It's Because of You -2-

The fire's out. Even late at night. Even in the early dawn. The inn's lights, always kept burning, were extinguished.

Should I feel puzzled? Or brush it off as nothing? The emotion settling calmly in my senses was unease rather than confusion.

Mana was leaking from the inn. It was too potent to be from a mere adventurer, too eerie to belong to a mage. Now I get it. Why the inn's lights were out. Why an Apostle is up north. Things are finally starting to make sense.

"Black mana..."

The heretics' ultimate goal is the world's re-creation. Reviving their evil god to erase regrets from the past, sorrow over lost memories, and start anew—that's their ultimate aim. The weapon wielded by heretics chasing this pipe dream is black magic. An abnormal gunpowder fueled by emotions as ammunition.

The way to replenish black mana varies from person to person. Some through murder. Others through twisted justice. Still others through envy and jealousy. I don't know Olaf's condition, but one thing's clear: he didn't come north for no reason. He's the type holed up with the heretics, training believers.

Still, there's hope. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠This, maybe...

I quietly closed my eyes and extended my aura sense. Then let out a hollow laugh.

"Ha..."

I couldn't sense a thing. No presences. No count of people inside. Not even a scrap of information.

A difference in realms, huh...

As my mind wavered in that brief hesitation—

"Not even surprised anymore."

I let out a hollow chuckle, staring at the blue window. I'd dragged my feet too long.

I stretched, feeling the stiff throb of my heart.

Can I win?

Thump. Thump.

Gonna be tough, right?

What can I do? Can't fix the Young Lady's legs, and a pretty girl cries—what choice do I have? Weak to a beauty's tears, I chuckled emptily and gripped Tirving.

Let's go.

Olaf's mana didn't feel abundant, so I had a shot. Besides, as a possessed soul, no opponent was unbeatable.

I stroked the head of the Young Lady, who was blankly drinking her milk, and smiled.

"Ugh... hair's tangled."

"It's fine. It's not my hair."

"Eek!"

In a calm voice, I said to the Young Lady,

"Young Lady."

"Yeah?"

"Can you wait here a bit?"

The Young Lady tilted her head, a question mark practically floating above it.

"Why?"

"Uh... I'm thinking up an excuse, so just wait."

"Gotta go to bed soon to grow tall."

"Pfft... Yeah. But the inn looks messy, so I gotta go help clean."

Her eyes screamed, You're paying to stay—why clean? I smiled faintly and pinched her cheeks long.

"I'll be right back."

"Eek... cold."

I parked her wheelchair far from the inn, crouched down, and said,

"I'll be right back."

I headed toward the inn. And softly called a name, infusing it with mana.

Mr. Hans.

Insurance was necessary.

*

The inn's interior was dark. Eerily quiet. Tables were a wreck, proof of a brutal brawl.

Squelch. The wet floor grabbed my shoe. Sticky, with a familiar smell. I gave a wry smile and muttered,

"Guess the 'prime adventurer' days weren't just talk."

Under moonlight filtering through the windows, battle scars stood out. Three cultist-level corpses. One inquisitor-level. And the sword displayed on the first floor was gone.

James. Yuria's father did ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this.

I smiled bitterly and followed the blood trail of the fierce fight. Soon, I stood before bloody footprints leading to the stairs.

It continued. Blood from one body, still fresh, trailing to the second floor.

Hesitating, I looked up and stepped onto the stairs to the second floor.

Creak. The eerie groan of wood underfoot rang in my ears.

"Intense."

I slowly drew Tirving, steeling myself. And in that moment—

Rumble... Something massive outside the window began casting a shadow. Too grotesque for human, too huge for monster, it blocked the moonlight, revealing itself.

I smiled faintly and snapped my fingers.

Snap.

Things might go smoother than expected.

*

James clutched his gut, fists clenched. Explosive pain. Legs giving out. Standing was his limit.

He barked a rough laugh, muttering to himself.

This ain't funny...

Grinding his teeth, he replayed recent events. Not just opening the door to a kindly old man.

James bit down hard.

—Came to share good words.

—Aigoo, a group visit.

—...

—How many rooms...

—...Bestow mercy.

—Pardon?

—Give shelter to a prophet without a place to go.

—So, how many...

—Mercy... Sheep, bestow mercy.

James spat blood, gasping raggedly.

"Why do this..."

His aggrieved scream pleaded to those who'd turned violent. He'd have given money gladly—why resort to force? Trembling eyes fixed on them.

Believers panting roughly. The old man in white sackcloth. Rage boiled over.

"Why the hell are you doing this! Take the money, whatever you want!"

The sackcloth-clad old man smiled benignly, stepping forward.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Hands clasped piously, he spoke.

"The god desires no money."

"...What?"

"The god only wishes his sheep to act. Knowing and acting on the god's will—that is true faith."

The old man stroked his short white beard, addressing James.

"Brother, you doubt the god's will."

Massive for a cleric, he gazed pityingly at James.

"Don't you, brother?"

"...What the hell are you?"

"We are clerics who believe in the god. Shepherds spreading doctrine, guiding with pure faith."

The old man reached out, stroking James's jaw. Callused, rough palm chilled his skin, then withdrew. Satisfied smile, then the sermon began. Why they did it. James's fault. Calmly, piously.

"Heh heh... We asked you to bestow mercy, brother."

"I said I'd give money...!"

"The god asks not twice. Sheep need only heed the shepherd's voice... A beast with ego is unforgivable."

Believers nodded solemnly, mouths shut. In the bizarre atmosphere, scribbling notes furiously, James's trembling pupils darted lost.

"I sought this hovel for prayer today."

"To hear the god's voice."

"To gain strength to survive coming trials. Understand?"

Olaf's voice rose in fervor. The eerie expression Ricardo and Olivia saw in the snowplains glared at James.

"I said I'd use it—why so chatty."

Olaf ended the sermon, slashing his wrist, spilling blood. It sizzled on the floor, etching an ideal paradise sigil. Black magic circle encircled James slowly, forming a perfect ring. The moment it closed—

"Guhk...!"

James's breath constricted.

"Guhk... Can't... breathe...!"

Blood boiled, heart burst in agony. Vision reddened, limbs shook.

"Keurgh...! Cough..."

Gasping, James grabbed Olaf's hand. Save me, please. Amid flashing memories, he yearned to see his daughter to the end, pleading desperately.

"Save me..."

"..."

"Please... I have a daughter. Family..."

Olaf's eyes caught a small frame on the desk. Beautiful, pure beauty. He picked it up, smacking his lips.

"Hoh... Offer this wench, and I might reconsider."

"What...?"

"Perfect plaything. Yeah, won't get boring."

"You bastard..."

"How 'bout it? One hour. Offer her, become a cherished sheep under the shepherd's love."

James lunged in boiling fury.

"You fucking dog!!!"

In that instant—

James's eyes beheld something massive. Outside the window, staring at him. Too vast for monster, too grotesque for human. Horse-like form.

Rumble.

Overwhelmed by terror, James dropped his sword. First time seeing such a thing. Like all creatures mashed together, uncanny.

Now ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he realized the magic circle's purpose.

Bait...

As abyssal dread gripped his throat—

Flash.

Red lightning poured on the giant beast's head.

Rumble rumble... Relentless.

As James's pain eased, a familiar young man's voice rang out.

"Pick on someone your own size. Disgusting."