“...Have you ever wanted to throw everything away?”
To that question, the Drug-Addicted Saint... El could answer without a shadow of hesitation.
— Every single day.
It was a story from the time when she was still human. In her memory, war always had the same face. The smell of blood, groans, breaths being cut short.
In that hell, she saved people. No—more precisely, she saved those who needed to be saved.
A seasoned soldier instead of a child. The young instead of the old. Those who would remain useless for battle even if saved were naturally pushed to the back of the line.
Yes, it was the right decision. A rational choice. In those moments, no one dared to tell her she was wrong.
But unfortunately, her healing did not end suffering. In most cases, it merely postponed the pain until the next day.
Those who were saved were sent back to the battlefield, toward despair. And they fell in the next battle, or the one after that. More painfully, more horribly. Sometimes they returned with faces that made it seem like it would have been better if it had all ended that very day.
And every time, El asked herself.
Was she saving lives? Or was she saving pain itself? Wasn’t she the one who didn’t return life, but merely forced the battlefield to agonize longer? And then the accusations followed, delayed only for a moment.
“Why... why couldn’t you just save my father?!”
“Why did you heal him, why did you send him back into that hell! Why?!”
“It hurts... it’s so unbearable... you should’ve just let me die.”
The nickname people gave her was Child of Miracles. But her miracle had a limit.
Save until that limit. Push them forward. Save again. Become an all-powerful being—only to turn into “useless trash” in a single moment.
And yet she did not stop. Why?
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“...Have you ever wanted to throw everything away?”
Alphonse could answer simply.
— Of course I did.
In his memory, war always began before the first clash. Because before he became a warlock or a rogue, he was someone who dealt in information.
Before swords crossed. Before blood was spilled. At that moment, when everyone was still alive—on maps, in numbers and tables, the outcome was already decided.
The probability of that village falling. The chance of that unit being completely wiped out. The number of deaths this decision would bring.
As the one responsible for information, he knew everything. Which meant he always had to choose first. He had to send people to their deaths, knowing in advance that tragedy was inevitable.
“These must be abandoned.”
“We buy time here with lives.”
“These... we save. This is a key strategic node.”
He killed people in his head before they died in reality. The problem was that he gathered data too well—and calculated too perfectly.
His judgments were almost never wrong. The results always aligned with his predictions and always brought “profit.”
Yes. It was the same that time.
A city with low walls and a port nearby. A small coastal town with nothing remarkable about it.
Before the war, he had passed through it many times. Market alleys, narrow stairways, the wind at sunset.
And her. A blind woman. The only person who made the word “vow” surface in his heart. Someone he, sinful and filthy, never dared to approach.
All of that had been scenery—before it turned into numbers. But when the situation at the front changed, the numbers grew cold. The chance of holding the city was low even with reinforcements, and if forces were sent there, a far more important front would collapse.
He recalculated everything.
Three times. Five times. The result did not change.
When the battle ended, commanders gathered around him, saying:
“We held the line well.”
“Losses were minimal.”
“Thanks to you, far more people survived.”
All of it was true. He hadn’t been wrong.
After the reports were filed, he walked alone down the street.
Burned-out husks of houses. A ruined port. Voices, fragments of names. In that city, he never found her again.
Blood Oath, Kalos. Every night, the same thought came to him.
To throw it all away. To hide in some backwater tavern where no one knew him. No maps, no reports, no numbers—just drown himself in drink, and when the longing for her became unbearable, quietly weep. He longed for a life where he didn’t have to choose anything.
But when the next day came, he unfolded the maps and tables again.
Why did he do it? For what?
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When Alphonse and the Saint finished their stories, the King of Knights silently picked up a log and tossed it into the fire.
Hrrr— the flames responded with a low roar. Beyond the fire, the night sea pushed back the darkness.
A moment of silence. The King of Knights raised his head. When the firelight reflected in his eyes, he spoke. His voice was not the commanding voice of a monarch—it was quiet and dry.
— Every morning, I prayed that this would be the last day I girded my sword.
He added with a deep breath:
— I prayed for it every single morning.
The King of Knights. He was always the one who stood at the front. A place where there was no space to run and no possibility of retreat. Where he stood was the frontline of humanity, and behind him always hung thousands of lives.
— If I lost... if my army faltered, an entire city would vanish from the map. People would lose hope and fall into despair.
So he had no choice. Not because he could win, and not for honor. He simply had to stand there.
— And yet, I lost countless times.
Ninety-nine defeats.
He failed to protect cities. Failed to keep his promises. Failed to bring back alive those who believed in him and followed him.
— It wouldn’t have been enough for me to die even a hundred times.
But the King of Knights was humanity’s beacon, a symbol of resistance. The deeper the darkness became, the brighter he had to burn. The one who had no right to die. Every time the front collapsed, his name was the first to be shouted.
“Protect the King!”
“Buy time, even at the cost of your lives!”
“My lord! We’ll hold them here!”
There were faces like his own—faces that smiled while coughing up blood.
“Kha... forgive me, I can no longer serve you.”
