A torrential downpour, as though hammering against armor, showed no sign of stopping. Rainwater seeped in through the gaps, piercing the man’s skin, robbing him of thought and sensation. Even so, the blood staining him would not be washed away. The mas was surrounded by the soldiers of the Archipelago Countries he had just laid to rest, sinking into the ground. Since the war began, he could no longer even recall how many men he had slaughtered.

“Th-the main castle has… fallen.”

“The main army is already…”

His subordinate spoke in a trembling voice. All that reached his ears were reports of devastation. A decisive defeat in the field. The remaining forces could not even manage to defend Labyrinth City. The long-awaited reinforcements from the Meiris Republic had been delayed by the Aleynard Forest Alliance and the Archipelago Countries, and in the end, they had not arrived in time. Even a child could understand it. The man, and his nation, had lost the war. His heart pounded as though about to burst, and he forced down his ragged breathing. He could not collapse yet.

“F… ugh… our… city…”

A subordinate, his armor removed and lying upon the ground, stretched out a trembling hand. His wounds had been pressed with makeshift cloth and bandages, but the bleeding would not stop. Blood seeped into the earth as life leaked away. The man did not hesitate to kneel in the mud, grasping the hand in return.

“It still holds. Reinforcements from the Republic will arrive soon.”

With a carefully composed expression, the man lied to his subordinate. The annihilation of the main field army. The fall of Labyrinth City. The truth was far too cruel.

“Ha… haha… you’ve always… been bad… at lying…”

The man was an honest fool. He could not even grant peace to a dying subordinate.

“Say no more. It will worsen your wounds.”

He must not let him speak. Trying to calm him, the man urged silence, but the subordinate shook his head as if in refusal and continued.

“I’m… going to die. I… know that much. …Damn it… in the end… I couldn’t do anything. I’ll make them… I swear… I’ll make them…”

Before he could finish his final words, the subordinate’s life faded. The man closed the eyelids left open and rose to his feet, raising his voice. The fate of a soldier who could protect neither his country nor his comrades was already decided. He wrenched the spear from a corpse, shaking off the clinging blood.

“Come! Move out!! It’s all we have left!!”

At the man’s call, his soldiers answered by raising their weapons. A gathering of wounded men worn down by exhaustion. Compared to the soldiers of the Archipelago Countries storming the city, they were pitifully few and small in number. There was no longer any chance of victory. Understanding that fully, the soldiers still prepared to march toward certain death.

The man cast aside everything unnecessary for battle and was about to give the order to charge when a subordinate he had posted as a lookout called out to him.

“Please wait, there’s a messenger!”

“A messenger? With the main castle fallen, who would send one now?”

It had been long since any proper orders had reached his unit. Who would send a messenger at a time like this? The courier, gasping for breath, began relaying the information.

“Lord Gundor has successfully escaped. The remaining units are to break through Suderin Forest and withdraw from the city.”

“Absurd! Would you have us bear the shame of survival while our people are trampled before our eyes?!”

His nails bit into his palms, blood seeping from his clenched fists. Carried by wind and rain, the screams of soldiers and civilians alike reached him.

“There is more… He says we will fight again. Without fail.”

The temptation of ruin beckoned him. These were soldiers who had fought beside him until now. No matter what choice he made, they would follow without question. Indeed, the men waited in silence, without a word, for his next command.

Hesitating, the man gazed at the now lifeless subordinate and made his decision.

“I… we… will return. No matter how many years it takes, we will return to this city!”

With vengeance burning in his chest, the man let out a wail of grief.

In the next instant, his vision distorted, and light rapidly flooded his sight.

“Lord Faust.”

“…My apologies. I must have fallen asleep. It is nearly time.”

Faust had spent far too long in that moment. Since stepping onto the public stage, Faust’s history could almost be called the history of the Adventurers’ Guild Bergana Branch. Many kinds of people had belonged to the Guild. A master swordsman who honed himself to the limit. An armed monk with a terrible drinking habit. A sarcastic Scout. A promising party that would have led the next generation.

They were no longer here. Faust had killed them all.

Their anger, impatience, confusion… their faces at the brink of death still clung to the depths of Faust’s heart. They had trained together, encouraged one another, taught and laughed together. How foolish. None of it had been necessary. To call it deception would be an understatement—he had involved himself far too deeply. With each kill, the number of acquaintances and friends dwindled, and with each loss, a piece of his humanity eroded.

“Truly… foolish.”

A mass of self-contradiction. Selfish and shallow beyond measure. Faust despised himself for consorting beyond necessity with those who stood on opposing sides, for indulging in acts resembling penance. On that day when he had wailed in grief, consumed by rage, humiliation, and regret, Faust had made a decision.

A mere century had passed, yet he could not carry it through to the end. Weak. Soft. That was why he had lost everything. He had to discard emotion. Otherwise, what had his fallen comrades died for? What of those he had buried with his own hands?

He had to go mad. Yes, mad in the proper way.

Restoring his expression to that of a mask, Faust slowly opened his eyes. In less than half an hour, everything would begin and end. Before him stood comrades who had shared a century, and the descendants of a people whose future had been crushed into decline. The countless comrades of the Unification War, once numbering in the thousands and tens of thousands, had dwindled to but a few.

“The time of hiding is over. You have endured well.”

There was no reply. Yet the silence answered him more eloquently than words. The dirty slums had felt strangely comfortable. Compared to the long years behind him, half an hour was but an instant.

A low, muffled sound echoed throughout the city, spreading as if in a chain. It was both curse and blessing. At last it began. At last it would end. Screams and shouts resounded within the walls. To Faust, they were almost like a sacred hymn.

The die had been cast. The world would not return.

“Fight again! Fight again!! Raise our war banners over our city!! Grandfather, Lord Gundor is devoted to the deployment and final preparations of the legions. We will continue striking at their vital points. Even if our limbs are torn away, even if our eyes are lost, do not halt your advance! This is the final war we have long yearned for. Remind them! Remind them whose land this is, and upon whose graves they have lived in false peace! Swear your final loyalty to King Eisenbach van Gundor!!”

A command never once given in the past now thundered through the chamber. The soldiers roared, raised their swords, and stamped their feet in answer.

The silence of a hundred years was shattered, and the heart of Faust, stilled since the Unification War, began to beat once more.

Translator – Lyxxna