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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Cyno
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Armida blinked in confusion.
“I don’t get it, so you handle it.”
“Handle what? Shura’s doing his own thing. Anyway, I’ve got stuff to do, so I’ll head out.”
As I turned to leave, Armida stopped me again.
“Oh! Speaking of, Shura asked something while you were gone.”
I looked back.
“What?”
“He said, ‘If everyone insists on their own path, conflict will never end. How do we solve this?’”
I clicked my tongue. Shura’s flaw was his lack of worldly experience.
“Tch. Wasting time on pointless worries… What’d you say?”
“Nothing. You’re in charge of sword-related matters.”
“Then tell him this: ‘Beat each other bloody until you figure out coexistence. Otherwise, you all die.’”
Armida tilted her head.
“But won’t they just fight to the death again later?”
“Probably.”
“Then what’s the point?”
“There is one.”
“Which is?”
“That is normal. Sis, you think true coexistence would create a utopia? Wrong. That’s when hell truly breaks loose. Why? Because humans can’t achieve real harmony without living through hell first.”
Ironically, I’d witnessed something resembling true coexistence—during the Age of Ruin. Humans stood shoulder-to-shoulder with orcs they’d once snarled at like enemies. High elves clasped hands with dark elves in unshakable trust. All to survive the hellscape of humanity’s extinction.
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t get it. You handle it.”
As Armida waved me off, I stepped outside.
What a farce. The utopia humans dream of can only be realized after hell unfolds. What kind of god designs a world like this?
Probably a lazy one. Just look at orcs—clearly slapped together haphazardly.
—
Karah’s streets were as bustling as ever. The only difference? Karah’s warriors now eyed me with envy during patrols.
Likely fallout from the Freaker hunt days ago. A white-masked figure sticks out, and rumors spread faster than galloping horses.
Reaching the western gate, I found a crowd packed into an alley. Pushing through, I saw hundreds of orc mercenaries, weapons grounded, bowing toward a single food stall.
A show of respect—for Zenebe.
‘This old man’s got it rough with these stalkers.’
Many orc mercenaries in Karah were exiles, driven across the desert after losing tribal wars. To them, Zenebe’s name was a beacon of hope. Under his banner, they could return to the northern orc plains not as defeated outcasts, but as followers of a Great Hero.
I squeezed through the orcs and sat at Zenebe’s stall, ignoring the murderous glares.
“From stall owner to alley boss…? You’re really slumming it, old man.”
Zenebe’s eyes sharpened.
“Whose fault is that?”
“Yours. Who else?”
“You’ve got some nerve.”
“Please. Who was flinging Titanica’s magic around like fireworks during the last fight? A Master Berserker your size, wielding that sword? Even orcs aren’t that dense. Tsk tsk tsk.”
“Grr.”
Zenebe looked annoyed. Even he knew he’d slipped up.
Ignoring him, I eyed the food on display—untouched despite lunchtime being long past. Not surprising. Who’d dare eat here with a horde of orc mercs lurking?
“Whatever. Just feed me.”
“What do you want?”
“Same as last time.”
Zenebe sliced bread, stuffing it with meat and veggies. Only difference? A weird new sauce. Must’ve been experimenting.
As he cooked, he side-eyed me.
“Here just to eat?”
“Killing two birds. Since someone didn’t come for his pay, I had to.”
“They paid already? Thought Karah’s military admin was slow.”
“Yeah? Must be thanks to your fan club.”
Nearly 700 orc mercs were gathered here—practically every orc in Karah. Given time, rumors would draw more from other desert cities. A terrifying force.
Zenebe glared at the orcs.
“At least they’re useful sometimes.”
“See? No one’s useless. Only incompetent leaders who can’t utilize their men.”
“They’re not my men!”
The nearby orcs flinched at his roar.
“Who said they were? Just making a point.”
“Guh.”
Zenebe avoided my gaze. I pulled out a jingling pouch.
“Here. 300 leaf gold.”
He eyed it sharply.
“Human. I killed five Freakers. You killed two. Why do I only get 300?”
“You’re the employee. I’m the boss. Unhappy? Become the boss. You’ve got plenty of ‘men’ now.”
“Forget it!”
He snatched the pouch. 300 leaf gold was enough to live comfortably for life.
Watching him resume cooking, I asked,
“So, last meal?”
“Probably.”
“Won’t be easy, though.”
Zenebe gave me a puzzled look.
“What?”
“Money’s like flies on shit—gone before you know it.”
“300 leaf gold is a fortune.”
“Also my monthly party budget.”
“That’s just you being wasteful.”
I shrugged. Fair.
“But you’re no better.”
“How?”
“You don’t respect money. Money doesn’t stay with those who don’t value it. I’d know—I’m one of them. Heh.”
Zenebe slid the stuffed bread toward me, glaring.
“What’s your point?”
I took a bite.
“Unless you wanna starve later, find a real job.”
“No. I swore never to wield a blade again. Now that I have money, I don’t even need kitchen knives.”
“Who said anything about blades? You think swinging swords is the only way to earn? Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Well—ahem.”
Zenebe looked embarrassed. True—carrying goods was work. Running a shop was work. Frankly, most jobs don’t involve blades.
I licked sauce off my fingers.
“You’re too fixated on blades. Even if you drop the physical sword, your heart still clings to it. To truly abandon your oath, you must first drop the sword in your heart.”
Zenebe shot me a glance.
“Sword in the heart?”
“Yep. Until then, even if you set the blade aside, you’ll break your oath. Eventually, you’ll pick it up again.”
“Why?”
“Like this stall. There are other jobs, yet here you are. Because your heart still holds the sword.”
Zenebe pondered, then nodded. He didn’t need to cook.
“I see. You’re right. There’s a gap in my resolve.”
“Understandable. For a swordsman, dropping the blade isn’t easy. Half-hearted oaths lead to half-hearted results.”
“So what should I do?”
“Only one way. Go home, eat, and swing your sword—until your heart lets go.”
Zenebe stared. I’d framed it as advice to drop the sword, yet told him to hold it.
“Are you mocking me?”
“Dead serious. Your obsession comes from human greed—the ‘sword’ in your heart that won’t let go. The more you distance the physical blade, the sharper the mental one becomes. Desire works that way.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Like holding in piss. The more you resist, the more it consumes you. But once you go, it’s like it never mattered. That’s how the world works. Use your head.”
Zenebe stroked his chin. Crude but relatable.
“Fine. There’s logic there.”
“So choose. Drop just the physical sword? Or the one in your heart? The former makes your oath half-baked. The latter makes it noble. Not that I’d blame you for the first—letting go is hard. Better a half-kept oath than none.”
I emphasized half—hoping he’d pick the latter. Good employees like Zenebe were rare.
He studied me.
“You’re scheming something, aren’t you?”
“Pure advice. Whether you wield a sword or not, what’s it to me? I’m just asking because you’re straying from your oath.”
“…Fine. I’ll think on it.”
I smirked. This old man was gullible as a fish. Dangle a plausible reason, and he bites.
Sure, Zenebe might one day drop the sword in his heart. But was it that easy? Desire has no limits.
For example, no one visits the toilet just once in their life. You go as long as you live. And the day you never go again? That’s your last.
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