— “The choice.” ■ hour(s) ago.
Gunther was certain.
The true target of the Luthien Theocracy was the Holy Sword.
Those creatures would absolutely try to seize it before this chaos with the dead came to an end.
Of course, he did not have a single piece of hard evidence to support that theory.
It was impossible to rule out the possibility that their only objective was large-scale unrest caused by the infected. And the method by which they intended to steal the Holy Sword—a blade no one had been able to draw for over a hundred years—remained a mystery.
Corrupted chivalry taints the Holy Sword, twisting its power to purify the spirit and completely painting Dominic in “evil”...
“Honestly, it sounds like a far-fetched load of nonsense.”
And yet his intuition was merciless.
As a transmigrator and a Regressor, it had always been his most reliable guide. When his accumulated data on <Forgotten God> and his countless “sensations of death” all pointed in the same direction, ignoring them would be foolish.
“And most importantly...”
Gunther’s gaze fixed on Sword Hill, towering beyond the royal castle.
“Right now is the golden window.”
Originally, whether it concerned the sword or the epidemic, the Luthien Theocracy had intended to move slowly, waiting for the right moment. But Gunther’s interference had knocked them off their intended course. Now they would be forced to make rushed, careless moves to recover lost ground.
If there was ever a moment when Gunther, acting alone, could create a variable, it was now.
Tap-tap—
Gunther did not hesitate any longer.
Leaving behind the comrades isolated in the Seventh Sector, he sprinted toward Sword Hill with all his strength.
“...It’ll be fine.”
This was the rational decision.
He had to trust his people.
They had already begun the initial measures. At the very least, the epidemic should not spiral out of control right now. And the kingdom’s troops would not recklessly storm the Seventh Sector either, the source of a disease whose nature had not yet even been identified.
Which meant there was nothing more he could do there.
“Everyone has to give everything in the place they stand.”
The city scenery rushed past him.
The curtain was falling on the cheerful festival.
Security squads sealed off the streets, driving citizens into their homes. Doors were barred, curtains drawn shut over windows—the city was holding its breath.
Whoosh—
Gunther made exact use of that moment.
Slipping through the blind spots of patrols, he finally reached the foot of Sword Hill.
“...No one.”
Which made sense.
In a situation like this, no sane person would come strolling toward a tourist landmark. There were no guards in sight either. Over the past decades, there had been thieves who attempted to steal the relic more than once, but...
since no one had managed to move the Holy Sword even an inch, guarding it in the middle of a crisis had apparently been deemed unnecessary.
Rustle—
Gunther began climbing without lowering his guard.
The noise below gradually faded.
For now, he felt no foreign presence.
The only thing waiting for him at the top was the enormous boulder he had already seen in the previous iteration.
The stone still bore the sword scar left by the founder king himself.
Now it was draped in a thick cloth.
The stillness and silence surrounding it were so complete that Gunther briefly wondered whether he had come to the wrong place.
[The King of Ninety-Nine Defeats asks what you intend to do now.]
“To start with...”
The most reasonable course would be to hide nearby and watch the Luthien Theocracy’s movements. If they intended to do something with the Holy Sword, they would do it now.
Besides, as he had already decided, the primary purpose of this regression was information gathering.
He needed to act carefully.
[Alphonse of Red Street clicks his tongue and asks whether you’re an idiot to be this naive.]
[He suggests you take another proper look around.]
— ?
Gunther reflexively turned, scanning the surroundings.
“...But there’s really nothing here?”
Tsk-tsk-tsk.
The sound of a tongue clicking rang clearly in his ears.
[Alphonse of Red Street says that’s exactly the point.]
“...Ah.”
At that moment, realization pierced through him.
“Why didn’t I think of that sooner?”
That was right.
There were no guards here now.
No onlookers.
No officials.
Normally, to so much as touch the Holy Sword, one had to go through the festival procedures, inspections, and trials.
But right now, not a single living soul was watching him.
Which meant even if he touched the sword, no one would know.
[Alphonse of Red Street whispers slyly:]
[Wouldn’t it be easier to draw it yourself before Luthien pulls their filthy little trick?]
Gunther’s pupils trembled.
