3 — 03

Ains had been sleeping under the blankets when the noise outside woke him.

It should have been night, yet an orange light like a sunset was pouring in through the window.

“What are they doing…?”

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he peered outside the window and saw many people dancing and running around.

“Is it some kind of festival? But I didn’t hear anything about one…”

Feeling puzzled, Ains left his room, thinking he would ask Lina and Kilza what kind of festival it was.

When he went to their bedroom, neither of them was there. Thinking they might be in the living room, he headed there as well, but they were not there either.

The light outside flickered, illuminating the area around the house.

The front door was left half open.

“That’s careless. They’re always nagging me about locking doors and washing my hands.”

As he went to close the door, he tripped over something.

“Ow!”

He fell on the spot. His bracing hand slipped across the floor, and his head lightly struck it as well.

“What the heck is this…”

He tried to brush the dirt off his hand, but it felt slick.

As the outside light spilled in, he saw that his hand was stained a deep red.

Blood.

The area where Ains had fallen was soaked in blood.

What had he tripped over? Did he think about it first, or did he see it first?

When he looked down at his feet, Lina was lying there, her back cut open in a deep slash running from her shoulder down to her waist.

“…W-why…?”

Only Ains’s hoarse voice echoed through the house.

That faint voice was swallowed up by the clamor outside.

Ains staggered as he opened the door.

The handle came loose, and the upper hinge holding the door gave way.

He had only pushed it lightly, yet the door crumbled as if it had rotted away, collapsing as it opened.

“It’s hot…”

As winter drew closer, nights in Silve Village were usually bitterly cold.

Yet now, it was hot.

The orange glow outside was not a sunset—it was the village engulfed in a great fire.

Ains’s half-asleep mind finally snapped awake.

The people who had seemed to be dancing were those slashing with swords and those being cut down.

Those running about were people fleeing from pursuers and those chasing them.

This was no festival.

“……”

No words came out.

“Help us!!”

“At least save this child!”

People screamed, begging for their lives, only to die mercilessly.

The weak were being hunted by the strong.

Ains collapsed to his knees, his eyes wide open as he stared at what was happening outside.

Most of the village was probably already dead.

Rojin and Barg were wielding real swords, swinging them desperately.

Neither had yet reached fifteen, so they were not considered true fighting strength in the village. That they were fighting on the front lines meant only one thing.

Even so, their opponent brushed aside their attacks with ease and countered.

The movements were refined and efficient, with no wasted motion.

A well-trained body swung the sword with lethal sharpness.

For a brief instant, the sword’s trajectory lingered in the air, and then Barg’s sword fell to the ground—his hand severed at the wrist.

“Ah… gaaaah!”

As Barg doubled over from the pain, his upper body was kicked upward from below by a knee, and a sharp blade pierced straight into his exposed chest.

“…Ugh…”

With only a small groan, he died instantly. Blood spread across the ground, centered around Barg’s chest and wrist.

Rojin saw Barg fall dead right beside him. There was no hatred, no regret in his eyes—only pure fear. Fear that he would be next.

Whether it was sweat from exertion or the cold sweat born of terror, it hardly mattered.

Seeing his longtime rival and friend die so easily broke Rojin’s spirit.

That collapse manifested when, mixed with sweat, the sword slipped from his hand and fell to the ground.

He had nothing left. No strength to resist, no weapon, no armor. Rojin could only wait for death.

The final expression on Rojin’s face was a smile born of relief.

“…Wh…y…”

The sound that escaped Ains’s mouth as he watched it all. He had meant to say, “Why?” but by then, he could barely even form words.

The relief of having one’s life taken instantly and without suffering was something the living—Ains—could not understand.

Saias, the boy Ains’s age who had already shown talent in swordsmanship, ran desperately past the flickering flames.

Behind Saias walked someone at a leisurely pace, as if out for a morning stroll. He carried no sword, wore no armor, and held a small wooden branch in his hand.

“…Thank goodness. Saias is—”

Saias would get away…

They were not especially close, but he was still one of the few friends his age in the village.

Confirming Saias’s survival gave Ains just enough strength to form words.

But—

“—、––”

The man holding the wooden branch said something toward the fleeing Saias.

With all the noise, Ains could not hear the words.

A shiver ran down his spine.

Ains stared at the man, seized by an indescribable chill.

The wooden branch flared with intense light, and a pale blue beam pierced straight through Saias’s body.

“Eh…?”

Was that voice Saias’s? Ains’s? Or had it escaped from both of them?

Saias collapsed limply, as if he had tripped over nothing at all. He never got back up.

‘What… was that…?’

He did not know what it was. Yet amid this hellish scene, it stirred something in Ains’s chest—something burning hot and utterly out of place.

“Oh? Looks like there’s still a survivor here.”

Lowering the now-dim wooden branch from Saias, the man noticed Ains.

“In this scene where your companions are dying one after another, you do nothing. You don’t resist, you don’t struggle, you don’t feel hatred, you don’t call for help, you don’t run, you don’t beg for your life, you don’t shed tears—you simply remain where you are. You just blend into this pile of corpses. Don’t you feel ashamed, compared to those who tried to do something before they died?”

“……”

With the flickering flames at his back, the man stopped walking toward Ains.

“Even after all that provocation, you still won’t act?”

Sounding exasperated yet still smiling, the man muttered, “No, that was just sophistry,” and pointed the wooden branch that had shot Saias at Ains.

“In the end, I just want to kill people. …But yes, simply killing you would be too kind. It would be disrespectful to them to treat you the same—those who tried to do something, and you, who did nothing.”

With a strangely affectionate gaze, the man looked over the corpses around him.

A large scar marred the man’s right cheek.

“Oh right, this village didn’t have magic—‘sorcery’—as a culture, did it? Everyone died with faces full of shock, like they were seeing it for the first time.”

“You only know everyday magic, don’t you? You probably don’t understand the difference between magic and sorcery yet, but—shortened chant. ‘Lightning.’”

Just as with Saias, the tip of the wooden branch flared brilliantly.

A pale blue beam shot out from the branch, racing toward Ains.

However, perhaps because the aim had not originally been set on Ains, it veered widely past him and struck the upper part of the house. The sound of splintering wood rang out, and the collapse of the house began from the entrance.

Ains looked up, staring blankly as beams and pillars fell toward him.

He understood it was dangerous. But his body would not move. His brain would not issue the command.

Crash!

He was completely buried beneath the collapsing debris.

A massive pillar pinned his left leg above the knee, while rubble of various sizes crushed down from his right shoulder to his right hand.

“This is a lightning attack spell. Take your time regretting that you did nothing as you die. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to repent to all your village companions.”

Covering his mouth, the man chuckled softly.

Flames wrapped around the rubble pressing down on Ains’s body.

The pillar searing his left leg burned bright red. His right arm had already lost all sensation. Ains thought that perhaps not even bone remained—maybe it had been burned away entirely.

“…Ah… ah…”

It was hot.

The flames clinging to the rubble covering his right arm only grew stronger. With the fire so close to his face, his right eye was assaulted by blinding heat and pain.

Even with his eyelids closed, the flames burned as if a thin layer of skin meant nothing.

Here, Ains accepted his death.

Yet no tears fell.

There was no fear.