A One-Night Love
I whistled softly, rolling the amethyst across my palm. The unexpected windfall from a few days ago had put me in high spirits. After everything I had endured as the Hero, surely I was entitled to at least one souvenir on my journey back home, wasn't I? Not that I expected to fight much anymore, but if it ever came down to it, the gem would still prove useful.
Pondering what to do with the jewel, I ended up embedding it into my black sword. Oh, looks pretty nice. I stripped off my armor and stowed it into sub-space along with the blade. Even without reaching the ultimate realm, magic truly was convenient.
Count Cerindel's pursuit party was still dogging my trail, but to be frank, I wasn't particularly worried. The man was a Swordmaster, sure, but I had reached that level of attainment lifetimes ago. I just hadn't crossed over into a true transcendent Realm like Sayne had, that was all.
Shrugging off those idle thoughts, I stepped out of the dark mages' lair, feeling refreshed after putting down a band of bandits moments before. Yet something gave me pause—a summoning circle left behind by those dark mages, which had been nagging at the back of my mind for days. A memory from a few days back resurfaced without warning.
...What on earth were they trying to summon?
No matter how hard I tried to shake it from my mind, that memory—that persistent curiosity—dogged me with relentless tenacity.
Fine, I couldn't just ignore it. Let's trace back the possibilities. Normally, when an entity from another realm was summoned, it was a spirit. Vessels of immense elemental might, they were capable of overturning mountains and sinking entire islands once they attained the rank of a Spirit King. Or, as rumors had it, on rare occasions an angel—an emissary of the gods—might answer the call. Yet with that particular circle, I couldn't even begin to guess what they were trying to summon. Granted, deciphering an incomplete circle was practically impossible anyway, but for some reason, the damn thing lingered in the back of my mind, refusing to leave me alone.
I pulled out a slender booklet I had seized from their hideout. Recorded within were the names, sizes, and strongholds of the dark mages collaborating with the ones I had just killed. To my dismay, the largest syndicate among them was located right next to my hometown. A gathering of the most formidable dark mages on the continent, save for Grandis herself, right on the border of a tiny backwater fief.
...Just thinking about it left an unpleasant chill running down my spine.
I tossed the booklet back into sub-space. I hated how a sudden, stray thought could unnerve me like this.
The Imperial Capital was buzzing over the triumphant news that had arrived for the first time in ages. In the battle defending the Empire's key stronghold, the Hero had not merely held the walls; he had taken the offensive, completely annihilating the enemy Corps Commander and the entire legion down to the last soldier. Once word spread that every strategy had sprung from the Hero's mind, and that he had bought time entirely alone against the Corps Commander, the entire Empire erupted in praise of his name. Even the Church joined the chorus of adulation, proclaiming that no Hero in history had distinguished himself so brilliantly, so swiftly.
"...Therefore, We bestow upon Hero Einzel the surname Leonhardt. May his future be ever filled with peace and victory."
Seated upon his imperial throne, his ashen beard and wrinkled skin draped beneath opulent robes and glittering jewelry, the Emperor proclaimed the decree. In a colossal hall adorned with every manner of marble and gemstone, Einzel knelt to receive the noble name. Countless aristocrats draped in lavish garments and dazzling regalia surrounded him, their gazes fixed upon his investiture.
Leonhardt. In the ancient tongue, it signified one who possessed the heart of a lion—a warrior as valiant as a lion itself.
He bowed his head, laughing silently into the shadows.
Valiant? Who? Surely not this pathetic fool who, despite bearing the grand title of Hero, couldn't defeat a single foe cleanly and succumbed to sheer agony and terror?
Contempt for himself curled his lips into a bitter sneer.
Regardless, the Hero was paraded from one banquet and celebration to the next, dutifully presenting the dignified, noble image expected of him. The commoner Hero, who wasn't even an imperial citizen, was soon romanticized into the scion of some forgotten ancient royal bloodline, and everywhere he went, crowds lavished praise upon the proud, commanding bearing of him and his companions. Amidst the ceaseless celebrations, Einzel greeted his birthday, turning seventeen alongside Sayne, whose birthday preceded his own by a short margin.
"Fuck."
After the fifth banquet commemorating his birthday finally concluded, he emptied his glass alone and muttered under his breath.
