The Dishonored Memorial

"Are they truly… heroes who devoted themselves to the continent and to humanity?"

For Priest Andrew, it was simply incomprehensible.

How could anyone shatter the gravestones of comrades who had fought and died beside them so easily?

Five hundred knights who had set out together on the Great Expedition into the Demon Realm — men who had led from the front, who had given everything of themselves. They had never shaken the continent the way the Eight Heroes had. Almost no one even knew their names. But here, in the Knight's Garden, the townsfolk had spent their own hard-earned money to raise a memorial in their honor.

Andrew could not begin to understand why anyone would smash it and defile it.

"…"

I stood still at the center of the city square, watching the shattered fragments of the memorial scatter on the wind.

Under ordinary circumstances, the names of five hundred knights would have been carved into that stone.

"James, Noah, Lucas, Jacob, Sion, Bihma, Bram…"

Their names were still vivid in my mind. They should have been engraved there. They had earned that much.

They had stood with me at the vanguard of the Demon Realm and given their lives ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in pure devotion. They had been honorable people — the kind who could throw away their own lives to protect family, friends, or someone they had never even met.

But the memorial was broken. Its surface had been ground away and filled instead with other names.

As if their own praise mattered more than five hundred knights. They had packed the stone full of themselves.

I thought I understood how the Eight Heroes — or at least Maxim — regarded the dead of the Great Expedition.

They were shoving aside the ones who had truly fought. Erasing them. Wiping out even the fact that those people had ever taken part in the Great Expedition — just as they had done with Wilhelm.

"…The honorable ones all died that day."

Only those who knew nothing of honor ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠remained. Cowards and the utterly shameless were the ones who survived.

I had no intention of pinning blame on people who had fled from fear. Fear is instinct, and that place had been hell.

But for men who had run away to erase that fact entirely — and worse, to drag the honor of those who had fought with everything they had through the mud — that was something I could not stand to watch with open eyes.

And it was not enough for them to diminish that honor. They claimed it as their own, turning the real into the false and the false into the real. I was sick of it.

Among those eight who so loudly cried out about honor, there were even some who had never set foot on the Great Expedition at all. Laughable.

I genuinely wanted to know.

Why do this?

The world was in danger. Pangenia, Earth — all of it was at risk. This was a time when even joining forces would not be enough. So why were they so determined to tear everything apart?

Why were they so determined to make me this angry?

"Bring it down!"

"That side! Put more force into it!"

"Whoa — it's falling!"

KUUUUUNG!

I turned toward the roar. Statues were toppling.

Statues modeled after the honorable knights who had once led the Knight's Garden — the very identity and pride of this city. They were using the townsfolk to tear them down.

"I can't do this anymore!"

"Why do we have to do this?"

"If you want them down so badly, do it yourselves!"

The people pushed back. A soldier drew his sword.

"You want your heads cut off and hung in the square too? This is a direct order from Maxim of the Eight Heroes. Marquis Weiser agreed to it."

"He was threatened into it! There's no way the Marquis would have agreed!"

"You bastards. What kind of Eight Heroes are you? What did Granny May ever do wrong?"

"She was finally starting to find the will to live again — and you did this to her!"

"You sons of bitches! I've had enough!"

As the people rose up, the soldiers met them head-on.

"Anyone who resists dies!"

"You think that scares us?"

"Draw steel!"

Even if they were Maxim's soldiers, Maxim himself still belonged to the Balan Kingdom. Those soldiers belonged to the Balan Kingdom. This city belonged to the Balan Kingdom.

And yet they drew their blades on their own people without a second thought. They did not even hesitate to kill.

I looked at the severed head hanging in the square.

May.

The old woman who had been weeping before the memorial the first time I visited this city. The great-grandmother of Sion — one of the five hundred knights whose names had been carved into that stone. I remembered carrying her collapsed form to Priest Andrew.

She had finally, just barely, begun trying to live again after nights spent drowning in tears, unable to accept her grandson's death.

And the problem had been that stone. She had protested because her grandson's name had been erased from it — and they had cut off her head for it.

Ignore it and leave. If Maxim learns that the Successor is here, he will not sit still.

Priest Andrew's words echoed in my mind.

Ignore it. Avoid it.

He was right, in the practical sense. Maxim was strong. Coward or not, he had been the captain of the mercenary company I myself had hired. Level 10 at minimum — and a Level 10 who held the qualification for Transcendence.

The qualification for Transcendence meant raising every single stat to its level cap. Only those who reached Level 10 and pushed every attribute to 100 could Transcend.

If he had grown even stronger since then — or if, by some chance, he had already Transcended — I stood no chance of winning as I was now.

The most realistic option would be to ask the White King for help. Level Maxim's city together with him.

"Aaagh!"

"You bastards!"

So was I supposed to endure it?

Compromise with reality. Pretend I had not seen it, at least for now.

"I'll handle this."

"Isn't this exactly why you hired me? To get my hands dirty when it counts?"

Isabella and Isaac drew their weapons.

In that instant—

For the first time, the three of us fell into perfect sync.

I shook my head.

I would not endure this.

As the Knight King — as the one who had led them — rage was the only answer that made sense.

"So you're the fraud who claims to be the Knight King's successor?"

Maxim spun a dagger between his fingers and sneered. He had wondered who was causing all the noise — and it turned out to be some con man calling himself the Knight King's heir.

