Chapter 110 - On My Way

"That was..."

"...easy," Mika and Rika muttered in unison, standing amidst the carnage in the dungeon. Blood stained their faces and bodies, dripping onto the floor as they scanned the room with flat, detached gazes. Around them lay the corpses of guards, while hundreds of prisoners stared at them from within cages and cells.

"Kinda expected we'd need a whole arc for this..." Rika murmured, her voice tinged with faint disbelief.

"No, Rika," Mika interjected sharply, her tone steady. "Some of these might've given us trouble."

"That was before we joined Magus,"

"It was bound to be easy..." Rika chimed in.

"...as we are now," they concluded in tandem, their words hanging heavy in the silent dungeon. The prisoners looked on, their wonder mingling with fear as they took in the two bloodstained figures.

"T-Those are..."

"Mika and Rika. You two escaped Salem as well!?" a prisoner called out from one of the cells, their voice trembling with hope.

"Indeed," the twins chimed in unison, their calm demeanor unnerving yet reassuring.

"Now, let's make haste and free you so that..."

"...you can return to your homes. Be..."

"...wary, though. It will be a long..."

"...walk back to the Capital," they cautioned, their words flowing seamlessly as they moved swiftly, unlocking the cells and releasing the prisoners.

"Thank you... thank you!!" the newly freed slaves cried out, their voices a mix of relief and gratitude as they passed the twins. Despite their neglected state, their beauty still shone through—Salem had chosen his victims meticulously. Well-endowed, male and female, from all races—they were a tragic reflection of his twisted tastes.

'Michael... honey...' a woman thought silently, clutching her young daughter tightly as they joined the growing crowd of freed captives. 'We're coming...!'

----- MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE CAPITAL ------

"Lizzy, Anne—you're back sooner than usual," Marcy called out, finishing up with a patron as she noticed the pair walk through the door, their faces calm and unbothered.

"We didn't want to keep you and Miss Misa alone for long," Lizzy replied casually.

"..." Marcy's eyes narrowed slightly as she scanned the two. Something felt off.

"Where's Michael?" she asked, her tone sharp with impatience.

"He had to go back home," Anne replied. "Said he needed to help his father with something. He'll be back soon."

"Haaaah... Fine," Marcy sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I suppose that's on me for giving you such a long time off. Alright, back to work, you two."

A door creaked open, sunlight spilling into the darkened house. The air was heavy with the smell of rot, the interior trashed and neglected.

"Hello, Dad," Michael called flatly as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. His expression was blank, his gaze distant.

"Michael," his father rasped, barely lifting his head from where he slumped over the table. A cup of ale, only half-full, sat forgotten by his side.

"Why… why aren't you outside?" his father asked, his voice rough and slurred.

"Oh, I..." Michael cleared his throat, stepping past him toward his room. "I needed to pick something up," he said quietly.

"...Okay," his father muttered, his tone flat. After a pause, he added, "Just... hurry up and leave."

The words hit harder than Michael expected, making him flinch slightly as he entered his room. He sat on the edge of his bed, pulling out the slave crest and carefully tucking it beneath the mattress.

"...It isn't so bad here, Dad," Michael murmured, his voice soft and trembling as he pursed his lips.

"Don't lie to me. I taught you not to lie to me, didn't I?" his father muttered, his gaze fixed on the cup on the table before him.

"Everything here smells like garbage. I'm... garbage. Hurry up and leave, so you won't get the scent."

"Can you stop talking like that!?" Michael shouted from his room, his voice trembling as his gaze dropped to the floor.

He pressed his lips tightly together, trying to contain his emotions, before suddenly bolting out of the room and standing before his slouched father.

"IT ISN'T YOUR FAULT! It's... that PIECE OF SHIT'S FAULT!" Michael's voice cracked as he pointed an accusatory finger into the air. "He seduced them. Tricked them. But this time, I won't let it happen. This time, I'll be prepared, and—"

"This time...?" his father rasped, his voice low but sharp. His half-lidded eyes flickered open slightly, locking onto Michael's.

"Michael..." his father murmured, his tone heavy, "what are you doing?"

The silence between them thickened.

"Nothing," Michael finally muttered, his voice quieter, almost defensive. "It's not YOU! It's THEM. And HIM. The way he... tricked them. It's their fault. It's HIS fault." His fists clenched tightly, trembling as he looked down at the floor, his voice shaking with frustration.