"Every single one of these bastards keeps calling for me."
Einzel grimaced. Cursed with a life where he couldn't even die when he wished, he was forced to live bathed in the hollow blessings and praises of strangers. Upholding etiquette wasn't hard; he merely had to recite memorized courtly manners to match the occasion. What truly tormented him was attending these gatherings in the first place.
He still remembered death. He still remembered agony. He still remembered terror.
And yet, he was forced to stand before people,
smiling,
deceiving,
smiling again,
and deceiving once more. As if his rightful place were at the pinnacle of glory and joy, like a conqueror who had never tasted pain.
For what?
They had never paid the price in blood. They had remained safely nestled far behind the front lines, indulging in the fruits bought by the countless lives he had dropped onto the cold dirt. Why should he care about putting on a facade to soothe their peace of mind? When his own heart had lost its way and desperately searched for a beacon, why must he stand before these parasites—who laughed, gossiped, and feasted without a care for the agony on the front lines—and spout empty platitudes like 'We will surely prevail!' when he doubted it more than anyone?
What did they even know about him to shower him with sweet words and lavish banquets for his birthday?
It was sickening. They were revolting, he was revolting, everything was—
Ah. Having already lost his will to live, drowning himself in alcohol had evidently backfired. His thoughts had turned venomous, his internal voice sharper and harsher than usual. He channeled his mana to purge the liquor from his system.
Exhaling a long breath, he summoned a practiced smile once more and walked toward the carriage to return to his assigned quarters.
He stepped inside the magnificent mansion provided by the Empire. He had heard it was constructed exclusively for the Hero, with a promise that ownership would be formally transferred once the Demon King was slain. Not that it mattered in the slightest. The moment he stripped off his clothes, he collapsed face-first onto the bed.
...I want to die.
But I can't.
Fuck.
Cycling through the familiar chain of thought he had repeated at least once a day ever since his first suicide attempt, he tried to empty his mind. When there was nothing to do, he had to keep his mind blank. The moment a thought crept in—especially any thought of pain—the Phantom Pain would strike without mercy. Even merely recalling its existence was enough.
Ah.
I'm fucked.
He cursed himself for the fatal blunder.
Ah, here it comes.
The instant he acknowledged the agony's existence, a cascade of pain tore violently through his body. It started with the sensation of having his skull caved in by an ogre. Then came the feeling of having his limbs snapped like twigs and being chewed alive. The sting of blades piercing his flesh. The searing torment of burning alive.
As thousands of phantom sensations scoured every corner of his body, even the strength to twitch a single finger evaporated.
...He thought he would grow numb to it over time, yet no matter how often he endured it, the agony never dulled.
He deliberately tried to turn his body over. Ah, dammit. He was currently reliving the sensation of having his arm ripped from its socket, leaving the limb dead and unmoving. He focused his mind on a single nerve. Good—a faint twitch. In that manner, he methodically regained control, working his way from major muscles down to the smallest joints.
To be frank, it was bitterly laughable. Others felt pain when an existing arm was lost, so why was he the one suffering the agony of an arm that had been restored?
Once sensation and control returned, he stared blankly at the ceiling. He indulged in the fantasy of meeting the Goddess and grabbing her by the collar, demanding to know why she had chosen him. That fantasy was shattered by a maid knocking at the door.
"Come in."
A girl with brown hair entered, roughly his own age. Come to think of it, he had left his rural hometown for the imperial capital with dreams of making something of himself. Having girls his age wait on him as maids—was this the success and prestige he had once yearned for? Hardly. He wasn't enjoying it in the least.
Pushing aside his idle thoughts, he met her eyes.
"What is it?"
The maid handed him a sealed letter. Breaking the seal revealed stationery decorated with ornate patterns, subtly bearing the watermark of a golden lion.
The crest of House Luderan.
Luderan was the foremost martial family in the Empire, and the house of his comrade, Sayne. Why House Luderan, of all people?
Tilting his head in confusion, he unfolded the letter.
...It was an invitation out of the blue. His birthday had already passed days ago, so why an invitation now? Worse, it wasn't even for a banquet; it was simply a request for a private meeting.
Did she have something to discuss in private?
He gave a faint shrug of his shoulders.