Nathanaël had finished alone, on his side, waiting for the enemy. He was thinking back to Azraüs's question, which kept turning over and repeating in his mind.
"Ready to kill, huh?"
Suddenly, an arrow shot straight toward him. Nathanaël saw it and dodged easily. That kind of thing wasn't much for him anymore.
He looked in the direction it came from — and in the same instant, another arrow pierced his line of sight.
But thanks to that shot, he finally saw the shooter.
"I found you."
Nathanaël calmly deflected the arrow with his sword, but when he decided to chase after the shooter and launched himself forward, a warrior came out to meet him. A man took advantage of Nathanaël's brief movement, darting out from the woods at full speed and striking his sword with Nathanaël's.
Their blades clashed with a sharp metallic cry, echoing so loudly that a flock of birds flew away in fear.
The warrior, forcing against his blade, stared carefully at Nathanaël — and his face twisted with doubt, as if something felt wrong.
"Who are you? Are you with Azraüs?"
Nathanaël raised an eyebrow.
"Huh? Funny, I can understand you. Guess sticking around that idiot is starting to pay off…"
Nathanaël pushed the enemy back, deflecting the two arrows aimed at him in the same instant. He might not have reached the level of Marc or Jin, but for him, this was nothing.
Since the start of his little adventure in Nozras, he had only judged one man as truly capable of facing him — Azraüs.
The warrior stumbled backward from the force of his counter.
"How is that possible? Are you a clan leader?"
"I don't understand everything either. Don't exaggerate."
"In any case, you have to die."
Hearing those words, Nathanaël thought again about Azraüs's question. Maybe he was right after all ? He had spent his whole life playing the good guy — because to him, no one truly deserved bottomless hatred, a stupid death, or cruel punishment. Even if some people might have deserved it, he never thought himself qualified to deliver such judgment.
There was no meaning in killing just to kill. Even in this cursed country where logic and reason had long been replaced by war and bloodshed. If Nathanaël had come here, it was to save the world. So what was the point of killing everyone on the way, if his goal was to save them?
Death was never a good thing — and anyone who killed should carry that burden. Nathanaël didn't want to become a victim of his own past. Nor a vengeful spirit unable to find peace. So killing… was optional. Truly optional. But ever since he had set foot in this land, he couldn't help but think that, at some point…
"I'm not ready to kill. That much is clear."
...it would be inevitable.
The warrior charged at him at great speed, slashing through the air toward Nathanaël's head.
Nathanaël didn't even bother to show any effort. He dodged lazily, all while judging his opponent's skill.
"This one's not bad either."
Arrows rained down at the same time as sword strikes. It was a well-coordinated attack.The archer was skilled — none of his arrows hit his ally, even though they fell like raindrops.They were perfectly synchronized, leaving the target no time to rest or breathe. Anyone else would have already fallen.
But Nathanaël wasn't shaken. He deflected the blades and the arrows with ease, even allowing himself to ask the warrior questions mid-fight.
"Where's the third one?"
"You're not even looking at me. How insolent."
He didn't want to waste time. After all his time in the other world, it was clear he wasn't on the same level as these guys. What he felt toward them wasn't fear — it was pity.
He struck the swordsman on the back of the neck, knocking him out cold after a flash step that no one could even see, and then blocked the next volley of arrows.
"It's cliché, like Marc would have said. But I see you, the third one."
Another warrior, hiding behind the trees, realized he'd been spotted — but just as he tried to move, a heavy blow struck his face, sending him to the ground.
"So that's how Jin used to do it?"
The archer hesitated to fire his remaining arrows. It was a lost cause. Instead of fighting, he turned and ran.
Nathanaël looked at his work, proud of what he had accomplished. It wasn't often he got to show his combat skills, since he was usually the one in support. So, he let himself enjoy it a bit.
He brushed off his hands proudly and flashed a bright, confident smile.
"And that's that."
"You scared the hell out of him."
Nathanaël turned and saw Azraüs emerging from the forest. He noticed a few marks of battle on the warrior's solid body.
"Were they strong?"
"No. I killed them all. And you?"
At those words, Nathanaël's body shivered. He'd almost forgotten that behind Azraüs's almost childlike face hid a warrior of terrifying coldness and power. Killing here was the norm — and he hadn't yet accepted that norm.
Nathanaël nodded toward the unconscious bodies on the ground.
"I see. You couldn't bring yourself to kill them. You'll learn with time. In Nozras, real warriors fight to the death."
Nathanaël tilted his head slightly.
"Huh?"
"Oh right, you don't get it all yet. Forget it — I'll explain later. Let's move. We've got about two days left."
"Huh?"
Nathanaël watched Azraüs sling his club over his shoulder and walk away calmly, as if he hadn't just killed several people.
"His composure is… impressive. I guess people here are used to things like this. Does that make me an accomplice ? Well… with Marc, anyway… never mind. I guess it's just part of the journey."
Nathanaël followed Azraüs toward their destination — a path now stained with blood.
A few days later, since Azraüs apparently needed to take an urgent detour — or perhaps because he was simply and utterly lost — Nathanaël decided to ask him a question.
"Tell me… why do you people never stop fighting here in Nozras?"
At those words, Azraüs gave Nathanaël a look as if he were an idiot.
"Because we want the throne. We want to become strong. And we want to crush our enemies so they understand that we're superior."
Nathanaël nodded, but not in approval.
All these human vanities only led to endless, meaningless wars. If such vanity could even be called human.
