As if a switch had been flipped, the world, which had been a deafening cacophony of motion and sound, snapped back into existence.
Stillness shattered.
Movement returned.
Glenn's battered form hit the earth, instinct guiding him into a desperate roll. His eyes, still swimming from the sudden cessation, struggled to process the impossible tableau that had unfolded before him just moments ago.
Then, the severed head of Elgina, its vacant stare fixed on nothing, met the same unforgiving ground. Its colossal, ten-meter-long frame followed suit, the thunderous impact echoing through the dense jungle, rattling trees and shaking the very earth.
And the architect of this cataclysm?
A boy.
Or perhaps, stripping away the pretense of youth, a monster.
Lacerta exhaled, a long, drawn-out breath that seemed to carry the weight of the world. His gaze settled on the short sword clutched in his hand – a bandit's weapon, now utterly ruined. Cracks, like a spiderweb, marred the length of the blade.
It was hardly a surprise.
A weapon of such low quality, snatched up in the heat of the moment to face a mabeast, was hardly expected to possess the resilience to withstand even a single, true blow from him.
Lacerta: [".…Hah."]
A single, meaningless syllable escaped his lips.
Why? Just why was his mind working this way?
It was true, his proficiency with the sword was something monstrous and something that didn't make sense, an uncanny talent that defied the gaping void where his memories should be. But that wasn't the problem. The problem was the certainty—the absolute, unshakable knowledge and understanding that the blade he had wielded was a piece of worthless scrap.
Even before unleashing that cataclysmic strike, he knew. He felt its inferiority as if it were an extension of his own body, a flawed limb crying out in protest.
This feeling, this instinct divorced from experience, only sharpened his resolve. The blank slate that was his past—he had to fill it.
He had to know who he was. And he had to do it as soon as possible.
Which meant—
Lacerta: ["Hey. Hey, you."]
He had to raise his voice a tad before the sounds pierced through the daze clouding the man on the ground. Glenn's one good eye, wide with a combination of shock and disbelief, snapped toward the source of the voice.
Glenn: ["...What the fuck... just... what in the hell are you?"]
Lacerta blinked, tilting his head with genuine curiosity.
Glenn: ["You can't just be some kid… No way in hell… That kind of firepower… That's something only the likes of a Second Class General should be able to—"]
Lacerta: ["Ah… I don't really get what you're so worked up about. It just kinda felt like I could do it, you know? Is that… weird?"]
The words should have dripped with arrogance, with mockery. They were the kind of thing a victor would say to twist the knife in his defeated foe. And yet, Glenn, staring into the boy's clear and utterly guileless eyes, was struck by a horrifying truth.
He was being completely, terrifyingly sincere.
Glenn: ["...You… hah…"]
A harsh, grating sound escaped Glenn's throat—something between a laugh and a sob.
Glenn: ["It doesn't even matter anymore…"]
His already wounded frame gave out, and he collapsed backward onto the blood-soaked grass, his gaze fixed on the indifferent sky. He let out a long, ragged sigh that carried the weight of all his fallen comrades.
Glenn: ["Go on. You're free to go, or whatever it is you were doing."]
Lacerta's expression remained placid, though the slight twitch of his brow betrayed a flicker of impatience.
Lacerta: ["....But I came here to be your prisoner."]
Glenn: ["――――"]
A profound, ringing silence answered him.
Lacerta: ["…It's also why I tried to save you. You're the only one left who knows what I want. The others are useless to me now."]
A flicker of rage ignited in Glenn's chest—a protest for his fallen brothers, dismissed so coldly as mere obstacles. But the inferno was doused by an icy wave of self-preservation. To provoke this… thing… was not bravery. It was suicide, plain and simple.
Glenn: ["….You're a twisted kid, you know that?"]
Glenn shook his head, the motion weary and full of defeat. He forced himself to his feet, a pained wince contorting his face as his injuries screamed.
Glenn: ["Fine… whatever. I'll get you what you want. I'll even take you there myself…"]
A sliver of light entered Lacerta's eyes after hearing that. It vanished as Glenn continued.
Glenn: ["But first… after I bury my brothers. I'm not leaving them out here to rot. I won't let them become food for the beasts."]
Lacerta: ["――?"]
Lacerta processed the words not as a plea for dignity or a moment of grief, but as a simple, procedural delay. He didn't understand the sentiment, not in the slightest. But he wasn't about to argue with his only guide—his one and only ticket to finding the 'big man' and hopefully with him, some missing pieces of himself.
―――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――
From his perch high in the branch of a gnarled jungle tree, Lacerta observed. His legs were crossed, his posture one of casual stillness as he watched the man named Glenn perform an act utterly devoid of logic.
For what felt like an eternity—though in truth was perhaps thirty minutes—the man toiled. The scrape of metal against earth, the grunt of exertion, the glistening sweat on his brow; it was a ritual of pointless labor in his eyes.
Glenn was burying his fallen comrades, an act that, for the life of him, Lacerta could not begin to comprehend. The sheer futility of it was staggering.
Lacerta: ["—Why?"]
The single word, sharp and devoid of emotion, sliced through the humid air. Glenn's movements hitched. The axe head paused mid-swing, soil clinging to its edge. Slowly, his head turned, a single eyebrow raised in a mixture of exhaustion and irritation.
Glenn: ["…Why what?"]
Lacerta: ["Why are you hiding them in the dirt? If it were me who had died, I wouldn't want to be covered in mud."]
A look of profound disbelief washed over Glenn's face. It was a familiar expression, one that teetered between genuine shock and a weary, resigned acceptance. He was, after all, dealing with Lacerta—a child whose grasp on the common sense of men was tenuous at best, nonexistent at worst.
A heavy sigh escaped Glenn's lips, a small cloud of steam in the cool air. He drove the axe into the earth and leaned on it, a makeshift crutch for his weary soul.
Glenn: ["It's called respect. It's… a final kindness. Something people do for those they cared about, a way to mourn their passing."]
Lacerta's head tilted, his silver eyes blinking once, twice. He offered a simple, quiet nod, processing the foreign concept of "mourning" Whether he truly understood was a mystery.
Eventually, the final grave was dug. The last of his comrades was laid to rest. Glenn stood before the crude markers, his back turned to the boy in the tree. A long, heavy silence stretched, broken only by the chirping of unseen insects. Then, his voice, a low and cracked whisper, broke the stillness.
Glenn: ["Long live Vollachia… right guys?"]
He half-expected an answer. For the cold earth to stir and the voices of his loyal comrades to rise in a final, defiant chorus alongside him. He waited for the impossible, the miraculous, the absurd. But alas, the dead remained dead. The jungle remained silent.
After a moment that felt like a lifetime, he averted his gaze.
A bitter truth settled in his gut: he would never see these markers again. The jungle, with its relentless hunger, would swallow them whole, erasing any proof that these men had ever lived, fought, and died here.
──That was a truth he had to accept.
Turning away from the graves for the last time, he approached the boy. With a fluid, practiced motion, he retrieved his one-handed axe from the ground, the familiar weight a cold comfort. He slid the haft over his shoulder, the metal cool against his skin, and fixed his gaze on Lacerta.
Glenn: ["Well? What're you waiting for, eh?"]