* * *
The hero was not caught by the demon’s rocky hand.
Before it could seize him—he climbed onto it.
As if he had never been kneeling in defeat, as if he had never been pinned down by the beasts, he moved.
He ran up the demon’s arm.
Faster.
Higher.
Toward its throat.
The holy sword flickered with faint, flickering divine light.
A sliver of hope.
He struck.
And for the first time, a clean line marred the demon’s jagged form.
A smooth, pristine cut.
Even from afar, it was flawless.
No matter how monstrous a being was, it couldn’t quickly recover from a severed neck.
“There’s still… strength…!”
Seizing the opportunity, the hero plunged his blade into its heart.
The blade pierced through flesh and muscle, striking deep into its pulsing core.
I couldn’t even blink. I simply watched.
“…You wretched…”
Even in death, the demon’s voice lingered, a murmur fading into silence.
The awful, heavy vibration of its presence finally dissipated. It was truly gone.
Because of its greatest weakness—its overconfidence.
My heart, which had slowed from pain, suddenly surged with life.
He did it.
He survived.
As expected, I had never needed to worry.
Even without someone like me fighting alongside him, the hero had been capable of doing it alone.
A helpless, relieved smile spread across my face.
I had to go congratulate him.
I should praise him, tell him how amazing he is.
Then, quickly hand him a potion and urge him to heal his wounds.
“……Ugh.”
The hero’s body crumbled.
My heart dropped.
He fumbled for the potion, grasping it unsteadily and drinking only half.
Only then did he manage to hold himself up.
His entire body trembled violently from shock.
Was he okay?
He had to be, right? It was just exhaustion, wasn’t it?
But no matter how much I tried to reassure myself, it wasn’t enough.
He was drenched in blood, too much to simply brush it off…
I ran.
I lunged toward him in panic.
The hero’s fingers twitched.
That alone felt like a miracle.
I wanted to call his name.
I wanted to support him.
But he gripped the holy sword instead, running his hand along its still pitch-black blade.
“Not yet, huh.”
“……”
I shut my mouth.
The words I had been about to say wouldn’t come out.
My lips froze, my feet rooted in place.
Because I saw it—
A clear droplet falling onto the dark blade.
It was the first time.
‘He should be angry instead.’
Why didn’t he scream at the heavens for cursing him with such a cruel fate?
Why didn’t he rage at being forced into this role, without even being taught how to wield the holy sword?
That would’ve made more sense.
But instead—he just… cried. As if accepting his own inadequacy.
So all I could do was wait until his tears stopped.
Because after hiding behind him through that brutal battle, I had no right to comfort him.
He must have always cried like this—only when he was alone, where no one could see.
Just witnessing a side of him he never wanted to show anyone… that alone made me feel like I had crossed a line.
So I waited. And I prayed.
Prayed that the holy sword would shine.
That he wouldn’t have to keep pushing himself to the brink anymore…
I prayed for a long, long time.
Because praying was all I could do.
Which meant it wasn’t me.
It could never be me.
There had to be someone better.
Someone who could actually help him.
Walking in silence, only unpleasant memories resurfaced.
This was exactly why I hated quiet journeys.
If we were traveling together, shouldn’t we at least exchange a few words?
Granted, it was mostly my fault for making Zerbin angry.
But still!
Staying completely silent for two whole days?
That was impressive in its own way.
No wonder love never bloomed in a hero’s party, even after sharing life-and-death experiences together.
Eventually, without much conversation, we arrived at our destination.
I had been waiting so long to reach the temple, but now that we were here, something felt off—like I had lost an important opportunity without even knowing what it was.
Zerbin’s hometown was definitely rural, but it was a step up from the last village we had passed.
Instead of crumbling stone walls, there were properly stacked fortress walls.
The streets were bustling with people as soon as we stepped inside the city gates.
But the size of a village didn’t necessarily reflect the temple’s financial state.
‘This is it?’
The temple looked nothing like a place that had raised a hero.
It was worn-down and unrefined, the statues at the entrance—meant to showcase the glory of the gods—were dull and weathered, left neglected.
The temple itself was large, but it seemed too big to maintain properly.
There were many buildings, all old and worn.
Zerbin stood silently at the entrance before grabbing my wrist.
I flinched in surprise but didn’t dare ask why.
I just followed.
Zerbin strode into the temple grounds like he belonged there.
No one even stopped to ask what business he had—his confidence made it clear he had been here many times before.
And yet, strangely enough, no one recognized him or greeted him.
Had he warned them all not to acknowledge him?
He wasn’t exactly the type to enjoy socializing…
The place he dragged me to was the priests’ living quarters.
The deeper we went, the louder the sound of a crying child became.
By the time we reached the entrance, wailing and frantic shushing mixed together in a chaotic mess.
We stood before a building that, like the rest of the temple, was in poor condition.
The glass windows were cracked but hadn’t been replaced, and the wooden door was partially rotted.
So this was where Zerbin had grown up.
Were they still raising children here?
Because the place didn’t seem capable of housing so many.
‘Something’s off.’
I had personally seen Zerbin donate to Swindlin’s temple.
It wasn’t where he was born, but it was the temple in his current residence, so he had given offerings.
Because he was a devout believer.
But if that was the case, why had he never donated anything to the temple that raised him?
Or had his donations been spent elsewhere instead of renovating the place?
“This place hasn’t changed.”
Oh. He spoke.
I instinctively looked up at Zerbin in surprise.
It was the first time he had said a word in two days, but he remained completely indifferent.
His voice didn’t waver in the slightest.
Zerbin didn’t even glance at me before heading straight to the door.
When he turned the handle, it didn’t budge.
Of course, it was locked.
Normally, you’d knock first.
Was it left open in the past?
Zerbin stood still before the door.
I hesitated, wondering if I should offer to knock instead.
But considering I was the one who had pissed him off, I decided to stay quiet.
Why wasn’t he moving?
Was he trying to recall where the key was hidden?
“Hm.”
He didn’t think long.
Zerbin simply grabbed the handle—and tore it right off.
“Zerbin!”
I shouted instinctively, but he ignored me.
With the broken handle dangling from his grip, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Wait, was this really okay?
He just ripped the door handle off the temple!
Just because it was locked!
The place already looked like it was falling apart!
The Zerbin I knew was a devout and disciplined man…
And now he was breaking down monastery doors?
Did he actually hate this place?
* * *
Our poor hero 🙁