Chapter 106: Conviction
The morning light had not yet broken through the whole town. A grey haze still hung over the open ground east of the camp.
Sebas stood in the center of the clearing, both hands clasped behind his back. Fine dew had settled on the shoulders of his black tailcoat, catching the thin morning light as a faint wetness.
He had been standing here all night.
Footsteps came from the camp's direction, slightly hurried.
Touch Me came at nearly a run, stopping a few paces from Sebas. His breath was slightly quick.
"Sebas-sama! I'm sorry — I'm late!"
He bent at the waist to apologize, his voice thick with self-reproach.
Sebas turned. His lined face showed no irritation.
"No. You came at the agreed time. I came early."
He attributed the issue to himself, entirely naturally.
Touch Me straightened, still carrying a trace of self-blame that hadn't fully cleared.
Sebas's gaze moved to the sword at his hip.
"Is that your sword?"
"Ah — yes, it is."
Touch Me quickly undid the scabbard from his belt and held it forward with both hands.
Sebas accepted it. His fingers moved along the flat of the blade; his gaze made a sharp sweep of every inch of the edge.
"This is a backup weapon."
"How did you know?"
Touch Me stared, his expression faintly surprised.
Sebas turned the blade over and indicated a small worn nick along the edge.
"It was exactly as I thought — look here, there's a chip. If this were your primary weapon, I expect you'd maintain it with considerably more care."
He raised his eyes and looked at the young man directly.
Sebas didn't realize it himself, but he was reading the young man before him through the lens of his creator's character.
Touch Me dropped his head slightly. Being seen through so easily by someone older left him at a loss.
"...Yes. My main sword was given to me by Lord Lucian, so..."
He didn't finish. Sebas had already understood: he couldn't bring himself to risk damaging it in training.
For a warrior, a weapon is a clear reflection of character. His admiration for the young man deepened.
"Lord Lucian," Sebas said, slowly, "is he someone you care deeply about?"
The words seemed to carry Touch Me somewhere far away.
"Yes."
When he came back, his voice was unusually certain.
"When I was small, I was an orphan who couldn't eat enough. Every day I wandered the capital's streets, picking up food that people had thrown away, sleeping in the darkest, most foul corners of the alleys."
He said this calmly, in the voice of someone who has turned past the darkest page and finds the writing harder to read when looking back at it.
"Then, all I did was survive. I didn't know or care what tomorrow would bring. If I died in a gutter one day, probably no one would have noticed."
A pause.
"Then Lord Lucian took me in."
Something warm entered the young man's voice, like the steady heat of a fireplace in winter, working its way in by degrees.
"Lord Lucian gave me a place to live, food, clothes to wear. Not just that — he let me go to school, trained me in swordsmanship, and taught me that there are more important things in the world than simply surviving."
Touch Me drew a breath and raised his head to meet Sebas's gaze.
"I've seen the darkness of the capital. Those nobles — they don't care whether common people live or die. The weak are toys in their eyes, things to be thrown away. But I've also seen the light of the Aindra domain. Children who eat their fill, who go to school. Old people who are looked after. The sick who receive treatment. Lord Lucian says every person has the right to live like a person."
His right hand tightened involuntarily, knuckles going slightly pale.
"So my goal in this life is to help more people like the helpless child I once was — let them also see genuine light."
Touch Me brought his right fist to his left chest.
"For justice."
He said it quietly. But it carried more weight than any shout could have.
Sebas watched the young man in silence for a long time. Then he spoke.
"Hearing your answer, I've already decided how to train you."
"But I'll speak plainly." His tone shifted, taking on a layer of gravity. "I can see you don't have much natural talent. To truly train you in martial arts would take a very long time."
Touch Me's body went slightly rigid. He knew this was the truth. His talent was nothing exceptional; everything he had was built piece by piece through sweat and time.
"If you want the kind of training that produces results in a short time," Sebas's voice slowed, and something like a struggle moved through it, "the conditions... are quite severe."
Touch Me's throat made a sound.
It was an involuntary response, because Sebas's eyes had changed. The gentleness was withdrawing from them, replaced by something sharp enough to cut.
Like a formless sword suspended directly above Touch Me's head, making him feel a pressure that had no name in language.
"I'll say it plainly. You might die."
Sebas's voice carried the resolution of a decision made.
He wasn't joking. Touch Me's instincts screamed this at him. A cold chill moved down his back. He felt his heart rate climbing, sweat beginning to work through his palms.
He was not afraid of death.
Touch Me had long since prepared himself to give his life for the path he chose. That was the cost of justice. He accepted it willingly.
But this was different.
This was not a battlefield. There was no enemy in front of him. He had to choose, of his own will, whether to actively place his life at risk in order to become stronger.
He swallowed. He hesitated.
He was not a coward. Or perhaps he actually was.
Silence spread between them. The eastern horizon had begun to carry a faint gold.
Sebas did not rush him. He waited.
"Whether you die depends on your conviction." Sebas added quietly. "If your conviction to uphold justice is strong enough, I think it should be all right."
Touch Me drew a long breath. He glanced toward the Dragon Kingdom's citizens in the distance, and in his mind's eye he saw what it would look like when they were finally saved.
"I have conviction."
His eyes held nothing but absolute resolve.
"Please, Sebas-sama."
*
The morning light moved gradually over the eastern ridge, laying a pale gold across the clearing.
