Wailing

It had taken far too long to pop his arm back into its socket after Jack had pulled it out. Although it had been a clean dislocation, Tollin resented his own weakness—his utter hatred of pain—and his lack of physical stamina. Ignoring the sensation of his thighs and calves tearing apart, Tollin dragged his feet forward.

"Hey! When you get up there, please, I beg of you, save the children!" he screamed up the stairs at the black-haired youth who had run ahead. Screaming at the top of his lungs without even knowing if the other man could hear him was a pathetic sight, but Tollin was desperate.

Yet, there was no reply, even when his polite pleas eventually devolved into, "Just help them, you bastard!" Suppressing the strong suspicion that the youth hadn't missed his words but had simply ignored them, Tollin tried to organize his thoughts.

Though they hadn't exchanged a single proper word, one thing was certain when he recalled the priest sprawled near the entrance: that youth would not hinder the rescue of the Young Duke of Fides. Whether they were allies or not, they at least shared the same enemy.

Tollin, who had been blindly shouting as he climbed, suddenly stopped. It struck him how ridiculous he was being, entrusting the Young Duke to someone whose face he hadn't even properly seen. It was laughable that his long-time comrades had abandoned him, yet here he was, begging a stranger he had met only today for help.

In the Empire, no one disobeyed those who bore the name of Abaran. Even Tollin himself, despite the burning rage in his chest, could not bring himself to believe he could ever stand against them and win. Opposing the Imperial Family was like trying to stop the rising moon from ascending any higher. Standing before them brought a crushing sense of helplessness; even when anger flared, it was instantly followed by an involuntary wave of guilt for daring to harbor such feelings.

Surely, Jack and Pale felt the same. That was probably why they hadn't even dared to resist.

Crash! A thunderous roar echoed from above, as if something massive had collapsed.

"Damn it." Shaken out of his existential dread, Tollin forced his trembling legs to move. Perhaps because he had ridden hard all the way to the Capital, sweating profusely, a deep shudder was traveling up his legs and through his entire body. His failure to pace himself when he first chased after Ratel up the stairs was taking a heavy toll. As he wound up the spiraling staircase, his head spun in tandem.

In his weakened state, anxiety wormed its way back into his mind. What if I'm too late? What if everything is already over by the time I get there? The reality of having to face such an overwhelming adversary entirely on his own felt suffocatingly lonely.

The cold, obnoxious voices of the Crysa family members echoed through the ringing in his ears.

"I know, you bastards," Tollin muttered, finally cresting the last step. Before his eyes could register the scene, his nose reacted first to a sickening, acrid stench. It wasn't the smell of burning wood or fabric. It was the smell of burning flesh...

"Young Duke! Young Duke!" The moment he realized what the smell was, he dragged his trembling legs forward, screaming at the top of his lungs. No answer came. Thud! A heavy, dull impact resounded from deeper inside. Tollin fumbled along the floor to keep his balance as he pressed onward. He only came to a halt when he nearly tripped over something lying on the ground.

Looking down instinctively, Tollin's breath hitched. It was a blood-soaked garment. Tollin was no fool; he remembered it vividly. He remembered praying that the Young Duke wouldn't touch those filthy rags, and he had spent hours searching for the boy who wore them.

This time, I didn't even get to see him pass. He had reached his absolute limit.

"Ugh..." Once the sound escaped his lips, there was no holding it back. "Ugh, waaaah! Sniff...!" He knew it was a pathetic, unsightly way for a man in his thirties to cry, but he couldn't stop. With the final pillar supporting his sanity completely shattered, despair crushed him. He spiraled down into a bottomless abyss.

"Waaah, what... what do I do now..." He no longer cared who was around him. If the Young Duke was dead, he didn't want to care about anything anymore. He didn't even care if he died right here. If I die, will I see the Duke and the Young Duke again? But with what face could I possibly look at them? As the wave of emotion crashed over him once more, tears flowed relentlessly, and Tollin choked on his sobs.

"Tollin...!" I should end everything and join them. That is the only way to beg for their forgiveness. "Tollin!" Lost in his self-loathing, Tollin suddenly snapped his head up at the sound of a familiar voice. But his eyes were so swollen from crying, and the smoke stung so badly, that his vision was completely blurred. Did I just hear the Duke's voice?

"Tollin, what on earth are you doing here?!" It was the voice ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of Agoni Fidus. I must have gone mad, Tollin thought, a tiny shred of his remaining rationality whispering to him. I am so consumed by guilt that I've lost my mind. In his despair, his tears flowed even faster. Even if it was just a hallucination or an auditory illusion, he wanted to beg for forgiveness. He wailed even louder.

"My Luuuuurd!! I am so sorry! I... I...! Waaaaah!" Even those words were choked back as he gasped for air. His former commander, who had fallen off the cliff with a deathly pale face, was now looking down at him.

"I will forgive you for anything, so pull yourself together. If you just stand there dazed, you will die." Nodding weakly, Tollin took the outstretched hand and stared blankly upward. Silver-gray hair, sharp gray eyes, a disheveled beard, and calloused hands. It felt unfair that his senses could be so vivid even when he had lost his mind. But then, a sudden doubt crept into Tollin's head: Am I really crazy?