How many had claimed that title after Knight King Wilhelm's death?

"Hilarious. A mere Level 6, calling himself the Knight King's successor!"

Maxim threw his head back and laughed. The one who had stirred up this entire mess was only Level 6.

Maxim could see his opponent's level. His observation skill, Level Confirmation — Transcended twice over — locked in and displayed the level of everything that existed in Pangenia. It revealed nothing else, but that alone was more than enough. Aside from targets with the Unobservable option, he could pin down every single one.

That was how Maxim had survived this long. He only ever fought enemies whose levels he could beat. A Level 6 was something he could kill with a single finger.

He's not alone. Not that his little friends will amount to much either.

He did not believe this fake successor had reached this place on his own. And there were still people out there butchering the soldiers of the lord's castle. Party members, most likely. That was the only way any of this made sense.

"Marquis Weiser — did you bring this fake in to kill me?"

"…!"

"What am I to do? Once I kill him, I'll have to extract a price from you as well…"

"Deserter Maxim."

"…?"

Deserter Maxim. Maxim's brow furrowed.

"Are you talking to me?"

"You — who turned tail and ran the moment you laid eyes on Ahram, without so much as a glance back. How is it that someone like you is called one of the Eight Heroes?"

"…"

"You abandoned three hundred mercenaries who had shared life and death with you just to save your own skin. How did a man like that become a hero?"

"…!"

The smile vanished from Maxim's lips.

Almost no one knew about his desertion. Aside from the rest of the Eight Heroes, everyone else was dead ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠— or he had killed them himself. And yet here stood a self-proclaimed successor of the Knight King, spouting things no one should know.

"You're talking garbage."

"Come to think of it, you still owe me money."

"Money?"

"Twelve million gold. The fee I paid to hire the likes of you."

"…!!!"

That sum — paid to Maxim personally, separate from the contract for the mercenary company — was known only to the two parties involved. Only to Maxim himself, and to Knight King Wilhelm.

Maxim's mind snapped into sharp focus.

A man who knew things no one else could know.

"You… don't tell me…"

It couldn't be. One chance in ten million.

What if the fake standing in front of him was not a fake at all?

The Knight King Wilhelm's true disciple. Someone connected. Or—

Phantom…

The Player, Phantom!

Nothing else made sense. But a Level 6 strutting up to him with this much arrogance was clearly not Phantom. Phantom, like Maxim, never picked a fight he would lose.

Even if he was not Phantom, he was someone very close to him. That much was certain.

Push him to the brink of death and he'll spill everything on his own.

If he could identify Phantom and lure him into a trap — if he could seize that information — he would grow stronger faster than anyone alive. Becoming not one of the Eight Heroes, but the sole Hero, would only be a matter of time.

HWAAAAAAK!

Black flames erupted across Maxim's entire body.

Demon Heart. The power that had made him far stronger — a force like a star itself.

I'll end this quickly.

A mere Level 6. He could tear him apart with one finger. The man would not even see him move.

Maxim kicked off the ground. Accelerating, he closed the distance in an instant and swung his dagger at the man's shoulder — intending to sever every muscle and tendon, then pour boiling water and salt into the wounds until even forgotten memories came pouring out.

CHAAAAANG!

…It was blocked.

The man had seen the movement and stopped it cleanly. Maxim could not help but be baffled.

What was that just now?

That had not been the movement of a Level 6. And his hand and wrist burned as if they were on fire. No crude iron sword should have been able to deal that kind of damage.

"Holy water…!"

Only then did Maxim realize that both of the man's iron swords were coated in holy water. And not ordinary holy water — the highest grade, without question. Just clashing blades had produced this much of a reaction.

"So you had something to lean on."

Maxim smiled thinly. Of course. He would not have charged in without some kind of insurance.

But Maxim still did not believe he would lose. So what if the blades were coated in holy water? All he had to do was not get hit. Holy water of that quality would not exist in large quantities. At best, a thin smear along the blade.

Malice Acceleration.

Maxim's heart began to hammer wildly. His eyes flooded black, and the world slowed to a crawl. A world accelerated for him alone — the absolute authority he had gained by absorbing the Demon Heart.

Toward the sluggish figure before him, Maxim moved in every direction at once, spinning at a speed that left afterimages in his wake. It was dazzling. A pure mockery. The man would collapse without ever knowing where he had been stabbed, standing stock-still. A few more rounds of this and the sheer helplessness would make his teeth grind.

With a smile of pure satisfaction, Maxim drove his dagger home.

Sssssk!

Thuk!

"Guh…?"

But the short, strangled cry came from his own mouth.

Out of all those afterimages, the man had found the real body and driven his blade home with perfect precision. Maxim had no idea how — but ordinary wounds would regenerate through the Demon Heart's power.

Except Maxim could not collect himself at all.

What… what is this? This much holy water?

The flesh around the wound in his chest was dying at a terrifying rate. A high-level body was hard as steel. Flesh reinforced by a Demon Heart could not be cut by anything.

And yet it had been cut. Cut, and rotting. Regeneration was impossible.

He could not believe it. He refused to believe it.

How could a mere Level 6 track the movements of someone who had surpassed Level 10 — and land a hit on top of it? This was not a light coating of holy water.

The entire sword had been drenched in it.