Another long pause settled between them, the room filled only with the sound of their shallow breathing.

"Michael," his father repeated, his gaze dropping to the table, unable to meet his son's eyes. His voice was hoarse but steady.

"Don't talk badly about your mother and sister. When you grow up, you'll realize... it's up to the man to make 'em want to stay. And if they go... it's on the man, too."

"But... that's just... too cruel!" Michael cried out, his voice breaking with frustration.

"Mom loved you! She loved me, and so did Sister! Why would they leave unless they were tricked or forced to do it!?"

"..." His father stared blankly at the cup in front of him, his gaze distant as the words hung in the air.

"The world's just that cruel, Michael," he muttered at last, his voice heavy and hollow. "Things like that happen. The sooner you accept it, the less... the less it'll hurt. At some point, I was unable to make your mother happy. That's why she left."

"So, that's acceptance?" Michael's voice flared, trembling with anger. "Drowning yourself in booze like a fucking corpse for years on end?"

"..." His father didn't respond right away, his grip tightening slightly around the cup.

"...I never said I accepted it," he finally admitted, his voice low and uneven. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as though the words were stuck in his throat. "I feel like it wasn't fair either. But I know it's true. That's why my feelings don't matter. They're... invalid."

Michael's breath hitched as he stared at his father, the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. He clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as the words sank in.

"...I'm going back to work," he said abruptly, his voice cold and clipped. Without another glance, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

He paused, gripping the doorknob tightly before hissing over his shoulder, "You gave up too fast on Mom and Sister. I'll... I'll NEVER give up. She LOVED us. She wouldn't be... SEDUCED into NOT LOVING US."

The words came out sharp and venomous as he yanked the door open, letting it slam shut behind him.

'That's right...' Michael thought as he stormed down the street, his mind swirling with frustration and resolve. His memories flashed back to Lizzy's conflicted expression when she looked at Van, and how Anne had been so quick to ask him out.

'It has to be a ruse. A trick... It was MOM. She wouldn't have JUST LEFT.' His breathing quickened as the thoughts churned.

'That's why it doesn't make sense that you feel that way, Liz. Anne. IT DOESN'T.'

'And until I find out why...'

He clenched his fists, his jaw tightening.

'I'm... I'm sorry, but I will keep the mark on.' he nearly ground his teeth in frustration as he marched.

Meanwhile, his father remained at the table, staring into his cup. The silence wrapped around him like a heavy shroud, isolating him further in the dim, decaying room.

Elsewhere, in a certain tavern nearby...

"Then, my lady and I shall take our leave," Vaelthir muttered as he rose from his chair.

"Wait," Sylva said, her head snapping toward him. They all sat around the table in Galdo's tavern, the air heavy with unspoken tension.

"My lady?" Vaelthir asked, glancing at her as she stood to face the group.

"Let's stay in touch," Sylva said, her voice firm yet tinged with unease.

"With what we now know about the Goddess's decree... we need to tread carefully. No one else should learn of what transpired, and we must be cautious about who we trust." She hesitated, her gaze dropping.

"That includes..."

She swallowed hard before continuing, her tone grim. "Van Hellix's sacrifice and Unicus's death."

"I agree," Savathon muttered, his gaze shifting away from the group.

"Oh?" Vaelthir scoffed lightly, turning along with the others to face the Dragonkin.

"Surprising words from someone as hotheaded as you, lizard."

"Shut up, you pompous elf," Savathon shot back. "When something makes sense, it makes sense. As thrilling as it sounds, even I'm not foolish enough to take on an entire city by myself." His tone was dismissive, yet resolute.

"Then it's decided," Arnolt interjected, nudging Ami gently. "You too, girl."

"Huh?" Ami murmured, lifting her head to reveal her tear-streaked face.

"We're a party now," Arnolt said. "We won't let their deaths be in vain."

"I'm not askin' ya to show up for every quest together or stick to each other's asses. But if any of us discovers something, we share it. Understood?" the dwarf grumbled.

"...Reasonable," Vaelthir nodded, with Sylva following suit—though her agreement was noticeably more enthusiastic.

Savathon gave an agreeing nod, joined reluctantly by the two human warriors beside him.

"Deaths, he says," Ami growled under her breath. The group turned to her as she lowered her head.

"You're all just saying whatever you want. Van is going to come back... He... promised...!" Her voice cracked as sobs overtook her, her shoulders trembling.

