Chapter 68

With the help of last night’s rain, the flames consuming the village had finally been extinguished.

Houses had burned to the ground, and across the surrounding grasslands lay unburied corpses—most of them no longer whole.

The body of a woman with her face crushed; the body of a man hacked to pieces; the body of a young child consisting of only an upper torso. They were everywhere.

Under a leaden sky where the remnants of last night’s storm clouds still lingered, the village of Wald had been utterly and completely annihilated.

“This is a scene straight out of hell.”

Looking thoroughly sickened, Django walked through what remained of the village.

Behind him were Rose and Hauser. Rose wore her usual Noh-mask expression, but Hauser’s gaze was sharp enough to kill.

“Yo. Hard at work, I see.”

Django called out to the knights who were engaged in the soul-crushing, endless task of inspecting and burying the dead.

The knights of Pace, their faces pale, spared him only a glance; none of them offered a reply.

Seeing their own countrymen reduced to this, there was no way the knights—the sworn protectors of the people—felt nothing. Their pallor was likely half-exhaustion from the sheer misery of the situation and half-fury so cold it had drained the blood from their faces.

“So, it’s you, Django.”

A man of iron, the only one among the knights whose complexion remained unchanged, spoke up.

“Hey there, Ray.”

Ray met Django’s ferocious grin with a cold stare.

“I heard you joined the national knighthood. Good for you. You’re too skilled, too sharp, and—above all—too stiff to stay a mere private soldier for some noble.”

“I guess this means we won’t have to kill each other anymore, Mr. Ray,” Hauser muttered, sounding almost pleased while staring at a patch of ground.

Lying where his gaze fell was a scorched, severed arm that appeared to have belonged to an elderly person.

“As long as the country of Pace and your lot don’t become enemies. My former master isn’t the only one who finds you a nuisance. You’d best be careful.”

Despite his words, Ray seemed disinterested.

“Man… what a disaster this is, though,” Django grimaced, placing a cigar between his lips.

“Yeah. That time we were trying to kill each other in the mud of the jungle swamps felt far more refreshing than this,” Ray said, looking at the sky as if recalling a fond memory. “But if I stay in the knighthood, it’ll be a while before we cross blades again. I’ll have to consider my options.”

“Do you really want to kill us that badly?” Rose’s voice sounded genuinely curious, even if her expression didn’t match.

“No, I don’t want to kill you. I just think a reckoning is necessary.”

“Stiff as ever. Must be a hard way to live.”

Django lit his cigar with magic and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“Hey! We found a survivor!” a knight shouted from a corner of the village.

Instantly, the area grew frantic. Django and Ray both turned toward the source of the shout with a start.

“Oh, god… it’s horrible… dear God…”

“Hey, get a healer! Dammit, dammit! How is he even still alive like this?!”

“I don’t care what you do, just hurry!”

Chaos erupted in one section of the village—an area where several houses, though scorched, still managed to retain their original shape.

“Seems like things are pretty grim over there.”

Django bit down on his cigar.

“Yeah, apparently. Given this mess, it’s a miracle there’s a survivor at all. You can imagine the state they’re in.”

Ray grimaced with distaste.

“It would be best to keep the survivor’s information under wraps. They might be targeted, and even if they aren’t, they shouldn’t be subjected to prying eyes.”

“Yeah, well, I suppose you’re right.”

“Django, don’t let a word about the survivor slip carelessly. If you do, I’ll take it as a perfect excuse to kill you.”

Ray stared Django down with eyes as cold as iron.

Django’s face contorted into a smirk as he met the gaze, resting a hand on a thick, charred pillar nearby.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Ray. If the old man pulls something like that, I’ll be the one to knock his lights out.”

Behind Django’s shoulder, Hauser spoke with feigned indifference.

He had just spotted something new in the corner of his eye—a head that appeared to belong to a child—and his foul mood was only getting worse.

“Dammit, he’s thrashing around!”

Another shout went up from that corner of the village.

“He’s panicking! Healer, hurry up! If he keeps struggling in this state, he’s going to die right now!”

“Calm down! You’re safe now, just stay calm!”

“Django.”

Rose looked him in the eye.

Django gave a silent nod, and Rose began walking briskly toward the commotion.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

Ray questioned her, but Django cut in.

“The survivor seems to be in pretty bad shape mentally, don’t they? When it comes to that sort of thing, my Rose is world-class. You know that as well as I do, don’t you?”

Django’s answer silenced Ray.

“Man…”

Hauser groaned, breaking the brief silence. He looked up at the overcast sky as if offering a prayer to God.

“This really is hell. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget this sight as long as I live.”

“Good,” Ray said.

“A sight like this shouldn’t be forgotten. It must be carved into your memory.”

“Hah! You really are a stiff one. Must be a hell of a way to live.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Django spat out his cigar, which had burned down quite a bit.

The cigar tumbled across the damp ground, letting out a faint, final hiss.