Daion stepped carefully into the room. Kael sighed before returning his gaze to his mutilated leg.
"How does it look?" he asked, his eyes gradually losing all motivation. Daion stayed silent. He couldn't find the right words… he couldn't even bring himself to apologize.
This happened because I was late. Damn useless… he thought bitterly. Kael noticed his expression.
"Blaming yourself for someone else's misfortune isn't healthy," he said in a muted voice. Daion lifted his eyes, embarrassed. "You did what you could, kid. To me, that's enough."
"Of course it's not!" Daion protested, lowering his head, but Kael frowned. "This wouldn't have happened if I… if I had pushed harder to convince those guys, maybe…"
"The other Summoned? Ha," Kael let out a dry laugh, trying to cheer himself up, though it only made him sound more depressed. "It was already a miracle that you made it back." He shifted slightly toward Daion and continued, "Listen, kid. I don't really care about your mission as a Summoned or why you defended us, but you have nothing to be ashamed of."
"They're all hurt," Daion murmured. "All of them…"
"They would've been dead if you hadn't shown up. There's no use lamenting what could have been." He touched what remained of his leg, and the bearing of a general returned. Daion was surprised by his fortitude. "Critique your failures, sure… but also recognize your victories. That's the smartest way to live, if you ask me."
"You're taking it pretty well," Daion said, with a hint of bitterness. "You're probably the only one who would say something encouraging."
"Well, when you're a soldier, you get used to death. And someone my age has dodged it more times than I can count. I can't blame you for something like this—not when you saved Howard and Selka… when it was me who failed." He lowered his head. Daion noticed how his words trembled; he was lying, of course he wasn't fine with this, but he decided to ignore it.
How pathetic, the man I supposedly saved and who ended up crippled is giving me motivational words. He gritted his teeth in frustration and raised his gaze again. Kael was staring at the sheets with a melancholic expression. 'When it was me who failed,' he blames himself more than me… Daion thought, nodding. The old man said nothing more, simply looking out the window with silent sadness.
As he left the room, other visions struck him. He held an assault rifle. Flames roared around him. Piles of corpses lay before him, and the wounded were being attended to as quickly as possible. Some had lost the will to live, others screamed in unbearable pain… and atop a building, a crippled man threw himself to his death. Daion snapped back to reality, wondering what kind of world he had lived in before. He glanced back at Kael: clearly depressed, but not suicidal—he was processing it, accepting his reality.
He really is an exceptional old man. He crossed the hallway and descended the stairs carefully.
The lower floor had been partially reorganized. Corpses covered with sheets lined the path toward the entrance, while several people worked to clear the debris left by the two Corrupted. Near the bar, some soldiers and medics were finishing off the remaining liquor. Some used it to clean wounds; others simply drank.
The waitress was still serving alcohol, accepting anything as payment: dull gems, coins, even family heirlooms. Her blouse was unbuttoned from the heat, sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, her blonde hair tied in a messy ponytail.
When she saw Daion, she looked surprised, shocked to see him walking already. But she quickly looked away, trembling.
Daion crossed the tavern, stumbling among the bodies. Many women and children cried over fallen soldiers, while others simply watched in silence, shedding no tears. Some lay on the ground with no one around. He exited, each step making his bones creak, and every movement sent waves of pain through his body, forcing him into a stiff and awkward gait.
Outside, he saw the boy he had saved earlier: Howard. He was lying over the open corpse of a soldier. Daion recognized the man—it was the one who had injured the Hound. The boy cried silently, clutching the blanket in desperation. He struck the body a few times, frustrated.
Daion tried to pass by, but as soon as he took a step, the boy turned.
"Y-you!!!" he shouted, eyes red and swollen. He ran toward Daion, trying to tackle him, but bounced off with a dull thud and stumbled to the side. He looked up, furious. "This is your fault!!"
Daion looked at him, confused.
"All the Summoned are liars! They're supposed to protect us… and yet I was left alone!" the boy wailed, face streaked with tears and snot. He tried to wipe them off but couldn't. "Why did you come back alone?! Why did you have to be late, damn you?! Because of you, now I have no one…"
The boy went still, still crying. Daion didn't know what to say. He had done everything he could to save them… but then Why do I feel like it wasn't enough?
"I'm sorry…" he finally murmured, full of compassion, and kept walking. Howard collapsed onto the ground and continued crying.
Daion passed through the area with few obstacles. People watched him warily—some with distrust. No one seemed genuinely grateful. The Summoned had told him they would meet outside the tavern, but he wasn't anywhere in sight. Daion sighed and moved forward among the rubble.
"Hey," someone called from behind.
He spun around immediately, instinctively reaching for his sword, though he didn't draw it.
In front of him stood a youthful-looking boy, brown hair falling messily over his face like an emo. He wore clothing similar to Daion's, loose pants and a knee-length coat that reminded Daion of those soldiers who fought in the snow. One of his eyes was green, the other golden—barely visible under his hair, except that it shone like a tiny sun. A rifle hung from his back. Then Daion realized: they were alone.
