Part 1
The atmosphere in General Balliard's headquarters was soaked in celebration. Soldiers laughed, toasted, and shoved each other around with the clumsy joy of those who'd survived a battle they never fought. The clinking of glasses drowned out any lingering echoes of mourning.
By the large window overlooking the city, Balliard stood tall, a glass of whiskey in hand. He gazed out over the streets with the smug satisfaction of a self-proclaimed emperor. Far from danger. Far from blood. Far from the truth.
He looked calm. Untouchable. As if he'd carved his name into the pages of history with ink made of glory, not corpses.
A few steps below, on the staircase leading into the room, Yamato—still wearing the guise of Junya—remained perfectly still. He didn't speak. He didn't breathe heavily. He just watched.
Like a hunter who no longer needed to run. Like the Void itself, waiting for the applause to end… so it could devour the final ovation.
"Look at him… basking in his own ignorance," Nebel whispered, his voice slithering like an echo through Yamato's mind.
"Etch this moment into your soul. Burn it into memory… because this is why we're here. To set a twisted world right."
Yamato gave a silent nod.
Everything was going according to plan.
Only a few loose ends remained.
And then—phase three would begin.
"Ah, Junya! Welcome, hero of the realm!" Balliard called out with fake enthusiasm, raising his glass.
"What news do you bring from the front? Will Harlem be joining the festivities soon?"
Yamato lowered his gaze, a heaviness settling over his shoulders like the weight of grief.
"I'm sorry, General Balliard… there were no survivors. My comrades… the guildmaster… they're all gone."
The glass froze midair.
Balliard's smile slowly faded, as if dragged away by some unseen current.
"You're saying Harlem… That can't be…"
"I know it's hard to accept, sir. But when the dragon fell, it released a cloud of poison… it wiped out everything. If it weren't for my Hero's Blessing, I wouldn't be standing here either."
Balliard stormed forward and grabbed him by the collar.
"That's a lie!" he growled. "I just saw Harlem not long ago!"
With a swift and startling motion, Junya knocked his hand away.
"Threatening me won't change what happened, Balliard. You weren't there. You didn't see the slaughter. You didn't hear the screams. You didn't bury anyone."
His voice was cold. Steady. Like a sentence handed down by a judge.
"It's easy to play the brave man from the safety of this tower," he added, venom in his tone.
Balliard stumbled back a step, turning to the window as if the horizon might offer some comfort. But the battlefield had no absolution to give. Only smoke. Only ruins.
"Harlem…" he muttered, as if begging the world to prove him wrong.
And as if pouring salt into an open wound were a necessary rite, Junya continued:
"If you'd been a responsible leader… if you'd surrendered the city when it could still be saved… none of this would've happened."
The general snapped.
He unsheathed his sword with a sudden, violent motion, pointing it at the young man, his face twisted in fury.
"You arrogant little shit! Do you think I don't know what your comrades were doing? Stirring up the troops! Pushing a false religion! Undermining my authority!"
But Junya didn't flinch.
He stared him down with icy, unwavering calm.
"Don't try to pin your failures on me. Aira and Judith are dead because of you. So is Harlem. And Nanami and Yui… missing."
He stepped forward, closing the distance between them.
"All that blood… is on your hands."
His words fell like a final sentence.
Cold. Absolute.
No trial. No appeal.
Balliard stood frozen. Trembling, caught between hatred and guilt. Drowning in a silence so heavy, even his ego couldn't shatter it.
Until a soldier burst into the room, breaking the tension like a stone hurled through glass.
"General…"
"General Balliard, please… you need to see this…"
Balliard turned sharply, sword still in hand.
"What is it?"
The young soldier took a step back, swallowing hard.
"I'm sorry, sir, but… you need to see this." He handed him a spyglass.
Then he rushed over to the window and pointed frantically toward the east.
"Over there—something's coming from Mist Valley. Looks like an army… but it's shrouded in fog."
Balliard raised the spyglass with a trembling hand.
His face stiffened.
His gaze emptied like he'd just seen a ghost he thought long buried.
"What… what the hell is that? What's going on?!"
"That's an army, Balliard. And it's coming straight for us," Junya said coolly, arms crossed.
"Do something."
This time, the general didn't argue.
"Sound the alarm!" he roared.
"I want every paladin on the front line! Archers on the walls! Get the Aerial Guard in the skies now!"
In seconds, the room erupted into a frenzy. Soldiers dashed in every direction, shouting orders, grabbing weapons, chasing purpose through the chaos.
Balliard turned to Yamato.
"You, Mori… find the other heroines. I'll take the front this time."
Junya didn't answer.
He simply turned and walked out without a word.
Balliard then approached a silent young man with black hair, waiting at the edge of the room.
"Marko… I don't want you fighting."
"But Father—!"
"No buts, Marko. You're getting on a dragon and flying to Varka. I need reinforcements. And more than anything… I need heroes."
The boy stared wide-eyed.
It wasn't just an order.
It was a burden.
A farewell.
"Yes, Father."
"Good… take this," Balliard said, handing him a small metal charm shaped like an inverted cross.
"It'll make you undetectable once you cross the kingdom's borders."
Marko nodded. Not in fear… but with resolve.
And for just a moment… Balliard looked human.