77 - Twilight

Van reached the guild, noting the lights still spilling from the hall into the empty streets. For a moment, he'd felt eyes on him, a faint presence trailing him, but it vanished as quickly as it came.

He paused outside, standing in silence as he stared at the building. Amoria's last words echoed in his mind.

'I don't have time for this right now.'

He shook his head, brushing away the thought and the unwelcome emotions it stirred, before stepping through the doors.

Inside, he spotted Marcy, leaning against a chair behind the counter, eyes closed, her expression stoic—a stark contrast to her vulnerable demeanor from an hour before.

The guild was silent, save for the creak of wood beneath his boots as he approached the counter.

"Marcy," he called flatly. "I need the—"

"Contract. Yeah, I know." She cut him off, retrieving the paper from a shelf behind her and slapping it onto the counter with a firm hand. "You can go. I don't need you sticking around anymore."

She met his gaze, her tone blunt, eyes hard.

Van looked at her, his expression blank, though his thoughts remained tangled in disarray. A weariness seeped into his face—a heaviness he hadn't felt since first arriving in Varolon. He reached for the paper, took it, and turned to leave, the sound of creaking wood following him as he moved toward the door.

"Also," Marcy's voice cut through the silence, stopping him mid-step.

"Don't misinterpret what happened." Her tone was sharp, almost bitter. "I thought about it and came to a conclusion." She spat the words, her gaze unwavering.

"The only reason I threw myself at you like… like some wounded bitch was because I missed him. I don't feel anything for you—no attraction, no allure… The only man who ever earned that was Magus." Her gaze fell, her voice softening. "And now that I know that, I'll never make that mistake again. Whether you've changed your mind or not… you're not him. And you never will be."

She took a deep breath, her eyes momentarily flickering away from his. "For now... Call me Marcilla. I don't feel like being that familiar with you…" She hesitated, her tone wavering. "Just... just for now… until I get my shit sorted." Her voice stuttered, the words feeling hollow, as if they hadn't fully reached her own ears.

She clenched her fist, her brow furrowing in frustration.

"…I see," Van replied, his tone flat, as he resumed his exit.

But as he moved, a sensation like blood dripping from an untreated wound began to rise within him, seeping through the cracks in his armor. Words bubbled to his lips, unbidden, laced with a venom he hadn't realized he'd been holding...

"The only reason I ever enjoyed drinking with you… Marcilla," he began, his voice unsteady, his breath ragged. The way he spoke was foreign, his tone colder. Marcy snapped her head upward as she sensed the shift,

 "... was because I wanted to fuck you, and I hoped you'd let it happen in your drunkard state." His words dripped with bitterness, his tone cutting and cold.

A soft gasp escaped Marcy, her eyes widening in shock.

"And the reason I walked away an hour ago… was because I realized just how unworthy you are of me… You—" His voice faltered as a memory blazed through his mind—of that retired royal guard with rotten teeth and a leering grin, who had once tried to charm Amoria.

"…are just some used hero's goods." His words came out cold and mechanical, echoing bitterly; as he repeated the words of that former Royal Guard. "I don't need, nor do I want to be alluring for a wounded, used bitch like you."

The moment the words left his mouth, Van's fist tightened, his entire body tensing as if he'd just struck himself with a greatsword.

Van took a deep breath. '...Alright, any minute now,' he thought, steeling himself as he turned, bracing for the Marcy in his mind—the one who would raise her sword to his neck, unflinching.

But instead, he was met with the sight of Marcy standing there, eyes wide and glistening, tears slipping down her cheeks, her quiet, broken gasps the only sound in the silent room.

His eyes widened, shock flashing across his face as a quiet, singular gasp escaped his mouth.

"..!!"

He looked away, snapping his head toward the night outside. For a moment, he lingered, as if caught between staying and leaving, before quickly turning and stepping out, leaving Marcy alone in silence.

He stumbled into a dark alleyway far from the guild, ducking behind a dumpster. His heart pounded violently as he leaned against the cold metal, sliding down to a sitting position and clutching his chest.

His chest tightened, his vision narrowing as his heartbeat thundered in his ears. A metallic taste filled his mouth as each breath came shallower, the world around him slipping out of focus. 'What... Why... Why did I say that..!? what's…' His thoughts splintered, his mind a frantic blur. 'What's wrong with me!? Am I dying..?!! Is this a heart attack..!? Haah… Haah… Fine… Okay, fine… Let it come… If I die, it'll pass, and I'll revive perfectly fine… Come on…!' Each breath felt like a battle, his mouth gaping, yet his lungs refused to fill.

'No… Wait, think… I can't have a heart attack… Not with my resistance… What is this..!?' His mind raced, his breaths growing shallower and faster, suffocating in the open air. 'Am I being attacked!!?'

"Panic…"

"…Attack," murmured familiar voices as Mike and Rika appeared beside him, standing over him with concerned expressions.

"Haa… Haa… Don't be ridiculous…" he rasped between breaths, looking up at the two figures looming over him. "I've died thousands of times, and I revived perfectly fine… I'm used to death—I have a Resistance well over 30,000… I…" His words trailed off as his eyes snapped back to Rika and Mike, suspicion flickering across his pale face.

"It… It's you, isn't it!? You… drugged me again, or something, right!?" His glare sharpened, and they flinched, memories of his promise—the one where he swore he'd never make the mistake of trusting them again—surfacing in their mind and plastered in his accusing gaze.

