Chapter 71
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 71
Patrick, who had been bellowing at the top of his lungs, glared at Swallow, his voice sharp with irritation. Swallow remained silent.
“Huh? Boss?”
He didn’t budge.
“Boss, are you actually asleep?”
Only after a long moment passed with no answer did Patrick clutch his head in his hands.
It felt like his skull was about to split open.
“Wow… I’m losing my mind.”
* * *
A light drizzle fell over the ruined land.
The rain cooled the ravaged town. The soft patter seemed to mourn for the few residents who had survived.
Rosalina leaned against a back-alley wall, staring blankly at the ground. She had waited for hours at their usual gathering spot, but no one came. Now, there wasn't even anyone left to stand in the rain with her.
Though Hastin had been saved, not a single soul from the back alleys had been spared.
She was the sole survivor.
Rosalina held out a hand, and the raindrops dissolved against her palm. Her disheveled hair was plastered to her head by the downpour. From the tips, droplets—tears or rain, she couldn't tell which—ran down her face.
Salvation was supposed to mean survival, but what good was it if she was the only one left?
“…Nothing is left.”
A hollow laugh escaped her lips.
This town would survive. The ones who saved it weren't human; they could solve problems beyond human capability. They had promised salvation, so the town would slowly return to its former self. Flowers would bloom in the spring, and fruit would ripen in the autumn.
She hated the very thought of it.
She resented it. She didn't know who she resented, but the feeling was there, burning past resentment and into pure hatred. She hated everything.
The fact that she had been saved meant nothing to her. Being the only one was meaningless.
She needed somewhere to direct her hatred.
“Ah.”
Suddenly, the drizzle turned into a heavy downpour. Standing in the torrential rain, Rosalina began to wonder.
Whose fault was this?
Listening to the distant wails of the other survivors, she asked herself again and again.
Who killed everyone?
Epilogue. 2
Citizens for the Empire.
Or, the Empire for its citizens.
“Ar Edelbreas Galf Rivisten.”
A solemn voice called his name, echoing through the most sacred chamber in the Imperial Palace.
Snapping out of a brief reverie, Ar lifted his deeply bowed head just enough to see his own knees—the highest his gaze was permitted to rise.
The being before him was one he dared not, must not, look upon.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The Emperor of the Empire, Gilberic Manuel Logphellus.
It had been just over half an hour since Ar had entered the audience chamber.
A month had passed since the ‘Black Disaster’ descended upon Riaze. While countless things had changed, the aftershocks of that event had also sent tremors through the highest echelons of the Empire.
Slander and conspiracy flew like daggers. Those who couldn't adapt were devoured. New faces now occupied thrones still stained with the blood of the purged.
In this eat-or-be-eaten slaughterhouse of power, Ar was on the side of the devourers.
“I called your name, thinking my preamble had grown too long, yet your voice betrays no weariness. Good. With the lives of countless subjugation squad members resting on your shoulders, I cannot afford for you to be fatigued.”
“You are too kind, Your Majesty. Your golden words only served to steel my resolve.”
“My expectations for you are high.”
Ar remained silent, merely keeping his head bowed as was proper.
After the one-sided conversation finally concluded and he had received his numerous commands, Ar was permitted to leave the audience chamber. The moment he stepped out and crossed the corridor, a woman who had been waiting for him fell into step beside him.
She was a one-armed woman with pink hair, dressed in the silver uniform of an executive of the Edelbreas Black Wolf Knights.
“…Did it go well?”
“My to-do list just grew,” Ar replied curtly to Garot’s question.
Now that the former leadership of the Imperial Dungeon Subjugation Headquarters had been stripped of their power, Ar, armed with the Emperor's favor and absolute authority over all dungeon matters, had no time to spare. In two hours, a meeting regarding the subjugation of an A-rank Dungeon in the Annun Plains awaited him.
But there was somewhere he had to go first.
The two spoke as they quickened their pace.
“What about the warrant for Paimore?”
“There’s been no word since the empire-wide warrant was issued three weeks ago. He's a fugitive, but as a noble who amassed immense wealth, he surely has accomplices. Tracking him will be difficult.”
“The warrant itself is the message. There’s little to gain from actually purging Paimore. Reduce the manpower assigned to the investigation.”
“Understood.”
“Any other reports?”
“Fix your collar.”
“The audience is over. Something more important.”
“You have a meeting with the Pope of Yuranesia the day after tomorrow.”
“Gather all available information before then.”
Their conversation flowed without a pause. As soon as they exited the Imperial Palace, a waiting sky carriage immediately took them aboard.
The carriage, drawn by two 5th-generation homunculi, soared through the skies of Riaze. Ar paused their conversation to glance out the window, his eyes sweeping over the unrecovered scars of the city below. Among the ruins was Survey Rose, the epicenter of the destruction.
Though the recovery was proceeding smoothly, there was so much to rebuild that the city was still a far cry from its former glory.
After a few minutes of flight, the carriage landed swiftly.
Entering a building made of apricot-colored bricks, Ar and Garot walked in silence down an endless corridor. They passed through several security checkpoints and continued deep into the grand structure before finally stopping.
“What should we do if we’re late for the meeting?”
“Have them wait until I arrive.”
Instead of replying, Garot simply leaned against the opposite wall and closed her eyes. As her thoughts grew tangled, a phantom pain flared where her arm used to be.
Ar stood before the door for a few seconds before slowly pushing the massive doors open.
The room was bright. Golden sunlight streamed endlessly through a large window.
Inside the bright room was a large bed.
And upon the large bed lay a girl.
At the sound of the door opening, the girl turned her head toward Ar.
Ar, in turn, spoke her name.
“Uin Historia.”