Sebas stood before the young man and looked at the body that had tensed with readiness to meet death. The young man's sword trembled slightly in his grip. But those deep blue eyes were burning with the conviction to give everything for justice.
Something welled up in Sebas that he couldn't quite name.
He knew: if this was truly that person's reincarnation, he would certainly possess this kind of absolute readiness.
This young man was too similar — not only in his name and his conduct, but in that commitment to justice emanating from somewhere beneath the surface.
Was he truly Touch Me-sama's reincarnation?
Sebas's reason told him the probability was vanishingly small. Soul reincarnation was only a legend of this world; he should not invest too much hope in it.
But Ainz-sama was also paying attention to this. Didn't that suggest it might genuinely be possible?
Touch Me gripped the sword hilt and settled into a defensive stance. He drew a breath, and his voice was rough with tension.
"Sebas-sama. I'm ready."
Sebas raised his right fist slowly. Fingers closing in, one by one. His lined face held no excess expression, but in the depths of his eyes too many complex things were moving at once.
He hesitated.
The fist stopped in mid-air.
What if this young man's body couldn't withstand his killing intent — what if this vessel that might carry Touch Me-sama's soul was shattered here—
No. It wouldn't be.
Sebas steadied himself.
He believed: if this truly was Touch Me-sama's reincarnation, he would certainly survive this.
And if something went wrong — Sebas had already prepared for the worst. He would ask Ainz-sama to use resurrection magic. Whatever came of it, he would not allow this young man to truly die.
"...Please be prepared to die."
Killing intent, like a physical wave, surged from Sebas's body.
This was Nazarick's greatest melee combatant, releasing his full force without restraint. The air seemed to solidify in an instant. Even the morning breeze was driven back.
Touch Me's pupils contracted sharply.
He felt it: the bone-deep terror of prey under a great predator's focused gaze. Like standing alone at the edge of a cliff with a bottomless drop below, and annihilation coming from the front.
He wanted to run.
Every part of his body screamed it. His heart hammered against his eardrums. His blood raced through him.
The hand holding the sword was shaking violently. The sword point swung wildly. A bitter taste rose in his throat — physical fear climbing from his stomach.
He could not run.
Touch Me clenched his jaw. The chattering of his teeth was distinct in the silent clearing.
He thought of the oath he had made: for justice.
If he retreated here, what right did he have to call himself a companion of justice?
Sebas's fist launched like a fully-drawn arrow released.
BOOM—
The fist tore the air. The wind it carried flattened the dry grass in every direction.
The speed was at its absolute limit. In Touch Me's vision, that fist was expanding to fill the entire world.
— This was instant death.
The thought flashed through his mind, and the premonition of it took complete control of his consciousness.
Even if he raised his sword to block, the sword would be shattered along with him.
His whole body had locked up; extreme tension had made everything rigid.
There was no escaping the death in front of him.
Touch Me recognized this.
A surge of fierce anger rose from somewhere inside him.
Anger at himself.
What a joke.
If he died here because of his own fear, how could he face Lord Lucian's expectations? How could he face the justice he had sworn to uphold in his heart?
He wanted to live.
If death was unavoidable, he absolutely refused to die here as a coward.
The chains of fear shattered under the force of it.
His body could move.
The eyes that had been about to close forced themselves open, straining to track that fist approaching faster than anything he had ever faced. Every sense pushed to its outer limit — he could feel the finest vibrations in the air.
In this compressed fragment of time, Touch Me realized his own speed was desperately, hopelessly inadequate.
But he didn't give up. He wrenched his body sideways with everything he had, pouring his entire consciousness into evading this single strike.
The fist's wind grazed his cheek.
Several strands of bright gold hair were torn free by the pressure and drifted in the air. The force grazed past his ear, trailing a resonating ring. In the ground behind him, the wind's passage had plowed a shallow furrow, throwing up fragments of grass.
Touch Me gulped air in great heaving breaths.
His chest rose and fell violently, every breath trying to fill his lungs completely.
His eyes were stretched wide, holding the overwhelming gratitude of someone who had made it, still shot through with fear that hadn't fully cleared.
He had confirmed it. He was alive.
Sebas stood where he was, right fist still in the extended position, then slowly drew it back.
As the one who had thrown the punch, the relief in his eyes ran deeper than the young man's.
"...Congratulations." Sebas's voice carried a tremor it didn't usually have. "Having overcome the fear of death — how does it feel?"
Touch Me opened his mouth, tried to form words, and found he barely had enough strength to remain standing.
He staggered once, dropped to one knee. The sword in his hand was propped against the ground, holding him up.
"...Hah... I experienced..." He raised his head. "...genuine danger."
"Fear stimulates the survival instinct." Sebas looked at the young man kneeling in the grass. "...Fortunately you didn't die of shock. This sometimes happens — when someone becomes absolutely convinced their death is certain, they abandon the will to maintain their vital signs."
Touch Me nodded heavily. He was still breathing hard, cold sweat on his face, but the brightness in his eyes showed his gains were not small.
Sebas looked at him quietly.
After hesitating for a long time, he finally brought himself to ask the question he had not dared to put into words.
The legend said: when powerful individuals pass from this world, their souls carry [Innate Abilities] as gifts and descend into the world again.
An unusual tension appeared on Sebas's face. The tension was significant enough that he found himself using formal address.
"...Touch Me. Do you possess an [Innate Ability]?"
His eyes held a carefully, almost painstakingly contained anticipation.
***
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