Chapter 33 – Life and Magic (5)

Life and Magic (5)

A secluded place.
A mountainous area roughly 50 kilometers away from the Demon King’s castle.

Two men are holding their ground.

One is me.

Just a porter.
Incompetent and foul-tempered. Just a porter.

The other is a pretty boy with a face like a woman’s, which I find irritating, the hero.
The sight of him, blood still smeared around his mouth, trying to stay awake with his eyes fluttering shut, is particularly annoying.

What’s he going to do if he exhausts himself like this and then loses to the Demon King?

Of course, it doesn’t matter to me who wins. Either way, I’ll end up dead by the Demon King’s hand or I’ll go back home. But if I had to choose, I’d prefer the hero to win. As much as I dislike the goddess, I need the Demon King to be dead to go home.
Not that there’s a particularly compelling reason to return, but it’s probably better than this world.

“…Go inside and rest.”

Despite having just coughed up blood, he still worries about me. What should I call this attitude? He should take care of himself instead of being so stubborn.

“You should be the one lying down inside. Don’t waste your energy for nothing.”

He had sustained considerable injuries from the previous battle. He should be focusing on healing, yet he insists on standing guard with me. I can’t fathom what he’s thinking.

And then silence again.
In such a situation, conversation would help pass the time, but I can’t find anything suitable to say.

Apart from the occasional cries of insects, the mountain is quiet.

That’s why, when a small noise arises, we’re immediately on alert.

The rustling suggests something between 1 to 2 meters in size. The direction is northeast. I crouch down to avoid being detected.
Troka places his hand on the sheath of his sword, ready to draw the holy sword at any moment.

But all that tension deflates when the person who emerges noisily from the bushes is a companion in a blue robe, Aeon.

Who’s keeping whom awake at this hour? What’s the reason for getting up and bothering us, if not for that damned research again?

“Troka, mana.”

As expected.

Creating energy to save humanity. For that purpose, a large amount of mana is needed. So, give me some of that overflowing mana of yours.

It’s nonsense that could be dismissed and ignored. But our hero, who produces mana at the cost of his lifespan, is smiling foolishly and giving it away.

And Aeon, she’ll happily takes it and squander it all in a day.

“How much did you just use?”

“…About two months’ worth.”

Troka’s complexion isn’t good after having his mana drained. His face looks like he might start coughing up blood again at any moment.
The fact that he’s starting to cough a little suggests that his recently healed wounds have reopened.

“It’s fine. My mana is high-quality, so it’ll last a long time.”

“I feel like I’ve heard that line over a hundred times now.”

Mana conversion at the cost of life force. A shitty ability, indeed. No matter how many times I tell her, that bitch just doesn’t get it. According to the documents, the hero’s power is supposed to be infinite or something.

Troka forced a smile, trying to lighten the mood.

“Ha ha, I’m a hero, after all. Until I defeat the Demon King…, a little sacrifice is necessary.”

But his expression was dark.

He wasn’t like this when we first met. He was just slightly self-sacrificing and a bit too immersed in his role as a hero. What the hell happened while I was away to make him like this?

He must have noticed my agitated expression because he tried to change the subject with a forced laugh.

“By the way, which number are you? I’m the 17th.”

Idle chatter is the last thing I want during the night watch. Especially talk of the past.

But if I don’t respond, he looks like he might break down completely. His face barely holds the weight of being a hero. If I hadn’t answered, maybe Troka would have considered suicide.

“…I’m not exactly sure, but probably the 16th.”

Troka’s expression darkened again.

“Uh, I see. I need to try harder.”

For those who have gone before us, more sacrifice is necessary.

That’s a story from a night that kept getting deeper.

I hate the night. It was one of the phrases that the hero couldn’t stop repeating.
I don’t know why. He never explained.

But I like the night. It was the only time I could forget the sins I had committed, in the darkness where nothing could be seen.

And so, such thoughts come to mind.

* * *

…I’ve fallen into reminiscing about the past. Since when have I become so sentimental?

Documents, documents.

During my seclusion in the royal capital, I read them a few times when I had the chance.

If the hero dies, everything he brought with him disappears. Clothes, sword, hair, etc. I seem to remember reading that these items are all reclaimed and leave no trace in the world. I wouldn’t remember it so clearly otherwise.

“Do you believe it now? That he’s still alive.”

A voice more certain than usual.

And there was a good reason for that certainty. If the hero dies, his traces disappear. I’ve seen it, and I’ve even heard it directly from the goddess. So, I have to believe it.

“And you, who were close to Troka, you must know where he went. Tell me now.”

From her words, it’s inferred that the hero is alive. There’s an abundance of evidence that he must be alive. It’s a hard truth to believe, but the hero must be alive.

Yes, the hero is alive.
Pathetically so.

