Chapter 89: Red Shoes

Before long, a bustling crowd had gathered outside the mansion.

Even though it was well past midnight, their eyes glowed red with heat. Whether they were high on drugs, intoxicated by madness, or simply looking for a place to vent their fury, the situation had escalated to a point beyond reason.

“Bring out Baron Bolten!”

“Give us back Baron Bolten!”

“You bastard! If you even laid a finger on Baron Bolten, I’ll kill you!”

“Don’t invade our paradise! Why come for us when we were minding our own business?!”

All of these cries were little more than tantrums, bordering on absurd demands.

“…….”

Just when it was no longer possible to endure in silence, the Grandmaster returned through the mansion’s back door. In her hands were three blades.

One was her own greatsword, and the other two belonged to Isaac.

“Thank you.”

“My errands don’t come cheap.”

She seemed to want to pass it off with a somewhat playful smile, but Isaac’s lips did not so much as twitch. It was a sign of the gravity and responsibility he felt for what he was about to do.

“I can help.”

No matter how exceptional a swordsman Isaac had become, taking on a mob of that size alone was reckless.

If the Grandmaster stepped in, she could likely sweep them aside without much trouble. With a single swing of her greatsword, she could easily strike down three or four sturdy men at once.

“No,” Isaac said, shaking his head.

“I will take responsibility.”

After all, executing Baron Bolten had also been his decision.

“In case it needs to be said—”

“…….”

“Under no circumstances should you interfere.”

“You’re serious?” the Grandmaster asked.

Isaac answered with a nod. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her help, nor was it selfishness to keep her out of this massacre.

He recalled what he had just seen—

The Grandmaster’s eyes as she subdued the surging crowd. There had been a tremor in them, tinged with sorrow, as though she were barely holding back tears.

‘She must have her reasons,’ Isaac thought.

Whether it was tied to the past she never spoke of in his previous life, or connected to the half-transcendent blood flowing within her, he couldn’t say.

“I’ll be back.”

With the blade at his waist, Isaac strode toward the entrance of the mansion.

“...Go on, then.”

She watched Isaac’s back, forcing herself to remain calm, knowing that in the end, this was the path he had chosen.

Creak.

Isaac stepped outside. Before anyone could react, he flung the severed head in his hand—‘Whoosh’—straight into the throng.

Baron Bolten’s head spun through the air, fresh blood spraying in all directions, and dropped into the crowd.

Someone inadvertently stepped on it, or kicked it, and the head rolled across the ground.

“...!”

“B-Baron Bolten?!”

“No! Noooo!”

It was like watching a grisly painting unfurl.

In the dark hours before dawn, a mob advancing with torches in hand might have looked like they were marching for freedom. But in truth, they were bound by the chains of the drug that had ensnared them.

‘So this is the madness Baron Bolten spoke of…’ Isaac thought as he finally faced the mob’s collective insanity head-on.

And now, they turned their gaze on Isaac.

“That bastard!”

“Kill him, damn it! Kill him!”

“How dare he do that to Baron Bolten!”

“Burn him! Put him to the stake!”

“Go raid the Baron’s warehouse! We need more drugs!”

Shouts came from men and women of all ages, the mob stretching farther than the eye could see.

They scrambled for the mansion entrance, climbing the walls, tearing through any path they could find.

Isaac took in the sight, steeling himself for the burden he now shouldered.

Regression.

A secret, miraculous event—did it truly demand no price at all?

Isaac had always been skeptical of the word destiny. Accepting destiny would mean there was something fated about the loss of his leg, which felt cruel. Yet at this moment, he couldn’t help but speak of destiny.

‘The price of my regression…’

If destiny did indeed exist—

Then this moment was surely the fate he had to bear.

Isaac drew his blade. In one fluid motion of iaido, he severed the neck of the man rushing at him without hesitation.

“He’s swinging his sword!”

“Kill him! Shatter him to bits!”

“Rip him limb from limb and hang him in the city!”

Foaming at the mouth as if fueled by an even more potent dose, they surged forward. Isaac’s blade cut through them like flowing water, wordlessly pressing on.

‘I’m sorry, Milli.’

He had no choice but to destroy her hometown.

I hope you can forgive me.

* * *

[Humans are vile.]

[Humans are inferior.]

[Humans are greedy.]

[Humans have taken our world from us.]

Inside the baron’s office.

Even as she stood in the darkness, the voice echoing in Grandmaster’s ears would not cease.

It was a memory of the past—

A form of brainwashing she had listened to while kneeling alongside her fellow disciples.

