The villagers' cries poured from their mouths like heavy rain, soaking the dry ground with the weight of their grief. The air was thick with sorrow, so much so that it rang through the fields like church bells during a funeral mass. No one was spared from it. Men, women, children—even the strongest among them bowed their heads as if gravity itself had grown crueler, heavier with the loss.
How could His Majesty be so heartless?
Their tears weren't just for the dead. They were for the life they were forced to endure—hard, cold, and forgotten by the very man who claimed to rule over them.
To the crown, they were nothing but tools—pawns in a nation built not on justice or loyalty, but on greed and the lust for power. Aria watched it all, a bitter taste crawling up the back of his throat.
"This is why I've refused to register my name in the town hall," he muttered under his breath. "Why I've never accepted that cursed citizen card."
The citizen card—an ordinary item to the unaware—was anything but harmless. Once your name was etched into the system, once the ink dried and the seal was placed, you were owned. Bound like cattle to a farm, forever tied to the Pantial Law. A law so rigid that breaking free from it meant death—or worse, being hunted until you wished for it.
You were no longer a person.
You were property.
A number.
A tool.
Hypocrites, he thought bitterly, narrowing his eyes. How could anyone expect him to live under a rule so suffocating?
He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. "I was bound to my last life by duty. Work. Expectations. It led me straight to the grave. I won't make that mistake again."
To swear loyalty to a kingdom that couldn't care less about its people—it was madness. He'd only stayed in Nile Town because it was the first place he saw after being isekai'd into this world. But now… Now he wondered if he should just leave. Build a life on the outskirts, away from the mess of politics, war, and foolish royalty. A home where no emperor and his seven witches of advisors could touch him.
But surviving in this world wasn't easy.
Especially not when the emperor and his council of concubines milked every last coin from the common folk like blood from a stone.
"Tsk…" he hissed.
His hands trembled in rage. "This damn world... It's people like them who make everything rot."
The dead were gone.
Nothing would bring them back.
Nothing… except maybe him.
Yes, his skill set was overpowered. It always had been—an ironic twist in his reincarnation. But he never liked using it. Why? Well... that was a story for another time.
Aria's gaze swept across the villagers. His eyes fell on Mira, kneeling by a teen boy. The boy's lap held the lifeless body of his younger brother. Mira sobbed quietly beside him, her small hand clenching the fabric of the boy's tunic. It was painfully clear they had been close. Perhaps even inseparable.
The village chief approached the line of corpses, his face hardened by years of leadership and pain. He gently picked a leaf from a woman's graying hair, brushing it away with a trembling hand.
His wife.
She had died protecting the children in the chief's house during the attack. The first to fall.
A single tear escaped his eye, but he wiped it away quickly, forcing his voice to rise above the stillness.
"Do not cry, my friends."
His voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on.
"Though we have lost many, we still live on. Let us honor their memory. Lay them to rest. That is the only blessing we can offer now."
The villagers bowed their heads in silence. A few wiped away tears and slowly began lifting the bodies. But the teen boy wouldn't let go of his brother. He clung tightly, refusing to move or even acknowledge the others. The villagers gave him space. They'd wait until he was ready.
Aria's eyes darkened.
The scene mirrored his own tragedy.
He remembered coming home to silence—only to find his parents lying cold on the kitchen floor, their blood long dried. He'd cried for hours. Screamed until his voice went hoarse. Passed out from exhaustion.
And when he woke, it was already their funeral.
"It broke me," he whispered, just loud enough for no one to hear. "No one should have to go through that. Especially not a kid…"
His chest tightened.
"I can't let this happen again."
Without thinking, he stepped forward. "Stop!"
The villagers halted in confusion. The chief turned, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"Leave the dead on the ground!" Aria commanded.
Gasps broke out. Some of the men stood in alarm, gripping makeshift weapons. Even the chief's face twisted into disbelief.
"Sir adventurer," the chief began, trying to hold his composure. "We are grateful for your help, but asking us to leave our dead to rot in the dirt—are you mocking our grief?"
"I… I didn't mean it like that," Aria stammered. He looked down, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. His mouth opened and closed—words failing him.
Mira noticed his struggle. She remembered something—his hand glowing green, the way he had healed her leg. Her eyes flicked from Aria to the boy's dead brother.
Her breath caught.
Her eyes widened in realization.
She stood abruptly and ran to Aria, stepping in front of him and raising her arms defensively as she faced the crowd.
"That's not what he meant!" she shouted.
The villagers paused mid-protest. A few lowered their makeshift weapons, uncertain.
"He can help them!" Mira cried, her voice full of desperation and hope. "He can bring them back! Just like he helped me!"
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd. Mira's mother, Melina, stepped forward, standing beside her daughter with a quiet smile.
"I saw it with my own eyes," she said, lifting her skirt to show the scarred but whole leg Mira now stood on.
The villagers fell silent.
Melina then slipped her tunic from her shoulder, revealing a long, brutal scar.
"He saved me too. When I was at death's door."
She looked around, meeting each pair of eyes. "I know it sounds like a fairy tale. But it happened."
The chief stared at her, then at Aria. His mind flashed back to the green glow, to the impossible recovery he'd witnessed before.
His expression softened.
"…Do as he says," he ordered quietly.
There was hesitation, disbelief—but also a flicker of hope.
"If we push him away," Melina added gently, "and he truly could've saved our loved ones… could you live with that guilt?"
She looked to the teen boy still crying into his brother's chest.
"I know I couldn't."