"RIGHT!?" he demanded, his voice rising above the quiet of the alley, his breaths ragged, the silence pressing in on them, broken only by the distant chirp of crickets.

The two looked at him, their expressions shifting from concern to a chilling blankness.

"We really are…"

"… nothing but…"

"… used goods in your eyes…"

"… all of us."

"Aren't we, Van?" They spoke in turns, their voices hollow.

"Haa… Haa… What did you expect, you stalkers!?" He forced a bitter chuckle, eyes dropping to the ground as if searching for steadiness there. "Y... You heard everything Amoria said from your relentless stalking, haven't you...!!?" He let out, his voice low and raspy.

"Everything between us… it's all built on… haa… a lie. Nothing between us is real… Nothing was ever real." Images of his five-year journey with Magus and the party flashed before his eyes, their smiles, their faces. "All of you are—" then, the memory of Amoria's words about Magus struck through his brain like a blade, leaving another wound, another crack.

"... Just Magus's puppets. Nothing more." He chocked out with a gulp, echoing Magus in Amoria's story.

Mike and Rika looked down at him, their faces draining of all residue emotion.

"… Thank you for…"

"… saving us from Salem, but…"

"… this is where…"

"… our courtesy…"

"… our debt to you…"

"… ends."

"The panic attack..."

"... Will pass."

They spoke as one, voices void of warmth.

"Farewell." they said in unison before vanishing from sight, leaving Van alone and breathless in the dark alleyway.

Van stared at the spot where they had stood. There it was—his old armor and sword, the ones he had lost when Salem took him.

"Haah... Haah... God... Damn it... Damn it all to hell!" Van panted, struggling to his feet as his breath steadied and his vision cleared. He grudgingly grabbed his old armor and sword, neatly packed in a leather bag, and slung it over his shoulder instead of putting it on.

He kept his casual clothes.

"Damn all of you to hell!" he growled, lifting the crumpled contract to his face and scrutinizing the address scrawled across it.

'...I'll soon be able to go to sleep. Panic attack, my ass..!' he thought, clenching his teeth as he started down the quiet street toward his new... home.

"WHY!? Because I said the TRUTH!!? IS THAT WHY!? Am I that weak!!?" he muttered aloud, berating himself as he walked. 'This is the truth...!! E... Everything! I'm done hiding it. The only thing keeping me here is Varlog and Yilla—and that promise he made to help the Capital, all because I rushed here like some heartbroken teen... Over a kiss! A KISS!' He shook his head, the image of Alicia in someone else's embrace flashing vividly in his mind, his jaw clenching as he tried to shake it off.

'I overreacted. I had no reason to respond the way I did and just leave... Am I seriously that pathetic!? GET A GRIP!!' He slapped his forehead, frustration boiling over.

Each powerful slap dented his already-broken armor, the cold metal pressing harshly against his skin, blood pounding beneath the surface as if ready to burst.

'As for these girls… I feel nothing toward them. I have no friends or connections here. Once I've dealt with this dragon attack… I'm out of here as fast as I can, and go back to the Demon Realm.' he resolved, his grip tightening around the contract as he approached his new residence.

In the distance, he spotted it—the Royal Academy where he and Magus had first been summoned. The massive, towering structure stretched across several kilometers, surrounded by a tall iron fence that separated it from the nearby streets. On the opposite side of the road, a row of houses and shops stood closed for the night.

Following the directions on the contract, he reached his destination: an apartment above a tavern, with a whole floor to himself and an entrance at the back. True to his word, Nickelson had provided a place that was neither extravagant nor rundown. The tavern seemed respectable, its lights still on, casting a warm glow.

...But what he didn't understand was why there were lights on in his supposed apartment as well.

With a shrug and little energy left to investigate, he climbed the stairs and reached the door.

'...Right. I forgot the key. It's probably back at the guild,' he thought, recalling Marcy's tearful expression after what he'd told her.

'Well, not like she'd give it to me anyway.' His gaze softened briefly before hardening again, his jaw tightening. 'Not that I care. I don't care,' he thought, clenching his fists in silence.

"Besides... the door seems to be unlocked," he noted with a deep sigh, his shoulders sagging in resignation.

"Well then... let's greet the guests, shall we?" He pressed the handle and pushed the door open.

The sight that greeted him was a disaster. The apartment was trashed—the wooden walls stained, a foul stench permeating the air, with holes in both the floor and walls. The bedroom door was smashed, and through its gaping hole, he could see the bed's padding ripped to shreds.

But what stood out the most was the group of twelve men lounging around a table in the middle of the room. They sat with their feet up, cackling and taunting each other, surrounded by stains of vomit and urine, spilled alcohol, and scattered food. At that moment, this place resembled a dumpster more than a home.

And then... Van recognized most of them.

"Ah," one of them called out, locking eyes with Van, a malicious grin spreading across his face as he leaned back in his chair.

"Look who's here, boys—Meaty's back!" he shouted, prompting cheers from the others as they turned to Van, raising their jugs high and spilling alcohol everywhere.

Van stood stoic, his face unreadable, as he—the former Royal Guard with rotten teeth and worn, tattered uniform whom Van had the displeasure of meeting recently—approached. He placed a heavy hand on Van's shoulder, his hot breath brushing against Van's face as he leaned in close.

"What's wrong, little Meaty?" he sneered in a low whisper. "Mommy's not here to protect you anymore…?"

"...Yeah," Van replied quietly, looking up at him.

"I'm on my own."