Those who followed him stepped forward to preserve his life. They became shields, walls, swords—and fell dead. At the cost of hundreds of lives, that beacon continued to burn.
— I survived on the lives of those I was supposed to protect. And I was pushed back onto the battlefield again.
The fact that he had stood at the vanguard countless times meant he had survived many battles. And the fact that he survived meant someone else had died in his place.
— So, — the King of Knights said quietly. — At some point, I simply wanted to throw down my sword and die.
Somewhere no one would use him as a shield, a symbol, or a banner, he wanted to lay down his weapon. But he did not. He fought until the end, and even after ascending to godhood, he threw himself back into battle to save people.
Why? For what?
— Gunther.
The King of Knights’ gaze moved from the sea to the sky, from the sky to the fire, and finally settled on Gunther.
— This world is designed in a damned unfair way.
Unfairness. Gunther felt the word sink into his bones.
— Simply because you were born, you are trampled by evil gods, offered as sacrifice, and from beginning to end of your life, you endure immeasurable suffering.
Alphonse smirked and added:
— A structure that runs on the defeat and exhaustion of people... a complete failure, wouldn’t you say?
In truth, it was a feeling Gunther—and all three gods... everyone who resisted evil—had felt at least once.
An endless number of enemies. Cut off one head, and two more appear; today’s victory becomes tomorrow’s catastrophe. Behind every crisis you barely survive stands an even greater malice.
Invisible chances of success and fading hope. The feeling of being an actor dragged onto a stage where defeat is written into the script.
— So it feels like a person is thrown into a battle they cannot win from the very beginning.
The King of Knights paused for a moment, then added clearly:
— And yet, we fought.
— ...
— You, too, went through twenty-seven deaths to stand here. Why?
It wasn’t a difficult question.
Well, because you have to clear the game to return to the real world. And because, no matter how you look at it, there’s no one else to do it. Gunther was about to give that answer—but for some reason, he faltered. The King of Knights smiled faintly.
— You were about to say it’s your mission.
Gunther’s eyes widened. The King of Knights nodded as if he already knew.
— A mission to save this world. The role of the one who possesses “Return After Death” and “external information.”
— ...!
— But Gunther, what you’re carrying on your shoulders is not a mission at all.
His voice was firm, without ornament.
— You see, a mission is something dictated by fate. It cannot be rejected, cannot be abandoned, it forces a person to look only forward. That is why a person consumed by a mission does not suffer. They do not hesitate. They do not question.
— If you were a man driven only by a mission, you would have acted more efficiently. You would have become colder, and you would have run in a straight line toward a single goal—“the eradication of Luthien.”
— But you did not.
Gunther listened in silence.
— Instead of efficiency, you remembered faces first. Instead of calculating success rates, you counted wounds first. You saw people, not an objective. You chose to be human, not a tool of fate. That is why you hurt now. That is why you want to stop. That is why you doubt.
Fwoosh— the fire swayed in the wind, changing shape.
— A mission that allows you to shift all responsibility onto fate, and a choice—those are different things. A choice always remains as pain. As the faces of the living, and the names of the dead.
With those words, the gazes of the three gods converged on Gunther. It was the look of those who had walked this path first, directed at their successor.
— But Gunther, that is precisely what it means to be human.
— The kind of human that evil gods fear the most... one who does not submit to fate and does not accept defeat as something predetermined.
— A man bound to a mission is predictable. He walks the laid-out path and breaks at the appointed moment. But a man who chooses is different. He hesitates, looks back, sometimes runs, sometimes weeps, but...
The stars shone clearly. The sea breathed calmly in the darkness. In the King of Knights’ eyes, both the fire and the starlight were reflected.
— ...In the end, he does not turn away at the most important moment. Just like you.
Gunther had not fully grasped all those words yet. The shock that the King of Knights knew of his origin as a “man from outside” had not yet faded. But one thing was clear—the cold feeling that had been chasing him since his last death began to melt. As if something invisible gently embraced him.
— Yes, right now you are exhausted. You are on the verge of collapsing.
The King of Knights did not deny Gunther’s fatigue.
— But that is not because you are weak. It is because you fight as a human.
Alphonse smirked as he cut in:
— If you were running purely on a mission, your mind would’ve been ground to dust a long time ago. Or you’d have just completely broken.
The Saint, who had quietly stepped closer, placed her hand on the back of Gunther’s hand.
— There is still a lot of pain ahead, Gunther. But you will endure it. Because you are you.
The three gods surrounded Gunther. The shimmer of the stars, the white foam of the surf, the faint but distinct sounds of life from the coastal village. Clean air. In that silence, the King of Knights spoke one last time:
— We know. Even if fear, doubt, and the impulse to throw everything away take hold of you—in the end, you will ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) not choose defeat.
The fire flared up.
— And when that choice repeats again and again, this world will cease to be a tool of the gods...
All three of them smiled at the same time.
— ...And will be saved by a human.
Gunther had no choice but to smile in return.
— And one more thing, Gunther. We absolutely believe in the human who has already walked this path twenty-seven times.
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[Return to Save Point #13]
