89. Red Shoes

Before long, a bustling crowd had gathered outside the manor.

It was late, well past midnight, but the people’s eyes burned red.

Whether fueled by drugs, consumed by madness, or simply seeking a place to unleash their rage.

The situation had spiraled beyond comprehension.

“Bring out the Baron!”

“Give us back our Baron!”

“You son of a b*tch! You so much as touched a hair on our Baron’s head and you’re dead!”

“Don’t invade our paradise! Why come and make our lives miserable when we were minding our own business?!”

The grievances, one and all, were little more than petulant, unreasonable demands.

“…”

Just as it became impossible to maintain silence, the Grand Master returned through the back door of the manor.

In her hands, she held three greatswords.

One was her own greatsword, the other two belonged to Isaac.

“Thank you.”

“My favors come at a steep price.”

She seemed to want to lighten the mood with a smile, but the corners of Isaac’s mouth didn’t even twitch.

It was a measure of the weight and responsibility he felt for the task that lay before him.

“I can lend a hand.”

The Grand Master stated plainly.

No matter how much Isaac had grown as a swordsman, facing that many people was an impossibility.

If the Grand Master stepped in, she could swiftly resolve the situation with overwhelming force.

Her greatsword could easily cut down three or four grown men with a single swing.

“No.”

But Isaac shook his head.

“I will take responsibility.”

Executing Baron Volten had been his own will as well, after all.

“Just in case I should mention…”

“…”

“Under no circumstances are you to interfere.”

“Is that your honest intention?”

He answered with a nod, not words.

It wasn’t just the pride of not wanting to borrow the Grandmaster’s power, or a selfish desire to keep him out of this massacre.

‘Just now…’

The onrushing throng.

In the Grandmaster’s eyes as he restrained them, there had been a flicker.

A sorrowful expression, and the stifled trembling.

‘There’s definitely something.’

Whether it was connected to a past he’d never spoken of even in his previous life, or to the half-flowing blood of a Transcendent, Isaac couldn’t say.

“I’ll be going.”

With his katana secured at his waist, Isaac strode resolutely toward the mansion’s entrance.

“…Go then.”

Unable to do anything but accept Isaac’s decision, the Grandmaster forced himself to appear nonchalant as he saw him off.

Creak.

Isaac opened the door and stepped outside.

Before they could even react, Isaac swiftly hurled the head he was carrying ‘whoosh’ into the crowd.

Baron Volten spun end over end.

Flicking still-undried droplets of blood in every direction, he landed amongst the throng.

Someone accidentally stepped on him, another kicked him, and the head rolled across the ground.

“…!”

“Lo, Lord Baron?!”

“No! Nooo!”

It was like watching a painting come to life.

The dark dawn.

Bearing torches, the populace arrived, appearing as if marching toward freedom.

In truth, they were shackling themselves with chains of *yak* – that accursed drug.

“Is this the sight you saw after the revolution?”

Finally, Isaac stood face to face with the glimmer of madness Baron Volten had spoken of.

And.

They, too, fixed their gaze upon Isaac.

“That son of a b*tch!”

“Kill him! You b*stard! Kill him dead!”

“The Baron! He dared to -!”

“Burn him! Burn the son of a b*tch!”

“Go to the Baron’s warehouse and find the *yak*!”

A cacophony of voices, male and female, young and old, resounded.

The crowd stretched, boundless, as far as the eye could see.

Taking in the figures pouring through the estate entrance and vaulting over the walls.

Isaac agonized over the burden he himself had taken onto his shoulders.

The Regression.

A secret, yet astonishing miracle.

Had it truly demanded no price at all?

Isaac was, by nature, somewhat skeptical of the notion of fate.

Accepting it would render the loss of his legs far too…fateful.

But now, he felt the urge to utter the word ‘fate.’

‘The price of the Regression.’

If fate existed.

Then surely, this moment.

‘Is the debt that must be paid.’

Isaac’s resolve bloomed forth.

The instant he unsheathed his blade and decapitated the man charging at him.

“That b*stard’s swinging a sword!”

“Kill him! Tear him to pieces!”

“Rip him limb from limb and hang him in the city!”

They charged, frothing at the mouth as if fueled by some dark doping.

Isaac, like water flowing, cut them down and moved onward, silent.

‘Forgive me, Millie.’

That I must break your homeland.

I pray you understand.

* * *

[Humanity is vile.]

[Humanity is inferior.]

[Humanity is greedy.]

[Humanity has stolen our world.]