Thanks to that damned document, memories I’ve tried to forget have resurfaced. The past is indeed an unpleasant thing that you can’t hide even if you try.

“…From what you’re saying, it seems certain that Troka is alive. But there’s something you don’t know.”

Talking about the past isn’t interesting. I wonder if I should even speak of it.

Well, I’m going to leave anyway. I can just say it without worrying about the consequences. It’s not that surprising of a fact. After all, there’s no other reason for a person from another world to come here.

“I was a hero too. To be exact, half a hero, or even less than that. So, you could say the hero isn’t completely dead yet.”

Aeon’s expression quickly hardens. Is this really something to be so surprised about?

“Don’t get any weird ideas. I was just one of the many hero candidates.”

Finding someone among the numerous otherworlders who truly possesses the qualities of a hero? Impossible. It’s easier to just bring a bunch of decent-looking ones and check them one by one.

I wasn’t hit by a truck.
I wasn’t stabbed with a knife and left to die in some dark alley.
And it certainly wasn’t death by overwork.

I was just dragged here. Without any mystical encounter or reason. Just with a single statement that I seemed to have the qualifications of a hero.

I was taken aback, but perhaps this shitty world is better than the other world. When I firmly resolved to become a hero, the goddess put me on hold and went looking for someone new.

That person was Troka, and just like that, I was released as they found a better candidate.

I faintly heard that I was the 16th, so all those before me must have been released in the same way.
The 15 people before me and I were thus dropped into the Demon Continent. We were destined to be hunted down and killed by demons or demonkind. Just like that, we were meant to disappear.

“Well, I’m not really a hero. I lack the strength, ability, and qualifications. It’s just a title. No, it’s fair to say I’m just an ordinary person.”

I survived, pathetically. I even entrusted my body to the Demon King’s army just to prolong this damned life.

“So anyway, I’m a hero in name only.”

I am a hero. I should have been a hero.
But I wasn’t.

So, the ‘hero’ isn’t completely dead yet.

All the other heroes might be dead for all I know. In the Demon Continent, where even the strong die off like flies, there aren’t many luckier than me.

Yet the hero is not dead.
Only the 15 before me and Troka are.

I’m still alive, a hero in name only. That’s why the goddess can’t intervene directly. Because not all the heroes are dead yet.

“Troka is indeed dead. Either my head isn’t working right, or what you said was so absurd. I didn’t think it through properly.”

When a hero dies, all traces of him are reclaimed.

It seems my mind is quite broken too. Just a few weeks ago, I couldn’t recall and got myself into a troublesome situation.
I’m sure I’ve seen stories about when there were several otherworlders. Maybe it’s a memory I don’t want to remember.
Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter.

“Lies, there’s no way you could be a hero, right? You’re not out of your mind.”

It’s true, I’m too weak to be a hero; I haven’t shown anything that proves otherwise. It would be more suspicious if you believed I was a hero right off the bat.

But there is one qualification of a hero that I do possess.

“If I didn’t have the qualifications, I would have died the moment I picked up this sword.”

The power of the hero, the power of the goddess, is unimaginably burdensome. No matter how strong a person is, they can’t properly wield the holy sword. It’s as harmful to the body as being blasted with radiation. Unless you’re a mutant like a hero, just grabbing the handle would make your whole body melt away.

There’s a reason why it’s called a trump card. Now, it’s a method that only I can use.

“The first thing you said is honestly forced, and you probably think so too.”

I drew the holy sword and released its power. The blade was black yet emitted a mysterious aura.
You would understand with this. The incidents of those not chosen wielding the holy sword are described countless times in ancient books. Even if you don’t want to know, you would understand by seeing me withstand it.

A slightly dizzying energy rises.
If I’m exposed to this power any longer, I feel like I’ll vomit. Aeon has seen enough, so let’s put an end to this now.

“The second and last thing, you said it twice, didn’t you? But what to do? This is how it turned out. I cremated Troka, and the hero is still not completely dead.”

Her main argument is now gone.

“The third is your personal opinion.”

Troka is dead.
The hero is still alive. That’s the conclusion of Aeon’s investigation.

I really thought there were eyewitness accounts of Troka or that she had found him. She was just making guesses.

If I had died and there were any other candidates still alive, Aeon would have been stirring up the whole world. Fortunately, I survived that fucking God’s intervention, so there was no need for that unnecessary task.

“So, what about my research? To make the world a better place, we need Troka, we need a hero… Is Troka really…? No, that can’t be.”

Still harping on about research. Unbelievable.

Now I can speak my mind clearly. I feel like my sanity is somewhat returning.
Yes, I should spill everything I want to say while I’m still sane. The future me will deal with the consequences.

“Troka is dead, you dumbass. And all your precious research is over.”

It was a refreshing feeling.
And slightly unpleasant, too.

Now I can finally open the letter.

Ha.