hero dead, throat cleanly severed by sword.
The murder weapon? The sword in the other hero's hand. Undeniable fact.
“So, what happened was...”
Johann explained the moments before: this hero ambushed him first; he'd only countered.
“Y-You expect me to buy that!? Why would he attack you!?”
“No idea. But it's the truth.”
“Bullshit! You murderer!”
Johann sighed. Not a lie in sight, yet no convincing her. Irritation boiled.
“Probably after our loot! I'll report you to the Adventurer's Guild!”
Things twisted badly. His sword had beheaded the guy; she'd witnessed the aftermath.
Report to the Guild? It'd turn against him. Calm explanation might sway them, but...
“Annoying...”
Busy hunting the Priest's corpse, now this interference. Rage crested.
Whoosh!
Black flames danced along his sword. A newly awakened power, sworn amid vows to pulverize every monster for the Priest's vengeance.
It dwarfed his old strength—like child's play. Hatred-fueled, it raged hard to control. Destructive urges surged.
'Simple fix. No explanations needed.'
The devil whispered in his ear.
“Just die, you too.”
Johann's sword moved.