Fleeting Joy After Slaying Gaster
The joy of killing Gaster was short-lived. What hit Marhal and Alasil was a brutal reality. Fortunately, not everyone had died. The people awaiting relocation usually stayed in the forest, negotiating with the nearby village chief to help out with daytime work there. The victims were only those who'd stayed behind—the group in the village had made it through unscathed.
"I have no face to show you."
He was a knight under Strekl's command. The man was missing one arm. A fatal injury for a knight, but his superior physical abilities still meant he could make a living better than most. In fact, he'd earn more and live better than the average commoner man. It wasn't for nothing that so many youths sacrificed their prime to become knight squires.
"It's fine. If anything, I should be thanking you. You're the one who introduced work to these people, right?"
"My hometown's nearby, so it was possible."
"What now?"
"I used to manage the money Strekl sent, but that's over. Thinking of heading to a big city."
"What about the West?"
"Appreciate the offer, but I don't even want to look that way."
The man's gaze lingered on his missing arm for a moment. It wasn't a material issue—it was mental. Marhal couldn't force him.
Marhal handed the man a few imperial gold coins. He had more valuable items, but this man couldn't handle them.
"Should be enough for a small house."
"Thank you."
The man left with a complicated expression. Marhal's face wasn't much better.
As Marhal headed back to the forest, wails and sobs filled his ears. These were people who'd banded together after losing family to demons, treating each other like kin. They'd filled their empty hearts by comforting one another. They'd barely held onto their shattered hearts, only for another piece to tear away.
Marhal understood that feeling all too well. When the demon-possessed box opened, Soila Muesilrigo—standing closest—had become the Demon King, master of ten thousand demons. What of the others there? Marhal's family, and those like family to him? Memories he didn't want to recall.
Deeper in the forest, Alasil knelt before the bone tower, praying. A radiant glow poured from her body, and the horrific tower crumbled to dust at the light's touch.
It was a soul-soothing rite. A miracle only priests who'd wandered battlefields for years could perform. Not like healing miracles any priest could do—this was for those who'd truly strived for others.
Marhal wasn't sure if souls existed. Even Mar and the saint hadn't been certain. But if they did, souls soothed by a priest's rite would find peace unlike others. It wasn't mere illusion; it was real power.
"Marhal."
"Ah, Haribal. How's the body?"
Haribal raised a hand. That alone told Marhal his state. Arm shattered, nose broken. Brain damage wouldn't surprise him. Fixing the brain required saint-level power. Alasil couldn't heal it. And it'd likely follow him for life.
"Was thinking of retiring anyway, but now I really have to quit mercenary work. When I borrowed your power to slaughter those dozen-plus in one go, know what I thought?"
"No."
"Pure ecstasy—like I could reach a higher realm. Insane. Enjoying killing? Better this way. That's how it ends."
Haribal had seen many mercenaries. Some enjoyed killing, but their ends were rarely good. Turning berserk and discarded, or repeating meaningless murders until poisoned by grudges. Chilling to think he'd been on that path.
"What about Ultekan?"
"Gathering bodies that couldn't be soothed. Seems extra diligent from guilt over those who escaped."
The rite ended. It'd called back wandering spirits, but couldn't fully console those bereaved. Beyond the ongoing wails, Alasil approached.
"You can do nun-like stuff too?"
"I'm a real nun."
The two silently took in the survivors for a while.
"You're looking glum. Because they were going to be West folk?"
"You see me as too cold-blooded. I grieve normally."
"Hard to picture. Anyway, we have things to discuss, right?"
No chance to talk amid cleanup, but something needed settling between them. Marhal and Alasil moved to a quiet spot.
Night fell fast in the forest. The woods darkened with the slightest shift of the sun.
"You're the guide who led the Hero?"
"Yeah. I took him to the Demon King's Castle. Guided the Hero, so naturally I know the rest of his party."
"Even the saint...?"
"Friend, parent, teacher—you could say."
"Knew it. You figured it all out. Marina Silanatiell. You targeted her, right?"
Marhal nodded. Denying the obvious would erode trust.
"But no reaction like I expected. Mar escaped her family, and Yullan didn't love the Holy Empire either."
"Ugh, frustrating!"
Alasil yelled, grabbing Marhal's collar. Their faces inches apart.
"Quit circling! You know, right?"
"Know what?"
"That I didn't formally inherit the saint's name! Just ask already—it's killing me!"
"No need. I've known from the start."
"...You knew?"
Alasil stepped back, stunned. Head spinning. He'd known she was fake from their first meeting? And still let her meet Silanatiell, travel together, even cut her finger?
Questions swirled. She picked one.
"Knowing that, you trusted me with your treatment? One mistake and you'd die."
"Would've died without fighting anyway. And separate from Yullan, I trusted Alasil Egoman."
"Me? Why?"
"Believed in Alasil, not Egoman. The you who sought freedom in the pioneer village, selling flags. Not enough?"
"No... it's enough. Give me a bit, I'll join later."
