Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Inevitable End of Death

Young Glorybearers were no strangers to death.

He had skirted the edge of mortality countless times, escaping the Reaper’s scythe, and had often dispatched enemies without a trace of mercy. Yet, when faced with the corpse of a companion, he found he could not remain indifferent. Perhaps he felt no soul-staining sorrow, nor any hysterical rage, but his heart was hollow and inexplicably distressed; for some reason, the corners of his eyes grew damp.

Was it guilt? Was it remorse? Or perhaps both?

The youth could not untangle the complex emotions surging within him. If he had not sought help from the Order, Mia would never have been assigned to the lower district, would never have stormed with him into the headquarters of the Dark Guild, confronting that nameless, chaotic abomination. Without him, the sword-wielding girl would not have died.

But fate is capricious; there are no ifs, and all is foreordained.

The swordbearer named Mia was dead. Her body was growing cold, her blood drying up, and as time passed, not a single sign of life remained upon her. Even those most unwilling to accept reality had to admit that the once valiant girl would never wake again, never open those beautiful emerald eyes, never hear his apology.

Death is, after all, unreasonably final.

He sighed softly for the swordbearer’s end, pressing his melancholy down—now was not the time for mourning. Even though the Order’s support was gone, he had no reason to halt here. After tonight, he and the Dark Guild were locked in a struggle to the death. If he did not strike now, he might never have such an opportunity again.

Besides, it was a matter of vengeance for Mia.

Thinking of the girl who died because of him, the Glorybearer’s gaze dimmed. Strictly speaking, the swordbearer fell because of her unwavering resolve, but he could not blame it all upon the dead. Looking back, perhaps what he foresaw in the end was not his own death, but Mia’s. As her life ebbed, he was covered by the carnage of the man-eating monsters, equally close to death, so he instinctively assumed it was his fate, overlooking other possibilities.

If only he had realized that then, perhaps the outcome would have been different.

But it was merely wishful thinking.

He would not turn his dagger upon his own throat for Mia, nor wager his life on slim chances—for, at his core, he was a selfish, cowardly soul, despite the noble blood of the ancestors coursing through his veins. It could not change his base nature.

The youth pursed his lips, somewhat unwilling to accept this.

Though his wounds had faded with time, he had no intention of venturing deeper—he was waiting for someone, someone who should have appeared by now, yet never had, someone essential for the journey ahead.

The Apostle, Dick.

But Dick had not arrived.

A thousand reasonable explanations might account for his absence, but for some reason the worst possibility haunted the Glorybearer’s mind.

“Is it you… Dick?”

Amy Ulysses narrowed his eyes. High demons were never common; even in the upper district, rife with powerful figures, a single high demon could tip the scales, let alone in this barren, impoverished lower district. Such beings were ultimate weapons, kept secret by any faction and impossible to encounter by chance. Perhaps it could be explained as a freak occurrence, but… he could not trust that ever-smiling, handsome youth.

Perhaps, as he used the other, he too was being used.

His utter disadvantage in intelligence made him like a blind man groping in darkness, completely led by the nose.

“A grave miscalculation,” he muttered, yet still did not move.

Whatever Dick’s intentions at the Dice House, it was not something he should consider now. After joining forces with the swordbearer to slay the high demon, there was no room for compromise with the Dark Guild. Even with opportunists lurking in the shadows, he could not afford to retreat.

The only way was forward.

Since he was already someone’s blade, the immediate task was not to bite the hand that wielded him, but to strike down the enemy.

Then, afterward, settle the accounts.

With this in mind, the Glorybearer’s gaze sharpened and he lifted his head abruptly, looking into the distance.

At some indeterminate moment… fog had begun to rise.

The Glorybearer’s blood, inherited from the ancestors, granted more than supernatural abilities as a trump card, more than a powerful physique; it bestowed many extraordinary talents—darkvision among them. Unless in total darkness, Glorybearers could move as if in daylight. The Illdan Mine’s underground was shrouded in endless gloom, but Amy always carried a fire rune amulet, a faint yet stable light source.

Thanks to this, he could see the surging mist in the distance.

Why had fog appeared here?

A large part of the Illdan Mine lay within the Mist District, so fog itself was not strange—but that direction was toward the lower district, and it was daytime, when the fire of order burned brightest. There was no reason for such suspicious mist to appear.

Something had happened.