[The King of Ninety-Nine Defeats believes it would be better to follow the proper procedures...]
[Alphonse of Red Street tells him to shut up and stop spouting nonsense.]
[The Drug-Addicted Saint, surprisingly, also sides with Alphonse.]
Gunther no longer hesitated.
He quickened his pace toward the summit.
A strange confidence entered his stride, almost like the feeling of an office worker heading out to buy a lottery ticket on a Friday evening.
“...I’m just going to try.”
That was how he tried to persuade himself, but everything inside him was trembling.
“But what if... what if it actually works?”
Gunther looked at his old gloves.
[You are wearing the “Gloves of the Despot” (Legendary Rank).]
He was the successor of the King of Knights, who was believed to have shared a deep connection with the kingdom’s founder.
And Gunther himself still upheld “chivalry” more faithfully than anyone else.
“If I can draw it...”
Gunther’s eyes flashed feverishly.
Along with a final-tier weapon, he would gain Valloren’s unconditional support.
Of course, they would not hand him the crown, but in the current situation his word would effectively become law.
“The man who drew the Holy Sword in the kingdom’s greatest crisis... they’ll have no choice but to cooperate, if only for the symbolism.”
A Regressor capable of commanding the capital’s troops and the power of the Round Table Knights at will?
It was hard to even imagine how much easier the walkthrough would become.
“It definitely has purification properties too, so it’ll help against the dead.”
And above all, there still had not been large-scale casualties yet.
If he could close out the scenario right now, it would be the perfect ending.
[Alphonse of Red Street says dreaming is harmless enough, but you should hurry first.]
It was at that exact moment that Gunther’s face darkened as he noticed something.
“Serpent’s Nest,” which he had left behind to monitor the pair from the mill district...
the trail that had once hovered somewhere far away was rapidly approaching.
“I knew it...”
His premonition had not been wrong.
“They’re aiming for my Holy Sword.”
[The King of Ninety-Nine Defeats coughs loudly.]
Gunther launched himself powerfully off the ground.
Like a projectile, his silhouette shot toward the summit of the hill.
Only after reaching the peak did he slow down.
The summit was narrower than he had expected.
And there, at the exact center of the flat, almost perfectly circular stone platform, the blade stood in silence.
“.......”
[The King of Ninety-Nine Defeats stares intently at the sword.]
For the symbol of an entire nation, it looked almost absurdly ordinary.
There were no ornate decorations. No crests glorifying heroic deeds.
The visible portion of the blade looked sharp, as if it had just been honed, but beyond that—nothing remarkable.
Even the hilt had been worn smooth by time.
But that was exactly where its grandeur lay.
A sword that had endured centuries.
The rise and decline of the kingdom, wars and purges.
Through every upheaval, it had remained untouched by rust, never bent, silently cutting away every tragedy that had fallen upon the nation.
Rustle—
There was no time left for hesitation.
He could already feel the presence of Luthien’s people at the foot of the hill.
Gunther steadied his breathing and, with a resolute expression, wrapped his hand around the hilt.
“Even this time... give me the power to save Valloren.”
Countless lives were at stake.
Gunther gritted his teeth and poured every ounce of strength he had into his grip.
— !
Strangely, there was no resistance.
As if it had been waiting only for this, the sword slid smoothly out of the narrow stone crevice.
A certainty pulsed through his fingertips.
Yes.
He had drawn it.
[More...]
And at that moment, a quiet voice sounded inside his head.
[...This will be hard on you.]
At the same time, he felt something crumbling apart in his palms.
— ......?
Gunther froze like a stone statue.
The same happened to the pair from Luthien who had just reached the summit.
Sss—
All three of them watched in stunned silence.
As the fragments of the sword scattered.
As the shining shards of steel broke apart into particles of light and dissolved into the air.
Gunther, left gripping nothing but a useless hilt, let out a very long, very heavy sigh.
“Well, at least I got one valuable piece of information.”
Now there was only one thing left.
Get out of here alive.
Rustle—
The large man from the duo slowly stepped forward.
Behind him, the short partner began quietly reciting a spell.
A magic circle spread across the ground.
At least Fifth Hierarchy, bishop level.
But Gunther did not even look at him.