"Then I'll prep departure."
Confirming Marhal gone, Alasil slumped against a tree, covering her face.
"Finger. How to cut it off secretly?"
Or at least a nail. If she were truly Yullan Egoman, she could sever and regrow without pain. Build power, history—maybe she could too.
"Crazy bitch. What're you thinking."
Slap. Alasil struck her own cheek. Over fifty dead, just soothed their souls. And here she was, a so-called nun.
The group finished packing and departed. Some had real family dead—lying down refusing to leave wouldn't be odd. But surprisingly, no resistance.
The soul rite was the highest mourning for the dead. Alasil's had shaken off the survivors' lingering regrets. Honoring the dead eased the living's hearts—that too was soothing spirits. Not just for the departed.
But it didn't solve everything. The survivors' darkened faces remained. Only time would heal that.
Alasil snapped back to reality. What if those two had fought the demons? The question crossed her mind. This was no ordinary clash.
A young woman dual-wielding daggers lunged at Strekl. He parried with a flame-wreathed sword.
Alasil knew them both. Strekl, the fallen war hero of the duchy. High knight in full plate. The duchy wanted his records erased, but at his level, history books were inevitable.
Marin, a woman her age. Strekl's disciple, same origins as her. Never spoken directly—words didn't bridge them. She'd thought that was it.
Didn't expect the young woman to clash swords head-on with Strekl.
Strekl's flames clashed against the red aura cloaking Marin's body, fizzling out.
Tsk. Strekl clicked his tongue. Top warriors cooled instantly at killing intent, no matter the heat. He was calm now. His response earlier had been immature, sure. But first things first: subdue the mad dog lunging to kill.
Relic drawn in anger, but who knew even its flames wouldn't work? Marhal had called Marin's daggers Bachea relics great nobles hoarded. The power within was no joke.
Strekl twisted his sword. Basic exchange for sword trainees. Until recently, Marin couldn't even manage a child's defense, exposing gaps. But now, despite dagger vs. longsword disadvantage, she deftly twisted her wrist.
'Tch. Learns too fast.'
But that wouldn't match a high knight. Practice and combat differed. Same basics hit different from a high knight—packed with Strekl's accumulated tricks.
Strekl pressed his sword close, extending his other hand. Dodging, Marin's stance crumbled; Strekl kicked.
Bam!
Marin blocked the kick with her sword, shoved back. Her feet gouged the earth. Her eyes now blood-red.
Marin hurled a dagger. Strekl blocked with his arm. Closing in, Marin grabbed his blade barehanded. Skin burned, smoke rose, but reason fled—she felt no pain.
Killing intent at his throat. No helmet. Land race reenactment.
Strekl threw his own desperate move. Great priest here. Minor wounds healable.
Then—something bound Strekl's shoulder joint. The bind struck his opening; his motion froze. Marin, mid-throat strike, halted midair.
Marhal wedged between them.
"Marin. Thanks, but stop. My fault. Strekl, that's enough. No winners here."
Marin's eyes returned to normal. She picked up her bounced dagger and entered the carriage wordlessly.
"Sorry. Wasn't mature."
"No. Happens. But question: mind stepping away? Marina. Haribal. Cover."
"Understood."
"Got it."
Marina and Haribal replied. Marhal and Strekl stepped from the convoy.
Strekl apologized again.
"No excuse. We had turmoil too."
"What happened?"
"Old grudge showed. More like one mad bastard's tantrum."
People died, goods lost in that tantrum. Infuriating for Strekl.
"Few wagons empty—related?"
"Marhal, think humans can reach Hero realm?"
"Nothing impossible. Rumors already."
"Like slicing iron ten paces ahead."
"Was twenty."
"...No wonder you're shaken."
Iron-cutting knights were reapers to knights. If such a man could slice twenty paces ahead, empty wagons were lucky. Whole convoy could've wiped.
"What about your side? You don't slip easy."
"Too much to explain here. Short version: met demons in human skin."
"Black mist?"
"Yeah, you know?"
"Heard from the count. Asked to exterminate. Messy."
Strekl rubbed his forehead. Bad feeling explained. Missed shared intel. Might not have changed outcome, but knowing vs. not was huge.
Marhal got the picture.
"Damn... what a shitshow."
Truly curse-worthy.
Marhal and Strekl returned to the convoy. The advance group hadn't moved.
Marhal grabbed a nearby worker.
"What’s up?"
"Um... someone with wagons like ours is blocking the road. Says returning them?"
"Probably legit. Returning them?"
Marhal had lost one wagon to theft. But the thief returning it? Knowing whose and where-bound?
"Claims to know the boss."
"Me?"
He knew a few ducal nobles, but they'd not catch thieves personally. Marhal went forward.
A wagon indeed. Man on the driver's seat.
Recognizing the face, Marhal laughed hollowly.
The man waved at Marhal.
"Long time? Five years-ish?"
"What the hell's this crazy brother doing."
It was the Hero.