"At least tell me your name this time," Daion said, letting go of the sword's hilt. The Summoned offered a small smile before replying.
"Lo… Loryn," he said hesitantly, as if it was hard to remember.
Then he began walking among the rubble.
"Planning to loot the corpses?" Daion asked sarcastically. Loryn laughed at the suggestion and turned toward Daion, who maintained a serious, hardened expression.
"No… I'm not going to steal anything here," he replied with a condescending smile.
They reached a partially cleared area, where Loryn sat on the ground, staring at the sky. He tossed a bottle to Daion, who caught it and immediately recognized the yellowish liquor inside. He opened it and took a long swig. The alcohol burned his throat painfully, forcing him to gasp, but he didn't complain.
"What did the god tell you? I mean, the Primordial of Gravity…" Loryn asked, while Daion leaned against a fallen column with effort.
"He said some religious fanatics would come to take me to the border or something…" Daion muttered, hitting the back of his head against the beam, which trembled slightly.
Loryn examined him silently, assessing his wounds. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a sniper bullet, tossing it into the air and catching it with one hand again. Daion took another swig from the bottle. He bitterly remembered how he used to drink himself unconscious in the camps.
"Planning to keep going?"
"What do you mean? You think I'm going to commit suicide or something?" he shot back.
"I wouldn't be surprised. After all… did you manage to save the town?" Loryn asked, curious, his smile unreadable to Daion. "But you don't seem like that type." The bullet fell slowly, as if in slow motion. "I mean… are you going to keep helping people in this world, even if no one acknowledges it?"
Daion looked up at the sky. His body ached—he didn't have the strength to run twenty meters. He was probably on the verge of collapse. Not even his increased power seemed worth it with so much pain. And yet, when the Corrupted attacked the town, he had thrown himself into battle without hesitation. Why?
"Perhaps…" he confessed, the bottle at his lips, the pain easing slightly.
"Why? I doubt you still feel like playing hero," Loryn insisted.
He seemed to be seeking a concrete reaction, but Daion simply gazed at the sky again and took one last swig. He looked at the bottle—it was already half gone.
"That damn god says I have a hero complex," he began. Loryn lifted his head. "Maybe he's right… or maybe I'm just an idiot. Doesn't matter, I don't care. I don't think there's a logical reason to help someone without getting anything in return. It's stupid from any angle. Maybe it's a human instinct most people repress or ignore. Whatever. I'll do whatever the hell I want. And if that means doing stupid things, then so be it."
Daion stood and handed the bottle to Loryn, who caught it effortlessly. Then he slowly walked away, slightly dizzy from the alcohol. The mysterious Summoned looked at the bottle with interest. His golden eye gleamed even brighter.
"What an interesting man," he murmured, widening his smile. "Finally, something worth watching."
Daion moved through the rubble, observing the destruction and the places where he had fought. He arrived at the alley where he had killed the Hound. He could still see the monster's dried blood on the ground. As expected, there was no corpse. He looked at his glove.
The Corrupted consume Omega energy and corrupt it. The gloves absorb it again and purify it for natural reuse… He was beginning to understand how the artifact worked.
A roar echoed in the distance, followed by a scream of pain. Daion ran toward the sound. He saw a small group of people trying to lift debris. Nearby, a woman held a child in her arms. Among the rubble, a man with a crushed leg gasped in pain.
One of the villagers tried to summon a spectral hand to lift a beam but failed. They were exhausted—their strength fading by the second. The woman covered her daughter's eyes. Daion approached. The group watched him warily but moved aside to let him pass. The Summoned knelt and, with effort, managed to lift the debris just enough.
"Hey, you," he said to the man attempting the spectral hand, "get him out!"
He obeyed. His spell grabbed the wounded man's clothes and dragged him free from the rubble. The woman and child ran to embrace him. The little girl burst into tears of relief, clinging tightly to her father. The woman looked up and, unexpectedly, spoke.
"Thank you," she said sincerely, not caring that he was a Summoned.
Daion looked at her, confused, while carefully lowering the debris to the ground, avoiding further harm. He tilted his head as he helped her husband to his feet, supporting him toward the tavern-turned-clinic.
"…You're welcome."
A rock suddenly struck him in the forehead, making him stagger. The bandage covering one of his wounds slipped, and a thin line of blood ran down his face again. When he looked at the group, he saw a burly man, with only a few tufts of hair on his head, approaching with a hostile expression.
"Cut the act, damn Summoned… We already owe you enough. So stop pretending you're the good guy and tell us what you want from us," he demanded, his voice raspy and irritating.
Daion glared at him. The man instinctively took a step back. The rest of the group tensed, following his lead. Daion sighed in annoyance and reached for his weapon.
"Ah, so now you're going to attack us? What a surprise…" the man said. Daion hesitated—if he attacked, he'd prove them right; if he didn't, they would use him as a punching bag.
Around them, people watched the scene with growing tension—among them, the blacksmith who had sold Daion his armor. He stepped forward. He had no intention of attacking… unless they did first.
