Chapter 304: Don't Die in Front of Me
After briefly bidding farewell to the three girls, Steven stepped out of the Nearl residence without looking back.
The surprises could wait until tomorrow. Sure, maybe Zofia would end up revealing his true identity to Margaret—but so what? That was something bound to happen sooner or later anyway, right?
Right now, what he needed to focus on was delivering the evidence he'd gathered about the dirty dealings of the K.G.C.C to Sona and the others. From there, they could pass it on to the people at the Adeptus Sprawiedliwi. Once that was done, the groundwork for tomorrow's plan would be more or less complete.
All that remained was to host a grand performance and invite key figures from all sides to witness the spectacle.
In high spirits, Steven hummed a nameless tune as he strolled toward the abandoned factory. His mind was already calculating how many points he could rake in from playing his part in the upcoming side story—when he suddenly bumped into someone completely unexpected.
A knight in blood-red armor.
He was clutching a piece of bread that looked like it had been pulled from the bottom of a trash can—who knew how long ago it had expired?
"…We meet again, why are you still eating that kind of nutritionally worthless garbage?"
Steven glanced at the bread, still half-wrapped in a greasy plastic bag.
Looks like the food he'd left for this guy last time hadn't been enough to fill his stomach.
In the end, he still had to resort to dumpster diving to survive.
But he looked strong and healthy enough.
With that kind of physique, he could be hauling bricks for a living and easily make enough to feed himself, couldn't he?
Steven frowned.
With a body like that, this guy shouldn't be living like this—unless he had some serious baggage, or… he was just plain nuts.
Given how the guy tried to "thank" him last time with a fistfight, Steven leaned toward the latter.
But just as Steven opened his mouth, the knight suddenly dropped the bread, grabbed his massive crimson guandao, and swung it right at him without a word of warning.
"Whoa whoa whoa—seriously? Broad daylight, in the middle of the street, and you're trying to pick a fight? What if you hit a bystander or something?"
Steven casually sidestepped the slash and caught the blade with one hand, effortlessly stopping it mid-air. His expression was somewhere between amused and baffled.
The sheer difference in strength was obvious—the knight, whose helmet bore the name "Tola" in crimson script, couldn't even retrieve his weapon from Steven's grip. Through the narrow slit of the knight's visor, Steven caught a glimpse of a strange red glint.
"You are the path of my heaven. Unless I defeat you, how else shall I find my khagan?"
He muttered some cryptic nonsense that Steven didn't understand at all.
Realizing brute force wouldn't work, Tola abandoned his guandao and drew the curved blade at his waist, lunging toward Steven again.
"What the hell does that even mean? Can you speak, like, I don't know—normally?"
Blocking the slash with the discarded guandao, Steven knocked the knight back, scratching his head in confusion.
He had no clue what the guy was talking about. Path of his heaven? Khagan? Couldn't he use language that normal people actually understood?
It's not like there was some handy expert nearby to explain these esoteric terms, and he certainly didn't have a built-in encyclopedia mod in his brain. Figuring out what this knight was rambling about was not exactly a walk in the park.
"…You only need to know one thing: I must defeat you."
Tola, having been shoved back hard by Steven's counter, paused for a moment. Then, for the first time, he answered in plain, human language.
But despite being knocked aside, the knight showed no sign of giving up.
He charged at Steven again—his curved blade slicing through the air without hesitation, aiming directly for Steven's throat. His movements were fast, imbued with a strange, heavy pressure. So much so that even Steven's reflexes were slightly dulled.
Of course, that sensation didn't bring fear so much as curiosity.
"Huh… why do I feel anything from this?" Steven narrowed his eyes, intrigued. "Is this some kind of Originium Art?"
Even so, dodging the strike was no issue. He sidestepped cleanly and countered with a swift kick to the knight's exposed flank, sending him flying sideways like a sack of potatoes.
"You're not still hung up on that beating I gave you last time, are you? Is that why you've decided I'm your so-called 'path to heaven' or whatever?"
Scratching his head, Steven finally pieced together what this guy might be going on about.
…Was this what people called being a sore loser?
No, more accurately, this was the classic case of bad at the game but still addicted to it.
Narrowing his eyes slightly, Steven couldn't shake the feeling that this knight's obsession wasn't as simple as it looked. As someone who'd also been insane a few times himself, Steven had a sixth sense for this sort of thing.
And sure enough—Tola didn't stay down for long. He rolled twice along the dirt, then sprang back to his feet, gripping his scimitar with both hands, eyes blazing. Without missing a beat, he launched another frenzied assault toward Steven.