“…….”

Though the specter of the past had reared its head, Grandmaster pretended not to hear, remaining silent with her arms folded.

[Look upon their world.]

[They do not even recognize the blessings of sunlight and fertile land bestowed on them; instead, they endlessly fight amongst themselves.]

[War upon war. And yet another war.]

[Do they truly deserve to possess such a blessed land?]

The voice continued, clouding Grandmaster’s mind. The riot playing out before her only made that voice ring louder, as though a fanatic scholar was shouting that his old theories had been right all along.

[Do not pity humans.]

“…Enough,” she whispered.

[Do not stop hating humans.]

“I will decide for myself.”

[Open your eyes—simply observe.]

“…….”

A throbbing headache flared. The remnants of her past were as bitter as poison on her tongue.

Grandmaster let out a breath, struggling to shove down the surge of emotions rising within her.

[Why would you side with humans?!]

“Because I can’t stand the likes of you.”

She knew there was no meaning in answering.

Those words were all echoes from long ago.

[Do you think humans will be any different?]

And yet, in this moment, she couldn’t deny how directly it struck at the heart of the matter.

[You’ll have hopes—]

“…….”

[Then reject them—]

“…….”

[Be disappointed—]

“…….”

[And ultimately, fall into despair.]

Creak.

[Trainee No. 10, the ‘possibility’ you speak of does not exist.]

Grandmaster’s gaze began to lower. She couldn’t bear to watch the mob any longer, twisted as they were by frenzy.

Claang!

There, making use of the narrow terrain and swinging two swords in a flurry all by himself, was Isaac.

“…Possibility.”

Blood trickling down his cheek looked almost like tears. His expression, wielding swords relentlessly at the mansion’s entrance, was filled with guilt and regret—

Yet there was no hesitation in his actions.

It was as though he clung to the last scrap of human pride, fighting tooth and nail against fate.

The one with the least guilt now bore the heaviest sin.

“He is different from you.”

[…]

“He is the ‘possibility’ I’ve been waiting for.”

[It is futile.]

In an instant, the voice receded into the past—

A memory buried deep, one that might bide its time and try to resurface again.

But not now. Not this time.

As Grandmaster rested a hand on the window and gazed down at Isaac—

Whoosh!

She noticed a change in the air splitting around him.

The rhythm of cutting down enemies had shifted.

It was lighter, yet somehow heavier than before.

“…!”

The moment she saw the blue glow coursing through his sword, Grandmaster’s eyes flew wide, a flicker of alarm crossing her face.

“That Demonic?...”

Blackthorn’s mansion—

That Primitive clan of transcendents had once reaped countless lives and souls.

And now, Isaac’s blade was beginning to resemble the very source of that power.

****

He wasn’t sure exactly when it began.

At some point, his vision—blurred by blood—grew clear.

His movements became lighter, and the arcs of his swords sharper.

A faint blue afterimage shimmered in the air.

For a moment, he thought it might be aura,

But it was too oppressively heavy to be called aura, and it churned as if it were alive.

“You monster bas—!”

Pu-u-uk!

‘Ah.’

His sword drank in the blood.

No—more precisely:

Isaac realized that through their deaths, he himself was somehow changing.

Come to think of it—

Transcendent beings could not wield aura.

In other words, they had no concept of mana at all.

“Fuuuuuck!”

“Why—why would you come and destroy our paradise—?!”

Isaac’s eyes glinted fiercely, cold as steel.

Both swords traced identical paths through the air as he swung them simultaneously.

Swish!

That powerful strike tore through two people at once—and then cut down everyone around them in a single blow.

All at once, at some unrecognized moment—

He realized he was wielding something akin to that sword-demon he’d witnessed at Blackthorn.

‘Is this the right thing to do?’

He sensed that if he pushed forward any further, something beyond all he had built with his sword would come crashing down upon him.

But—

“Our dad—!”

“You piece of filth! Lapdog of the kingdom!”

“Who did we ever hurt?! Huh?!”

Drug-crazed, they charged at him, heedless of the mounting pile of corpses.

His blade, drenched in an ominous aura, moved as if by sheer instinct, ravenous for more prey.

By now, his shoes were soaked bright red in pools of blood.

Like a cursed pair of dancing shoes that would not let him stop until he died, Isaac swung his swords ceaselessly amid the mob.

It was like a scene from a twisted fairy tale.

He had to cut them down—only then could this gruesome dance come to an end.

– – The End of The Chapter – –

 

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