Shadowed Gaze: The Highserk War Saga - Chapter 72

In his hazy consciousness, Walm grasped his sword. An enemy, hurling unbearable insults, faced him with a flickering blade. Walm’s body reacted correctly to the strangely familiar scene. He aimed to deliver the finishing blow, crushing the enemy’s armor underfoot, as he stumbled from a slash to the arm.

The sword’s tip bit into the skin, tearing flesh, and blood flowed freely. Just a few centimeters deeper, and it would sever an artery, a sight Walm had seen too often in Libertoa, Mayard, and Felius.

“Ah, aaah?!”

Walm stopped his hand. War, war – a sense of discomfort suddenly arose. The words of a tavern keeper flashed in his mind. His brain, muddled and heavy, reluctantly began to work.

“Strange.”

Indeed, “behave sociably” was the expectation. Having accepted the offered drink, he needed to keep his promise. But the enemy soldiers were targeting Walm. Should he spare them? His past experiences taught him that mercy often returned to harm him.

“Something’s off.”

Something unclear clung to his clouded vision. In his twisted thoughts, the source of discomfort became clear. Although blurred by alcohol, Walm remembered his continuous battles as a soldier of the Highserk Empire. The result was the loss of everything – comrades, units, neighbors, even his country.

“Ah, right. That’s right. I lost.”

Walm’s thoughts, previously drowned in alcohol, began to return to reality. Unwanted memories resurfaced.

“Heh, ah, haha… pathetic.”

The men who saw Walm’s bitter smile became noisy. The alcohol spread through his brain, making it all the more unbearable.

“Please stop. I was stupid.”

“We won’t do such foolish things again. I swear to God.”

God, ah, if there were a God, Walm disliked that wretched being. He strained his muddled brain, narrowing his eyes to carefully observe the man below him.

“No, these guys are…”

The war was over. Walm was no longer a soldier, just a pitiful, surviving remnant of the defeated. So what were these men, swords drawn? He directed the emerging question to the adventurers crouching below.

“Something’s not right. You drew your sword, didn’t you? You must be an enemy, right?”

Walm prodded what was once a chest plate with his sword tip, seeking an answer. The adventurer, grinding his teeth, began to reply.

“It… it was a bluff. I wasn’t serious. We just got carried away because you didn’t respond to our challenge…”

“A fight? Oh, a fight. Drawing swords in a bluff, you do that, huh?”

In battle, once a sword was drawn, there was no stopping until the end. That was the absolute rule in that mad struggle.

“Forgive us, we’ll pay for the trouble, please don’t kill us.”

The adventurer’s rapid speech left Walm staring at them blankly. He sensed neither the spirit of soldiers fighting for national pride nor the raw instinct of survival. It was indeed just a brawl.

His bloodshot eyes calmed down, and alcohol once again began to dominate his brain. In a word, he was disillusioned. Walm, brought back to reality, accepted the offered money.

“Ah, just don’t bother me anymore.”

Storing his sword in the magic bag, he picked up the flask thrown on the roadside, checking its contents. Whether it had spilled or been drunk dry, he couldn’t recall.

“Wait, I’ve changed my mind.”

The men’s heads turned stiffly towards Walm, like rusted tin men.

“Do you have any liquor?”

“Ye, yes, take as much as you want.”

Satisfied with the collected liquor bottles and a new flask, Walm left the adventurers without a glance. He brought a bottle directly to his lips, downing its contents, mixing distilled spirits and wine in his stomach.

“Uh huh…”

His throat burned as his stomach welcomed the new alcohol. His blood pulsed. His clearing thoughts once again muddled. That was fine; the current Walm needed no clear mind. His consciousness was solely focused on the alcohol.

He couldn’t taste anything. Being completely dominated by intoxication was all that mattered for his body and soul.

◆

The screams of soldiers violently shook Walm’s eardrums. His comrades, bitten through armor and all by the sharp jaws of the beasts, weakly struck at the bodies of the monsters with their broken swords. The militiamen, who had volunteered to protect their families, now had their entrails exposed to the open air, muttering the names of their wives and children like delirious incantations.

Civilians who had sought refuge were systematically slaughtered within the walls of the castle where there was no escape. A monster approached a young child from behind. Walm’s voice cracked as he screamed out.

“Ruuuuun!”

Ah, it was futile. Everything was futile. Walm knew this all too well. Everything had already ended. The hands of the clock would never turn back. Yet, he couldn’t help but scream. His comrades, who had stood shoulder to shoulder with him in battle, the adventurers who had faced life and death with enemies and allies alike, those who yearned for salvation – they all slipped through Walm’s fingers.

He couldn’t fulfill the resolution shown by the frail girl on the battlefield, nor could he keep the promises made. All Walm could do was watch helplessly. He knew it sounded like a cheap phrase, but it was painfully appropriate. It was hell. The hell that had ended continued to rage within Walm.

The family that had seen Walm off to war, wishing him luck, now groaned curses at the world. Their blood-stained arms filled his vision. It felt as if they were both welcoming Walm’s return and yearning for the living. The only certainty was that Walm had shattered the skulls of his parents from beneath their jaws.

That sensation was an eternal curse he would never forget. His world of tainted memories rapidly crumbled. When Walm opened his eyes, he found himself in a filthy room.

“Morning, huh? Another morning…”

The room contained nothing more than a built-in shelf and a bed. The weapons he had once used on the battlefield gathered dust in a corner of the room, and a demon mask hung facing the window that connected to the outside world.

Walm tried to put the mask into the magic bag, but for some reason, it couldn’t be stored. After much confusion, the mask calmed down when it was hung on the window that overlooked the outside world, refusing to be covered in dust alongside the weapons.

The mask trembled with the sunrise, a grim reminder that there were no days without nightmares. Even upon waking, the memories didn’t fade. A year had passed, yet it felt as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.

The floor of his bed was littered with neglected bottles of alcohol, and the room reeked of it. Walm hated early mornings. Despite just sleeping, his efficient metabolism had completely sobered him up. When sober, the memories he tried to suppress inevitably resurfaced.

He never made the decision to move forward, and the hole in his heart would never be filled. He spent his days crazing his brain with alcohol and cigarettes, waiting for time to erode his memories.

Pathetically, Walm sustained his idleness with items and coins scavenged from corpses and abandoned supplies. The original owners, who probably yearned for life, received nothing back for their service.

Knowing this, Walm loathed himself even more for indulging in these rotting days. This lifestyle might continue until his death. Walm couldn’t choose anything. He would just slowly decay within the confines of this narrow room. There was no hope.

“Ah, uh… ugh…”

The memories returned. Walm’s trembling hands clumsily opened a sealed bottle of alcohol and poured it down his throat in one go. The alcohol surged through his body, numbing his brain. He could act crazy with the help of alcohol, but he couldn’t completely lose his sanity.

“Ha… Haha, ha.”

It wasn’t funny at all. His dry laughter echoed in the room. The mask trembled in unison. Another day had begun. The cloudless blue sky was nothing but detestable.

Translator – Lyxxna