Rustle—
His gaze was locked on the approaching giant.
The man’s movements were still strange.
He staggered as if his own body did not fit him, and every time his massive frame swayed, a thick smell of rot rolled off him.
Huuuun—
A strong wind blew.
The hood of the robe did not stir even once, yet for some reason Gunther could already clearly see the face hidden beneath it.
The veins bulged on the hand gripping the broken sword hilt.
***
“Take at least the child!”
“No! Dear, no! Dear, no!”
“Don’t do this! We’re fine!”
“Back off! Back off, or I’ll stab! One, two!”
“You bastards! Did you decide to slaughter us all?!”
The screams and shouts blended into a single groan that carried from afar.
The capital forces blockading the Seventh Sector had run into far fiercer resistance than expected.
Scuffles were breaking out everywhere, and every harsh countermeasure only birthed another wave of violence.
Both sides were losing their minds far too quickly.
However, Parco and the rest of the platoon fighters had no time to focus on any of that.
“Doctor! Our man is badly hurt. He’s not breathing!”
“Doctor! Please look over here! The bleeding won’t stop!”
The slums, where the unknown disease was raging.
Instead of aid, the authorities had imposed quarantine.
Outside—a rippling sea of torches and spears.
Inside, meanwhile, they had established a temporary infirmary where armed fighters and healers had gathered.
It was obvious where the crowd would flood.
The temporary station «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» the Fourth and Fifth Platoons had set up inside an abandoned building was now so packed that the word “chaos” did not even begin to describe it.
The original purpose—isolating only the “zombie patients”—had long since lost all meaning.
“Here! Lay him down here!”
Parco’s apron was already layered in crusted blood and pus several coats thick.
At first, it had been people suffering from all kinds of illnesses.
Then at some point, the wounded began pouring in.
Stab wounds from spears and swords. Marks left by heavy boots.
For a moment, Parco felt dizzy and staggered.
“What... what the hell is happening outside?”
It was never supposed to end like this.
All they had needed to do was sort out the sick showing specific symptoms, examine them, then treat or isolate them.
But when he came to his senses, he found himself standing in the middle of a living hell.
And the past several dozen minutes had been enough to awaken memories long buried.
“Parco, it hurts. Parco...”
“You’re smart, right? You have a way to cure us, don’t you? You have to!”
“You’re the one who brought those people here...”
Silently, Parco activated his Authority.
He took on the illnesses of everyone he saw, regardless of the cause.
Wounds and pus bloomed across his body and vanished, replacing one another.
But the wounds on his hands still remained a vivid red.
“Parco! Snap out of it, Parco! Damn it, you’re going to work yourself into the grave like this!”
Rietta blocked the path of the man who had turned so pale he was almost blue.
She had been helping Parco prepare medicines while also assisting with treatment through telekinesis.
As a telekinetic mage, she was being forced to work for ten people.
“There’s no helping it. Then I’ll work for twenty.”
Rietta forcibly sat the staggering Parco down.
Gritting her teeth, she doubled the force of her telekinesis.
Her thoughts blurred, and blood began streaming from her nose.
“Rem.”
So when someone called her by name, Rietta did not even lift her head.
“One second, I’m just finishing with this patient.”
“Of course. I’m in no hurry.”
The realization that something was wrong came only after she finished changing the bandage.
...Rem?
Rietta turned her head very slowly.
The instant it took for her gaze to shift toward the source of the voice stretched into eternity.
The noise of the infirmary receded.
The air became alien and heavy.
It felt as though all her senses had been deliberately narrowed onto the man standing before her.
“Fate is a curious thing.”
Once, that voice had been her most beloved sound.
“Heretics who lose their minds and tear at their neighbors with teeth and claws.”
In the past, the moment she heard it even from far away, she had always run toward it faster than any of the other children.
“This scaffold was originally meant to be erected by your own hands, yet in the end it reached completion through the will of God... oh, great providence, beyond the sight of mere mortals.”
Rietta met the narrowed eyes looking down at her.
And for the first time in a very long while, almost like a prayer, she repeated to herself the name that had now become foreign.
Even though she knew he could never save her again.
“Teacher Raymond...”