*
After Story
It was the third day since the undead had vanished from Hastin.
She held out her hands to receive the day’s relief supplies.
Though it was the same relief effort, the quality was on a completely different level from just a few days ago. The food was better, and there was much more of it. The daily rations were so abundant that no one could finish them in a single day. With food overflowing, there was no reason for people to fight over it. The same was true for all other supplies.
It was a peace that had arrived only after death had swept through.
Salvation poured down upon the barren land.
No one questioned its source. Instead, praises for the young lord spilled from the mouths of the survivors. According to them, these relief supplies were another virtue bestowed by the lord—an act of mercy.
The rumor, its origin unknown, soon became accepted as truth, and everyone began to sing the same tune.
“Our great Lord Lara saved the town!”
…Saved them? Her? This is what salvation looks like? The great Lord Lara? That irresponsible girl who did nothing but tremble in fear?
“…Lies.”
Rosalina muttered. Her throat was parched, and only a dry, rasping sound came out.
Tearing open the bundle of supplies, she quenched her thirst with a water bottle. Her eyes drifted to the high-quality meat packed inside, but she had no appetite.
Packing the rest away, she forced her legs to move, whipping herself onward. She walked and walked.
When she finally trudged back to the back alleys, no one was there.
A lukewarm breeze blew through the empty space. After standing blankly for a long while, Rosalina walked over to her usual spot and slumped to the ground.
The space felt vast. Too vast and lonely for just one person. The ground was cold, and her body was cold, but there was no one left to share warmth with.
It had been everyone’s home. Now, it was only hers.
“I’m home,” she muttered in a lifeless voice.
Forget an answer; not even a whisper of static replied. She missed the nagging she should have been hearing right about now. She missed the Captain’s reassuring smile from the corner.
“How long are you going to live relying on others like that?”
“How much do I have to nag you before you grow into someone others can rely on?”
“No…”
If this was what it took to become ‘someone others can rely on,’ as Toth had said—if becoming an adult meant enduring this kind of pain—then she didn't want it. She would rather remain an immature child forever than live like this.
If she had to live like this…
‘If I have to live like this, I’d rather…’
Her body moved before her mind could choose a destination.
Living no longer felt like living. In that, she was no different from the undead, who felt nothing of death even as they walked.
Rosalina walked like one of them. Rather than wandering at the crossroads of life and death, it was better to lean toward one side. And so, she walked.
Ugh, blech.
Walking the streets at this hour, the sound of retching was constant. It was the sound of Hastin’s residents eating, and then immediately throwing it all up.
Whether they had starved for a few days or several weeks, their bodies could no longer easily accept food.
They forced it down and forced it back up. This was how they lived now. They went to such lengths just to stay alive.
Do they really have to try that hard? She didn't know why. She only knew that even in this cycle of eating and vomiting, some people still died.
At the end of the path her subconscious had chosen for her stood a massive old tree. This was the answer it had found.
The old tree, with a circumference of over four meters, had hundreds of branches stretching out to match its size. Dozens of them were sturdy enough to support a person’s weight.
…And fruit was already hanging in clusters. It seemed quite a few residents had shared her thoughts. People called the dangling bodies human fruit. Some called it karma.
Either name was fine. Looking at the tree gave her a strange feeling. The guardian tree that had once protected the town had become the Causal Tree.
A number of people were gathered around it. The terrible stench kept them from getting too close, but they hovered nearby, lingering.
They were the ones who wanted to die but lacked the courage.
As Rosalina approached, they all turned to look at her. Their eyes held nothing but raw curiosity.
Rosalina was already famous in Hastin. She was the tragic child who lost her parents and fell into the back alleys; she was the sole survivor of an alley where everyone else had perished; she was the one who had stared the undead in the eye and lived.
She was the most despairing figure in all of Hastin.
Soon, every eye was fixed on her.
They seemed to be waiting for her to speak. Torn between life and death, they looked to Rosalina—the very picture of despair—to make the choice for them.
I am in so much pain.
I have come to die.
They wanted to hear those words from her lips. They wanted her to give them the courage to die that they themselves lacked.
…
“I am in pain.”
After a long pause, Rosalina finally parted her lips, her voice slow and deliberate.
At that first phrase, the despair brewing in every heart swelled to the brim.
“There is no meaning in living. I want to die.”
Everyone leaned in, anticipating her next words. They wanted her to champion death, to say, Since there is no point in living, let us die together.
“But.”
But,
for three days.
“Think about it.”
Rosalina had thought and thought.
“Why did things turn out like this?”
It was so unfair.
“Whose fault is it?”
It was so unfair.
“Who killed everyone?”
It was so unfair.
“Who should we resent?”
Who was there to resent? She had considered it countless times. At first, she blamed herself, her own incompetence. But after turning the thought over and over, she realized that wasn't it. This wasn't something her incompetence had caused.
Next, she resented the lord. It’s all because of that useless lord. Yes, if the lord had handled things properly, everyone could have lived. But that, too, was wrong. If it were the lord’s fault, then nothing should have happened while the lord was away. But it had.
On her third attempt, Rosalina found the cause. The glaringly obvious cause that had been there all along.
It was the undead.
If not for the undead—even if she was incompetent, even if the lord was absent—none of this would have happened. Yes, the undead were the sin. The undead had pushed her, and everyone else, into this abyss.
“A worthless death is meaningless, isn't it?”
Rosalina spoke in a gentle voice. Her gestures, her smile, her approach—she had observed and learned them all. They were the same actions used by the bishop who had once deceived so many of Hastin's people.
“If we’re going to die anyway,” she said, her voice a soothing poison, “let’s take revenge on the ones who made us this way.”
To simply die would be far too unfair.
The undead. We must annihilate the undead.