Over time, he had started to think that the inhabitants of Nozras were descendants of some being from the Other World — one who lived only for battle. After all, he had no way of knowing if contact between the two worlds was truly recent. He was almost certain there was something wrong here. Something beyond mere human nature.
Azraüs noticed the long silence of his companion.
"I know what you're thinking, Nathy. You think it's pointless. That fighting leads nowhere. But you should understand us. We live for this. Even if we don't accept it, we still take part in it."
Nathanaël didn't fully understand, but he caught the essence of it. To live for battle, not to battle for life.
That was the philosophy of Nozras.
"And you see, Nathy? Those who refuse to fight… they help each other, to live normally."
Azraüs pointed in one direction. After such a long journey, they had finally arrived.
A village rested deep in a sun-scorched valley — a land of dry air and blazing light. It was a drastic change from the tropical forest where his adventure had begun.
The homes were low and thick, built from sunbaked clay that blended perfectly with the land. Flat roofs, covered with stretched fabric and dry branches, offered meager shade. Every wall bore the scars of time — cracks, faded carvings, forgotten handprints.
There were no roads, only paths of trampled dust shaped by countless feet and hooves. The rare, deep wells were circled by sun-blackened stones and guarded like sacred relics.
The air shimmered with heat. The sky, a merciless blue, seemed to press down on the land. The few trees, twisted and dry, stood like survivors, their leaves reduced to trembling shadows.
The people moved slowly beneath the weight of the sun, dressed in pale fabrics. Their faces bore not fatigue, but endurance. They did not complain. They knew the desert did not forgive impatience.
Nathanaël was astonished that no one was fighting even though there were more than thirty people in the same place. In a country like that, it was almost unthinkable.
They reached the village gate, but a man with a hard face and a spear blocked their path. He glared at Azraüs, standing firmly before him.
"Azraüs, you've come to cause trouble here again."
His voice was deep, without the slightest hint of friendship — past or present. He clearly didn't intend to let the young warrior through.
"It's fine, Otou. I came with a new friend. He's super strong. And no one's been following me since....yesterday. Some guys tried to ambush us — looked like they were from Dan. We crushed them."
"Dan? You're insane. Their leader tolerates no failure. If Dan wants your head, they'll get it."
"And what was I supposed to do? Let myself die?"
"Sometimes, I think that might be the best thing for us."
"Watch your mouth, Otou."
"Easy, easy."
Suddenly, a booming voice echoed from within the village.
A massive man emerged, throwing his arms around the two warriors with a thunderous laugh. His body was enormous — Nathanaël swore he was looking at two refrigerators side by side.
His tattoos were also spectacular on his body. A lion on his back and on the front of his body, he seemed to have many tattoos that Nathanaël could not decipher. There seemed to be a circle with waves inside. A giant sword, which surely had to be held with both hands, bent slightly to the right. Its handle looked roughly carved from stone. There was also a gemstone drawn on the man's body and many other incomprehensible tattoos.
He pulled both men close, grinning broadly.
"Hahaha! Is this how we welcome our members, Otou?"
The guard wilted under his strength, lowering his head in embarrassment.
"No, chief."
"Good. Azraüs, how are you, my boy?"
"I'll die if you keep squeezing me like that."
"So, you're still not a real man, huh? Hahahaha!"
A gust of wind blasted Nathanaël in the face as the man laughed. He had to brace himself not to fall.
Then, the man's gaze turned to him, releasing Azraüs.
"Well, well… and where do you come from? Your skin's darker than ours — from the East, maybe? The Kougan lands?"
But Azraüs spoke up before Nathanaël could respond.
"His name's Nathy. He's a foreigner. I found him near the border."
"A foreigner, huh…"
The man's expression darkened. The air grew tense.
Nathanaël instinctively shifted into a defensive stance. If things turned hostile, he could protect himself — probably.
But the question gnawing at him was: Could he really fight this man?Because the warrior before him was even more terrifying than Azraüs.
"Tell me… did you come for the throne?"
"He doesn't speak the Norde. That's why I brought him. You should teach him. He said he doesn't want to fight."
The man's eyes widened in surprise.
"You don't want to fight? In Nozras?"
He stared at Nathanaël… and then burst into laughter.
"Hahahahahaha!"
"Huh?"
"You come to Nozras… and you don't want to fight? Hahahahahaha!"
Nathanaël planted his sword in the ground, gripping it tightly to withstand the storm of wind from that laugh. If he hadn't, he would have been blown away.
"You're a funny one. Welcome to the Huiga Clan. I'm Gazor Reno, clan chief. Forget all the formalities."
Something clicked in Nathanaël's mind as he rose to his feet.
"Gazor Reno… you're his father."
Reno raised an eyebrow.
"Well, look at that, you can talk a bit. Seems that idiot son of mine has more than just a club in his head. Hahahaha!"
Nathanaël held firm while Azraüs looked away.
"Shut up!"
Nathanaël now saw the striking resemblance between the two. It was even quite unsettling. One was just younger than the other, but otherwise it was the same person. Except for the eyes, which were brown in the father.
"He takes more after his mother. But since you're here to learn our tongue, and I happen to know Garid, I'll teach you. That way, you can speak with us and tell us what you want."
"You… speak Garid?"
"Yep. I'll tell you the story later. For now, get used to the clan. You'll be staying here for a while — wouldn't want anyone killing you by mistake. Hahahaha!"
Nathanaël frowned at that, but quickly remembered where he was.This was Nozras, after all.
And yet… something still bothered him.
How had Reno known… that he was from Garida?