The Glorybearer’s heart sank, though not yet to panic. Unless a high demon intervened, he was confident of victory. In the previous battle, he had been like a rusty blade, honed and refined until his combat ability soared to an incredible level. Compared to the battle-hardened swordbearer, he might still be somewhat inexperienced, but not far behind.

Though… what did “soared like a rocket” mean?

Shaking his head to dispel the irrelevant thought, the youth carefully scrutinized the mist advancing toward him.

Something was amiss.

The fog moved far faster than it should; its sudden appearance and purposeful approach left no doubt—it was coming for him, and nothing good would follow.

Should he avoid it?

No, there was no need.

Amy lifted his chin slightly. Sooner or later there would be a fight; better to finish it now.

This was not pride, but reality.

There was no one left to rely on.

Sword drawn, but the Glorybearer did not rush ahead.

He was no swordbearer, no master of supernatural winds, merely a swordsman—a swordsman who could read the future of death. Against enemies with mysterious powers, he could only use his wits, find their weaknesses, and destroy them.

Brute force would not suffice.

He emptied his mind, awaiting the arrival of the mist.

As expected… the moment their vision met, it was stripped away—just like the fog that filled the lower district at night, or rather, even closer to its original form—the nameless mist that erodes order. Under its influence, the Glorybearer could not see things even close at hand; his senses were muddled, his body hindered.

Clearly, his opponent was one who struck from the shadows.

Amy guessed at the enemy’s type: adept at manipulating mist, possibly skilled in ranged attacks or assassination. No matter what manner of foe lurked in the mist, caution was never wrong; as long as he survived the first wave, the battle would become much smoother.

However—

Slow to realize, or utterly oblivious, a dagger pierced his vest.

Even in death, he never saw his enemy.

A formidable opponent.

Breaking free from the foreseen future of death, Amy Ulysses took a deep breath, adopting a wary stance and focusing his attention behind him, waiting for the enemy to reveal themselves.

But… the moment never came.

Even after dying once more, the youth never glimpsed the shadow behind him.

This time it was not a prophesied future, but real, irreversible death.

Amy fell heavily to the ground, his heart pierced, and soon his life ebbed away.

He… was dead.

A cough.

By his count, this was the second time tonight he had returned through death. In the battle against the black sorcerer Alfred, the Glorybearer had realized that the death omen was not an infinitely reusable wish-granting machine, but a limited ability that could only be triggered a certain number of times within a short period. The more deaths accrued, and the more powerful the killer, the greater the backlash. What was certain was that the more he died, the weaker he became, and the harder it would be to escape the fate of death that lay before him.

Blood welled between his fingers; his face was pale as snow.

This backlash was less severe than the one inflicted by the black sorcerer, but not negligible. If killed one more time, he might become so weak his steps faltered, making it nearly impossible to mount a counterattack.

Therefore—he could not die again.

He would not repeat his earlier mistake; his recent death rang as a warning. Whatever ability his killer possessed, one thing was clear: he could not detect the threat in advance. Waiting passively was no longer an option.

He had to act.

Amy drafted his plan in his mind and began to prepare.

Three, two, one—

The moment of death returned in memory; ready, the Glorybearer spun abruptly, slashing his short sword through the mist behind him. Metal clashed, sparks flashed, and the force sent him sprawling to the ground. Before he could react, a jet-black dagger was already lodged in his chest.

This—

He stared wide-eyed, then fell silent.

Amy Ulysses, dead once again.

“The third time…”

Predictable weakness; the Glorybearer coughed blood and forced himself to stay upright, reflecting on his mistake.

Yes, the enemy was a master of stealth and assassination, but their physical strength far surpassed his—at least twice his own. They could overpower him with a hurried parry and finish him off without effort. Even in a fair fight, he would stand little chance, let alone against such a skilled assassin. From any angle, this enemy was extremely dangerous.

Worse yet, his own abilities were now hampered by weakness.

What to do?

He racked his brains for a solution, but before he could find one, the dagger pierced his heart again.

Why?

The future is not immutable.

After the fourth return via death omen, the youth understood why he died the third time. Just as he could change his fate by foreseeing the future, once he showed signs of weakness, the assassin hidden in the mist could strike preemptively, catching him off guard.

Realizing this now was far, far too late.

Struggling from death, the Glorybearer finally succumbed to the backlash descending upon him. He staggered and fell, blood spilling uncontrollably from his lips—then another strike ended him.

Would there be a fifth chance?

At the end of his life, Amy Ulysses wondered this, then lost consciousness.

He died.

Before him stretched an endless darkness.

There, he saw fire.

The Fire of Anna.