Prologue
I lived for myself. I had a gift that made it possible.
Born the lowest of scavengers at the very bottom of the slum, I exploited its ruffians with a talent I’d stumbled upon by chance. I didn’t want to starve.
I swallowed up every cartel that ruled the slum and bled them dry in turn. All to gain a warm house that would shield me from the biting winter winds.
I struck vile bargains with those of noble blood. Amid the inferno of war that devoured the continent, I sated their basest cravings. Their gold was what I coveted.
When the Demon King at last appeared upon this land, I hid myself in the profound darkness his footsteps could never touch. I simply lurked and waited until the heroes subjugated him. Thus, I eked out this wretched life a while longer.
The gift bestowed upon me—that absurd miracle—made it all possible.
It was a life forged by trampling countless others, yet guilt never stirred in me. This existence I’d barely clawed my way into was too sweet; I had no time to glance aside at such things.
And so I sought no understanding. No salvation. Even if a miserable end awaited me in the final hour, I swore to greet it with a smile.
I swore to pay gladly the price for the sins I had piled high.
That was why.
“Are you awake?”
At the end of my life, I’d thought no one would remain by my side.