A heavy silence settled over the table, the weight of grief dragging their gazes downward.

Vaelthir exchanged a look with Arnolt.

"Go," Arnolt said softly. "I'll stay with the kid. Besides, I've barely had enough to drink." He took another slow sip from his cup, his weariness showing in every gesture.

'How awful,' Sylva thought, casting a sorrowful glance at Ami.

'He made a sacrifice to save us all… but to make such a promise in his state? What was he thinking?'

'... Well, he was human. Perhaps he also wanted to believe it?' Sylva thought, her gaze falling on the empty seat at the table that Ami had reserved for Van beside her.

'... Maybe he also wanted to believe he could live?' she mused somberly.

'Ah, what am I saying...' She shook her head, snapping herself from her thoughts as Vaelthir called for her.

"My lady, let us leave."

"Right..." she answered quietly.

'He is gone. He will be forever remembered as a hero by these people...' She placed a palm over her chest, feeling the weight of the moment.

'... And by me,' she thought, finally, as she turned to follow Vaelthir—only to bump into something solid, like a metallic wall.

"Ahhk!" she exclaimed, stumbling back a step.

Arnolt was the first to notice. The sound of Sylva's elven flesh colliding with metal reached his ears with unmistakable clarity. His eyes flared wide in recognition.

'BLACK METAL!' The thought surged through his mind as he snapped his head toward the source of the sound—where Sylva had been struck.

Even Vaelthir, the composed elf, turned his gaze and could not suppress a sharp scoff at the sight before him.

"T-THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE! HOW...!" he exclaimed, his voice rising in disbelief, drawing Savathon's attention. The Dragonkin's lizard-like eyes widened and then narrowed, his chest tightening with awe.

"By the Gods..." he growled, his heart pounding in his chest.

Sylva blinked rapidly, shaking her head as she turned to see what—or who—she had bumped into.

"Y-..." Her breath hitched, and she gasped, her hands instinctively rising to her mouth as her eyes locked onto the figure before her. "Van... Hellix!"

"Ami," a soft voice called, reverberating with familiarity.

"... I'm not too late, am I?" The words hung in the air, directed at Ami, whose head remained lowered. Her breath came in sharp gasps, caught between sobs she fought to suppress. She dared not look up, terrified that if she did, the voice—this hope—would vanish like morning dew on a leaf.

"Step away from him, MY LADY!! That can't be Hellix!" Vaelthir shouted, his bow rising in a single fluid motion to point directly at the figure.

His voice snapped everyone from their stupor. Ami's head remained bowed, her breath trembling with anticipation, while Sylva stood frozen, words caught in her throat.

"... It is him, you rash elf," Arnolt muttered, his tone quiet and deliberate, as if even speaking required effort to process the sight before him.

"How would you know!? It could be some illusion—" Vaelthir started.

"Pipe down. I'd know," Arnolt interrupted, his voice firm as he stood from his seat and walked toward the figure—toward Van.

Stopping before him, Arnolt tapped his knuckles lightly against the armor. A faint metallic ring echoed.

"Nothing can replicate this texture, this sound. The air around this particular armor. The fine craftsmanship, the way it fits his frame perfectly... I don't know how he's here. I don't know how he's alive... but he is." Arnolt's gaze lifted to meet Van's, his usual one-eyed stare more intense, his squint deep with focus.

"... Nice seeing ya, brat."

At those words, Ami raised her head slowly, her eyes wide with disbelief as they met his.

A sharp, youthful face. Eyes as brown as the earth beneath them. Hair as dark as a starless night. A smile as serene as flowing water.

"Hey, Ami," Van said softly. She barely registered the two other humans standing beside him, their presence eclipsed entirely by his.

"Sorry for the scare," he said, his voice steady as he stood before them.

"You—" Sylva began, but before she could finish, Ami threw herself at him, clutching him with all her might. Her arms trembled, but she held on as if letting go would make him vanish once more.

Not a single sob or hiccup escaped her; it was as though every ounce of her strength had been poured into that embrace.

Van's expression softened. With a subtle smile, he lowered his hand, gently brushing it against her head in a comforting gesture.

"Well, aren't you mister popular, little bitch," a sharp voice suddenly cut through the moment.

Van let out a short sigh as the rest of the group flicked their heads toward the figures standing just behind him.

Mirias and Belial.

"Sup?" Belial said, his smirk as sharp as his tone.