"If I can't defeat someone like you," he roared mid-swing, "how could I ever hope to face my khagan again?! How could I follow in his path of conquest?! How could I even call myself a Kheshig!"
Each strike came with a furious howl—as if he weren't fighting Steven, but some phantom demon only he could see.
Steven, weaving easily through the flurry of blows, began to get a clearer picture of what was really going on.
This guy was trapped in a dream. A tradition. A delusion he refused to wake up from.
And more importantly… Steven had seen it in his eyes—that deep, unbearable despair lurking behind his helmet's visor.
This wasn't about honor. This wasn't about strength. This was suicide wearing the mask of glory.
"…That's enough. Your reason isn't good enough."
Steven slammed the guandao into the ground, letting it stand upright between them. With his bare hand, he caught the knight's descending blade mid-swing—then shook his head.
"I don't know what this 'Kheshig' thing is supposed to mean. I don't know who your 'khagan' is, either. But if this person really existed… where are they now?"
Steven's voice rang out clear and sharp.
"Let them come face me!"
"Instead of letting you throw your life away in their name. If challenging someone stronger is just your excuse to die—then what does that make you? What does that make him?"
His voice cracked like a whip.
Steven had been wondering what kind of lunatic would keep throwing themselves into a fight they couldn't win—and now he had his answer.
This wasn't bravery. It was a man drowning in guilt and searching for permission to die.
And Steven wasn't about to give it to him.
"I don't mind killing people," Steven said coldly, "but I refuse to be the tool someone else uses to end their own life."
"Think, Tola. What is your path really? What is your khagan really?"
"Because if this is all just an excuse to die… then you've already betrayed both."
With a casual push, Steven sent the blood-colored knight crashing into a nearby wall.
Their little skirmish had already attracted a decent crowd, and this dramatic finish only brought more curious onlookers.
Tola was sent flying so far, he nearly landed right into the arms of the gawking spectators.
Honestly, if either of them cared even a little about public appearances, this whole display—complete with over-the-top combat and dialogue so chuunibyou it could kill—would've been enough to make them die of secondhand embarrassment on the spot.
"If you really want to die, go find a quiet alley or a graveyard. Don't do it in front of me and ruin my appetite," Steven said, stepping toward the knight sprawled on the ground like a kicked-over scarecrow. His voice was somewhere between ridicule and reluctant concern. "But if you're chasing some kind of grand obsession, then at least think before you act. This half-baked suicide-by-duel routine? Waste of time."
With that, he appeared right in front of Tola in a blur, then drove a vicious kick straight into the knight's chest. The armor let out a metallic crack as it bent inward, and Tola finally fell unconscious.
Brushing dust off his hands, Steven looked around at the crowd that had formed a wide circle around them.
He picked up the two weapons Tola had dropped, placing them neatly beside the downed knight like returning lost property.
Then, turning to the stunned onlookers, Steven gave a small, friendly wave.
"Well? Don't just stand there gawking, have someone call an ambulance already."
He shrugged, entirely unfazed by the wide-eyed stares he was receiving like some kind of alien dropped into the middle of the street.
Then, with a sudden burst of speed, he vanished—leaving behind only a flickering afterimage in his place, much to the crowd's astonishment.
The would-be tragic duel now had only one unconscious participant left: Tola. Fortunately, it seemed some in the crowd were actual fans of the knight, and a few quickly stepped forward to call emergency services.
By the time the gathering began to break up, murmurs already circulated about how this might end up in tomorrow's headlines—something like "Crimson Knight Ambushed in Broad Daylight!"
It would no doubt be sensationalized.
But to Steven, the entire affair was just a minor detour. Barely even worth a second thought.
He didn't care about Tola's "Path" or "Khagan" nonsense. Those weren't his business. And even if they were, it wasn't like understanding them would make a difference.
Truth be told, if Steven hadn't found Tola's Originium Art even slightly interesting, he would've ended things with a single punch. Quick, clean, no questions asked.
With that detour handled, Steven soon found himself once again in front of the abandoned factory that served as the Pinus Sylvestris' base of operations. Effortlessly slipping past a pair of patrolling Infected knights, he entered the compound and spotted the familiar figures of the Pinus Sylvestris core members still busy at work.
"Yo, I'm back."
He waved a stack of papers in one hand—labeled documents, if anyone bothered to check—and called out softly to Sona, his usual relaxed smile playing at his lips.
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Note: Character Illustration is in this Google Drive:
https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1iuyfwNVFHzIi9H4rWNT_lAm7jTSiah_M
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