Maybe I'm dreaming. My ears feel so muffled. It was actually just because he had cried so hard, but Tollin's brain wasn't functioning properly. Yes, I must have fainted on the stairs, and now I'm dreaming. The Young Duke isn't dead yet. If so, he had to wake up immediately. Though he desperately wanted to stay and talk to the Duke, who had appeared in his dream looking perfectly fine for once, he had a young master to save.

"My Lord, it was wonderful to see you again." With a faint smile, Tollin prepared to slam his forehead against the stone floor to force himself awake. Had it not been for a rough hand grabbing the scruff of his neck, his skull would have shattered against the stone tiles.

"Ack, cough! W-wait...!" Though he nearly choked to death instead. Tears welling in his eyes, Tollin flailed his arms—including the one he had just forced back into its socket. The sharp, intense jolt of pain snapped him back to reality. This was not a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pain one could experience in a dream.

"You've grown quite wild since I last saw you," a voice muttered, and the hand gripping his neck began to drag him away. There was only one person Tollin knew who would use such brute force while knowing exactly who he was. Dragging the struggling Tollin, Duke Fidus limped back toward the wall. Since those disaster-like monsters were destroying everything in sight, this was the only relatively safe spot left.

Panting heavily, the Duke set Tollin down and wiped the sweat from his brow. Tollin, who had burst through the door only to immediately dissolve into hysterical wailing, was still crying non-stop, as if his tear ducts were broken. How long has it been since I last saw Tollin cry? Tollin had been a crybaby as a child, but as his body grew stronger, the tears had stopped. Once he matured, he had developed a bit of a cheeky attitude and rarely even sniffled. Aside from his childhood years, this was truly the first time the Duke had seen him sob like this. After a non-stop barrage of shocks since arriving in the Capital, Duke Fidus finally felt a sense of familiarity, and a faint smile touched his lips.

"Y-You're alive?" Tollin sniffled, having calmed down slightly. The Duke replied with an embarrassed scratch of his head.

"I was lucky enough to survive. I'm sorry I arrived so late. But..." Agoni Fidus trailed off, pointing to the blood-stained rag that Tollin was still clutching tightly despite his hysterical crying. "Why have you been holding onto that rag so dearly since earlier?"

Tollin looked down at the rag, his expression clouding over for a moment. Then, snapping back to his senses, he looked up at the Duke with a solemn face. "Since you are here, you must have come to save the Young Duke. Is... is Lord Flynn dead?"

Agoni Fidus then realized Tollin had mistaken the blood on the rag for his son's. He snatched the rag from Tollin's hand and tossed it away. "Flynn is alive. By now, he should have safely escaped the tower."

At that miraculous answer, Tollin's legs gave out, and he collapsed to the floor. The tears that had barely stopped due to the pain and shock began to flow anew. "Thank goodness. Thank goodness...!" His shoulders shook. The Duke silently patted the back of the man who had carried such a heavy burden all this time.

Crash! Their touching reunion did not last long. At the massive roar and vibration that shook the room once more, Tollin snapped his head up. "What is that noise? It's been going on since earlier."

The Duke looked out the window of the shaking building and spoke quietly. "The sound of a god and a human fighting."

"What on earth does that mean? Who is out there?"

"The Second Prince and my..." The Duke furrowed his brow, struggling to find the right word, before trailing off. "...comrade."

Tollin frowned, unable to comprehend the cryptic answer, but quickly decided it didn't matter. He stood up and tried to support the Duke. "Whatever the case, we just need to get out of here. As long as the Prince didn't see your face, we should still be fine."

The Duke, swallowing the fact that he had not only shown his face but had actually attacked, meaning his life was forfeit anyway unless Ditto Abaran died here, gently pushed Tollin's hand off his shoulder. "Go on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ahead."

Tollin frowned at the absurd response. "I'm worried about your unhealed leg, but if I have to roll you down the stairs, it's not entirely impossible..."

"No, that's not what I meant. I must make sure Ratel—that man out there—survives before I follow." Hearing this madness, Tollin felt a sudden urge to strangle his newly resurrected lord.

Dodging a blade that grazed his throat, Ditto took a step back. But Ratel pressed his attack relentlessly, completely unfazed by his missed strikes. The swordplay, aimed tenaciously at Ditto's neck, prevented the prince from properly channeling his strength.

Ditto's gaze flicked to Ratel's right shoulder, where his clothes were completely shredded. Even when Ditto set his arm ablaze, the bastard lunged forward without a care for the pain. He was fighting exactly by the textbook on how to deal with a Manis wielder. It was the same method Duke Fidus had used, but Ratel's strikes were heavier and faster.

The bursts of fire Ditto unleashed to burn his opponent could no longer be chained into consecutive attacks. Ditto was utterly infuriated by the restrictions on his movements and the feeling of being controlled. He was not meant to be treated this way. He was a being who belonged above everyone else.

Blocking Ratel's strike once more, Ditto stomped his foot down hard. The roof, which had barely held together through their fierce clash, collapsed, sending both of them plunging downward. When Ditto and Ratel regained their footing, Ditto was holding a dark-red object about the size of two knuckles. With a sickening smirk, Ditto swallowed it down his throat.