In the Baron’s study.

These voices echoed ceaselessly in the Archmage’s ears, standing in the gloom.

Memories of the past.

A kind of brainwashing heard kneeling with his fellow disciples.

“……”

The specter of the past haunted his memory, yet he feigned deafness, arms folded in silence.

[Behold their world.]

[Unaware of the blessings of sunlight and earth bestowed upon them, they do nothing but fight.]

[War and war, and more war.]

[Do they truly deserve to hold such blessed land?]

The echoing voice continued to torment the Archmage’s mind.

And the riot unfolding before him was the very reason the voice screamed louder.

Like a scholar crowing about his own correctness.

[Do not pity humanity.]

“……Enough.”

[Do not cease to hate humanity.]

“I will be the judge of that.”

[Open your eyes, and simply see.]

“…….”

A searing headache.

The residue of the past delivered a bitterness so intense it stung the tongue.

The Grand Master exhaled, painstakingly suppressing the rising tide of emotions.

[Why would you side with the humans!]

“Because I despise you all.”

He knew the answer was meaningless.

Because these were all words he’d heard before.

[Do you think humans will be any different?]

But he couldn’t deny the words struck at the core of the matter.

[We shall wait in anticipation.]

“…….”

[Only to deny it.]

“…….”

[To be disappointed.]

“…….”

[And ultimately, to despair.]

A crackling sound.

[Trainee Number 10, the possibility you speak of does not exist.]

The Grand Master’s gaze slowly lowered. He could no longer bear to look at them, mad with frenzy, and his eyes fell.

*Clang!*

There, utilizing the narrow terrain, stood a man, frantically wielding two swords alone.

“…Possibility.”

The blood flowing down his cheek looked like tears.

Regret and remorse lingered on his face as he tirelessly swung his swords at the entrance of the estate.

Yet, there was no hesitation in his actions.

It was as if, the last remaining pride of a human clawing desperately against instinct.

The most innocent was shouldering the heaviest burden.

“He is different from you.”

[…….]

“That one there, is the possibility I have been hoping for.”

[Futile.]

By now, the voice had drifted back into the past once more.

Though buried in memory, it would bide its time, hungrily awaiting another chance.

At least, not now.

The Grand Master placed a hand on the window, gazing down at Isaac.

*Whoosh!*

The sound of the wind being cleaved shifted.

The rhythm of cleaving through enemies altered.

Lighter, and yet, all the more profound.

“…!”

The moment the Grand Master saw the azure light flowing through the blade, his eyes widened, a flicker of unease crossing his face.

“Ghastly aura?”

Blackthorne Manor.

The primeval transcendent race that had claimed countless lives and life force.

Before he knew it, Isaac’s blade was beginning to resemble their source.

* * *

He didn’t know when it started.

At some point, his blood-stained vision cleared.

The movements guiding his blade grew lighter, the edge of his strikes endlessly sharp.

He saw an azure afterimage.

For a moment, he thought it was aura.

But it was far too heavy to be called aura, and pulsed with a life of its own.

“Foul b*stard–!”

*Thunk!*

‘Ah.’

The blade drank its fill of blood.

No, to be precise, it was more like…

Through their deaths, Isaac himself was changing, transforming.

Thinking about it now, it made sense.

Transcendent beings cannot wield aura.

Conversely, that meant they had no concept of mana.

“Ssi-baaal!”

“Why! Why did you suddenly come and ruin our paradise-!”

Isaac’s pupils flashed with a chilling, raw light.

His two hands moved in unison, drawing the same arc and swinging.

*Thwack!*

The resolute strike passed beyond the two men before him, slicing through everyone nearby in a single stroke.

At some point.

Truly, without even realizing it.

He understood he was wielding something akin to the Sword Demon he had seen at Blackthorn.

‘Is this right?’

He felt that if he went any further, something other than what he had built up on his sword would be layered on top.

But.

“You killed my dad-!”

“Trash son of a b*tch! Minion of the kingdom!”

“Who did we ever hurt?! Huh?!”

Those drugged up, even after seeing the corpses piled up around them, charged without fear.

His blade, imbued with a frigid, spectral aura, was swung with a wildness that seemed to come from instinct, greedily seeking prey once more.

The shoes he wore were, before he knew it, soaked a crimson red in the puddles of blood.

Like cursed shoes that made you dance until you died, Isaac relentlessly swung his sword amongst them.

Like a scene from a fairy tale.

He had to cut them down to stop this awful dance.