Jurgen's gaze lingered on the body longer than it should have. He did not look away, nor did he react in the way one might expect. There was no visible sympathy, no grief shaping his expression. Instead, what surfaced within him was a quiet, unmistakable sense of relief — the simple recognition that he was still standing, that the outcome had not been his.
He did not question that reaction. It came naturally, without resistance, and he allowed it to remain as it was.
In truth, Jurgen had always leaned toward himself first. It was not something he framed as right or wrong, nor did he feel the need to justify it. In most situations, his priorities aligned with his own survival before anything else. The idea of placing himself in harm's way for another person was not one he instinctively accepted.
He was not the type to assume the role of a hero, nor did he believe that such a role was expected of him. To him, risking his life for someone else required a reason—something clear, something personal. And without that, the expectation itself held little weight.
"Banjo Division… where is your High Chief Commander?"
Nemesio's voice carried across the scene, controlled and even, as his gaze rested on the body without lingering. Whatever emotion had surfaced earlier had already been set aside, contained beneath a more deliberate composure.
He would not allow it to interfere.
What remained was focus.
There was no uncertainty in his intent. Whoever had orchestrated this had acted with precision, with knowledge, and with a complete disregard for the life they had taken. That alone was enough. Nemesio had no tolerance for such waste —especially not of someone so young, someone who had only just stepped into service.
The thought settled firmly.
He would find the one responsible.
And when he did, the consequence would not be measured or restrained.
The members of the division hesitated, exchanging brief glances as they searched for the right words. None came easily. Anything they said risked adding to the weight already present, and so they chose restraint over clumsy reassurance.
By then, the healers had already taken the body away, leaving behind only the lingering tension of what had occurred.
Jurgen remained where he was, though his attention had begun to drift. Restlessness settled in quietly beneath his composed exterior. His thoughts had already moved ahead, returning to the division Nemesio had mentioned earlier. That was where his interest lay now, persistent and difficult to ignore.
Even so, he understood the situation well enough not to show it. There was a time and place for everything, and this was neither. He kept his expression measured, adopting a subdued, sympathetic front that matched the mood around him, even if it did not reflect what he actually felt.
Without warning, Nemesio vanished.
There was no movement to follow, no visible transition—one moment he was there, and the next he simply was not.
Jurgen took a small step forward, his attention shifting to the remaining members as they began to disperse, preparing to leave the scene behind.
A voice cut in from one of the Banjo Division members, quick and direct.
"You're our new member meant to be in our division. Go to base, ask for KRM, and lay low for the time being."
There was no time for further explanation. The man gave a brief set of directions and moved immediately, breaking into a sprint to rejoin the others.
Jurgen remained where he was for a moment, processing what little had been said. It was not difficult to piece together. Banjo Division was the only one stationed in this area, the same place Nemesio had brought him to. Even the boy 'Naoki' had belonged to that division.
The conclusion was straightforward.
His gaze shifted briefly in the direction the others had gone before he turned away.
By now, the entire town had entered a controlled lockdown. Movement was being restricted, patrols tightening across the streets as the defense corps worked to locate whoever was responsible. Nemesio's sudden disappearance no longer seemed abrupt in that context, it aligned with what had just been confirmed.
The infiltrator had been detected.
And they were still within Mercedes.
Jurgen slowed to a stop, the motion subtle but deliberate. His hand tightened into a fist at his side as his gaze lowered, his thoughts turning inward.
Why? Why didn't I feel anything?
The question surfaced uninvited, but it did not leave. It lingered, pressing quietly against his mind.
Do I not have a heart?
He remained still, staring ahead without truly seeing, as the thought settled deeper than he expected. He did not want to accept it, not in the way it presented itself. The absence he had felt back there, standing over a dead body without reaction, was difficult to ignore.
It forced a consideration he had not been willing to make before.
Had his pursuit of power begun to alter him? Had the anger he carried, the quiet resentment he rarely confronted, started shaping him into something he had not intended to become?
He exhaled faintly.
There were still things he knew with certainty. Hana, for one. The instinct to protect her had never been forced, never something he had to think about. It had always been there, immediate and unquestioned.
And yet now, even that clarity felt slightly distant — less anchored than before.
The shift was subtle, but it was there.
"…Dammit," he muttered under his breath.
It began that day, the first time he witnessed the death of someone who had been exceptionally close to him.
The memory surfaced slowly, not all at once, but in fragments that gradually aligned.
A child, around five years old, stood near a riverbank in the rain. He wore a black sleeveless coat that stopped just short of his shoulders, the fabric hanging and shifting under the weight of the downpour. Dense trees surrounded the area, enclosing it in a quiet, isolated stretch of nature where only the sound of rain and rushing water existed.
In front of him, another child lay bleeding.
"Jue…"
The voice broke before it could finish. Thick, dark red blood followed immediately after, spilling uncontrollably in a way that left the scene deeply unsettling.
The boy watched him die.
He did not move.
Tears ran down his face, carried away by the rain, but his body remained fixed in place. He felt it clearly — sympathy, distress, the urge to act, but none of it translated into movement. His body did not follow what his emotions demanded.
That was the first time he became aware of the divide.
Not that he felt nothing, but that feeling alone was not enough to make him act.
And in that moment, without fully understanding it, he began to realize something fundamental about himself — something that would quietly remain with him long after the memory faded.