“Holy Knight.”

“He was the Hero of the End, a sunset-tinted figure, the last hero in human history.”

“After him, some were stronger; some were purer; none were greater. His arrival marked the Final Calamity’s last descent like a black eclipse. His death told the world it no longer needed a lone savior. From then on, humanity would stand as one body, a river joining into a sea. No single person would be indispensable; losing anyone wouldn’t halt the world’s turning.”

“Yes, he drove back the Final Calamity—long after, in one last storm. From him on, the world never again saw that calamity whose coming declared the end of all things, before whose power resolve and pride crumbled like sand in the wind.”

“Mm… when Master told me that part, his voice hid a smile. ‘He wasn’t truly strong; nowhere near strong enough to beat the calamity. But he did it. It worked, in a different branch of fate. He fought to the bone, yet success didn’t come from effort or courage—just a small, stubborn love and a sliver of luck.’”

“So the Holy Knight before us must be the unlucky version. But if he’s the same man, his skills and his temper shouldn’t stray far.”

“No, Berenz. Because he’s a common mortal, he never had the luxury of choice. He had to scrape his mind raw, seize any opening, and wrestle victory like a fisherman in hard rain. See him as the standard—lowest possible—kind of hero.”

“Because that’s the only hero he could become.”

“At first he had nothing to do with mystery. He was a cog in a national machine, a diligent worker moving like clockwork until retirement, destined to bask in warm afternoons with grandchildren. But the wish to be a hero—a childlike, blind, moon-struck desire—rose in his heart for some reason and clung like a nightmare.”

“To want to be a hero—such a wish is a curse. For villains like us or for an ordinary citizen, it’s the same. Too heavy, too bright, too exalted. It crushes the shoulder; it bruises the soul.”

“In his era, humanity had grasped lightning, teased elements, and shaped matter like clay. Humanity had slipped gravity’s leash—no, you don’t need to know what gravity is. Humanity had touched the moon—Berenz, you don’t need to know how a hand catches the great light. None of that matters. I’m painting you a season. When Master told it, you were daydreaming, weren’t you? Hey, listen. Our work depends on this.”

“In his era, humanity ruled the earth and aimed at the star-sea. What use is a hero then? Monsters to drive out? There’s the army, precise as gears. Unknowns to explore? There are scientists and explorers, lanterns in the dark. The machine exists to avoid situations that call for a hero, to stop storms before a hero must stand alone.”

“Heroes felt redundant in that age.”

“Sad, and oddly worth a sigh of relief.”

“This is the story—origin and backdrop—of the Holy Knight who forgot his own name.”

“By chance, he glimpsed a scene worth a poem: in a forest of steel and concrete, hunters chased a beast. They used blades and bows; they ran and leaped like wildcats. Their bodies told beauty like flowing ink. It felt like the world’s inner side kept an artifact alive: knightly virtues, favors repaid, heroic epics—crystal-bright things the current age called fairytales.”

“He was not yet a Holy Knight, but he was poisoned. He took the poison named ‘a volunteer hero,’ a toxin with no cure.”

“He cast aside friends and home, crossed mountains and rivers, searching for a way to be as great, for a road that leads to ‘hero’ like a path through mist.”

“The end—well, the end was this: only the Holy Hall in the Vatican took him in, trained him, and made him a Holy Knight. No rare blood. No legendary talent. No fated star. He had nothing. He was meant to be ordinary.”

“Only courage and will deserved praise—no, awe. By chance, those are exactly what a Holy Knight needs.”

“In that age where the unbelievable had been burned away, Holy Knights were a surviving order. They hunted the idea of ‘ghosts.’ Berenz, there are too many things you can’t imagine, so stop asking. The gods had left; in a world without their keeping, distortion wasn’t surprising.”

“‘Ghosts’ were just lingering thoughts and stubborn longing. Holy Knights broke them and scattered them with sheer killing intent and iron malice. Yes—nothing to do with physics, nothing to do with being strong. Only will matters when you wrestle a ghost.”

“Even among the mystics of that era, he stayed a gofer, a backdrop with no lines, never a hero.”

“He trained himself hard, forged his body, mastered each joint like a craftsman. He could crush a walnut between two fingers. He knew what every movement and every muscle did. So what? Flesh loses to steel. He still couldn’t call lightning. His spirit-sight couldn’t even catch a ghost’s shadow.”

“Then, by a rare accident—a true, narrow opening—he met a demon. He caught her in a tight corner and killed her, snatching a fragment of demonic power.”

‘A slayer of demons ends up a demon.’ That saying holds in light and shadow.”

“That’s how he became the final hero. Like a joke told by fate, with luck and courage he outlasted the Final Calamity that no human could resist—then he fell to another monster that wanted the world’s ruin, far weaker than the end itself.”

“He is the only one among the five summoned failed heroes who has actually saved the world once.”

“Life isn’t a novel. Even if it is, this Holy Knight was never the protagonist. He was a hero who happened to fit the hour, who stood at the perfect spot when the tide turned.”

“Berenz, I’m not saying this so you relax.”

“The opposite. Think: if a hero ‘short on power, lacking in strength’ almost saved the world, then what happens when the gods lend blessings that match his will? What kind of mountain of a man would he become?”

“…Well, I’m kidding.”

“I’m trying to lace a little tension into you, Berenz. You’re usually mad as wildfire.”

“No great being casually breaks the fragile balance between gods and demons. They all obey the primeval accord. These air-dropped heroes walk its edges. Most of the divine subsidy went to the Savior Saint—so he doesn’t get too blunted. That’s Master’s business, not ours. The Holy Knight will be buffed a little, but his core ‘smallness’ won’t change.”

“This time the gods are ‘summoning heroes,’ not ‘forging heroes’ by gifts. The latter breaks the primeval accord. So these failed heroes don’t change in their marrow.”

“So, Berenz—calm, crazy, bloodthirsty, as always—go kill him.”

“It’s simple.”

“The Holy Knight isn’t strong. He excels only at ‘technique’ and ‘tactics.’”

“After killing the demon, he dove into endless fights against demons, tempered like steel in a furnace, and earned experience in dueling strong foes.”

“In experience, he’s good at battling strong enemies. In essence, his weakness remains—he’s least suited for battling strong enemies. A paradox, like a blade with a soft spine.”

“Berenz, bring everything you have and kill him.”

“Kill him utterly—no blood, no bone, no ash left.”

“He doesn’t fear death. The opposite. He factors his own death into his plans, cool as winter water. He won’t cling to life. Kill him clean, and everything ends like a cut rope.”

“I need you here, Berenz. You’re stronger than Victor, weaker than Dulan. With Nivifar ill-suited to tangle with the gods head-on, you’re the right piece to slot in. Ignore his taunts and little tricks. Where he stands, you strike. Don’t overthink it. Move clean—then rush back to guard me. If things slip, the moment turns urgent.”

“Worst case? I might die. Then drag the Night Watcher alone into the Reverse Fair until Master wraps the other side. We have no time for play. Gamble your life.”

“…Go. His route is marked. I hope you’re back before the Night Watcher carves me into eight pieces. Dulan’s odds against the Night Watcher sit under half. With her sudden madness, they keep dropping like frost.”

“If not for me, then for this beautiful body, this delicate skin. For your bedmate supply during that one-month resurrection cooldown—”

“—pick up the pace!”

“Next—Dulan… Dulan? Are you even listening?”