But before the situation could spiral out of control, a loud clap rang out. The tavern owner stepped forward, glaring equally at the man and Daion. Daion shrugged and let go of his sword.
"Well… what the hell is going on here, idiots? Don't you have anything better to do than fight like children?" the woman said in an authoritative voice.
"I just asked him what he wanted…" the man replied, challenging her.
"He already helped us. Besides, what could he want from a ruined village?"
"You don't know. We all know what these bastards are capable of when there's something to gain," the man shot back, furious. The villagers lowered their heads, resigned. "Maybe we can't stop him, but we won't just stand by and let him take advantage of us."
"Relax. I'm not going to steal the few hairs you have left, idiot," Daion muttered, annoyed.
"You're not helping!" Selka snapped at him.
Daion raised an eyebrow, sarcastically.
"I wasn't planning to cheer him up either."
"Enough!" Selka cut him off, stepping right in front of Daion. Then she turned to the crowd. "This ends here. I'll handle the Summoned. Any objections?"
Silence. The people returned to their tasks, and the group dispersed under her command. The man clicked his tongue in frustration but said nothing.
The woman turned her gaze back to him.
"Great way to handle the situation…" Daion said, trying to ease the tension. She sighed and pulled another bandage from her apron.
"Does it bother you?" she asked, her voice tired.
Daion shook his head.
She leaned in, cleaning the wound with alcohol and a cloth before rebandaging it. Then she pressed gently on his temples to prevent further bleeding.
"Looking for fights with villagers while injured… did you hit your head too hard, or were you born this stupid?" she growled, leaning back slightly. Daion watched her. Her eyes shone with renewed determination, probably ignited by her near-death experiences. And that sarcastic smile of hers… had a strange charm.
Yeah, she's my type, he thought. His gaze accidentally dropped to her cleavage, and he quickly looked away, slightly flushed. Selka watched him with curiosity.
"Well, I've always considered myself a special guy," he joked as he stood up again. "Why are you helping me anyway? I thought you hated the Summoned."
"I do," she replied coldly, putting away her healing supplies. "But it would be pretty stupid to hate the guy who saved my life."
"Sounds like a good reason, I guess," he smiled faintly. "You should tell the kid."
"Howard," she murmured, lowering her gaze. "He lost his father."
"Yeah… sorry. That was out of line," Daion said, scratching his head apologetically. "Your name's Selka, right?"
"Yes," she answered, slightly confused. "How do you know?"
"The old man told me," Daion admitted. She sighed, tilting her head slightly. "It's a pretty nice name. Shame I can't say the same about your personality."
She playfully punched his arm, though it still stung.
"Whatever…" Selka lowered her head for a second, then looked at him with a warm smile that felt like a ray of sunlight.
Definitely my type.
"Hey, would you like to—"
"ALL RESIDENTS OF STEELWALL, REPORT TO THE CITY GATE BY IMPERIAL DECREE!" A robotic voice boomed across the settlement, as if coming from hidden speakers.
Everyone in the village heard it. Daion glanced at the tavern owner, who just shrugged. The two of them started walking toward the entrance.
On the way, Loryn appeared out of nowhere—once again with his hood covering everything but his eyes, rifle in hand. Daion wondered if he should prepare for a fight, but then thought, What kind of enemy announces their arrival like that?
When the villagers had gathered, Daion was stunned to see a metallic convoy with a mounted cannon, tank-like, being dragged by two white-furred, flat-faced beasts. They walked slowly, each step heavy, pulling the massive vehicle forward. Dozens of soldiers marched on both flanks. At the front were three figures.
Daion immediately recognized two of them by their gauntlets—both Summoned, a boy and a girl. Their armor was broken, clothing torn, practically naked. Their skin was unnaturally dark, likely from prolonged sun exposure, and their bodies thin and emaciated, as if they hadn't eaten in days. Both walked with their heads low, thin collars tight around their necks, decorated with a circular gem in the center.
At the front of them was a woman who made Daion shiver the moment he set eyes on her.
Jet-black hair. Reddish eyes with white pupils. Skin so pale it seemed almost inhuman. Her figure was slender, but each step radiated a terrifying authority. She wore a black, formal-cut vest and a matching short skirt, with a metal shield fastened to her chest—one that Daion vaguely recognized. Beneath it, a pristine white V-neck shirt.
Daion stepped toward the convoy, confused. The woman's eyes pierced him like daggers. He froze in place. At the same time, the soldiers lowered their weapons in unison, and the two Summoned collapsed to their knees with difficulty.
"A tip," Loryn whispered, leaning close to his ear.
"People of Steelwall," the woman said. Her voice crashed over the crowd like a wave of pressure. "I come on behalf of the goddess of wealth, Chryseia… and above all, in the name of the Primordial of Gravity, to demand your assistance at the border."
Her eyes landed directly on Daion, never losing that authoritative and arrogant posture.
He smirked to himself with interest and glanced at Loryn, who finally finished his warning.
"In this world… never, ever go into debt."
End of Chapter 14.