In the barren hills of Oldis, where quality iron vanished eighty years ago and the Ash-Iron War's scars still bleed into the land, one man practices a motion with empty hands.
Orvan is a Returner—one of the rare few who can invoke Causality Reversal, repelling a fatal blow at the cost of something irreplaceable. A weapon. A memory. A piece of himself. No one chooses what is lost. No one speaks of how much has been given up. It is the unwritten code of his kind.
Three years ago, Orvan saved a c
Parry of the Void - A quiet warrior of the ravaged land
A man stood atop a hill. A small hill with withered grass, overlooking the settlement of Oldis. Each time the wind blew, the man's soot-dark hair clung to his forehead. His gray eyes reflected nothing. He simply stared into the void before him.
The man's name was Orvan. Twenty-five years old. He wore leather armor covered in patches, the breastplate and shoulder guards mismatched in color. Thick cloth was wrapped tightly around his forearms with no gaps, and an old bandage encircled his right wrist. A bandage he had sworn never to remove.
Orvan slowly raised his right arm. His hand held nothing.
He swung it diagonally upward—as if deflecting something.
The wind sliced. His body unconsciously traced a motion it had once learned. Not to parry an attack, but to repel it head-on. To sacrifice one's weapon to protect what must be protected. He repeated that motion, unseen by anyone.
A fragment of a shattered blade, tied to his belt with cord, clinked softly.
Orvan let his eyes fall on the fragment once. The iron shard was rusted, its luster long gone. It had once been a short sword. On the night he first protected something, it had shattered into pieces.
(That time, I did protect it.)
He swung his arm once more.
Below the hill, the settlement of Oldis was quiet again today.
A small settlement of about three hundred people. Situated in the hilly region at the center of the continent, to the north stretched the Ash-Iron Plains—a vast wasteland that had once been the main battlefield of the Ash-Iron War. The great war had ended some eighty years ago. Both sides had exhausted their iron resources, and quality iron had vanished from the entire continent. Now weapons and tools alike could only rely on relics recovered from old battlefields or goods carried from distant lands by traveling merchants.
Orvan descended the hill and walked toward the edge of the settlement. The stone-paved road was chipped in places, weeds poking through the gaps. The air was dry, mixing the smell of earth with the scent of smoke rising from somewhere.
As he passed by the secondhand goods shop of Miranda, voices drifted out from inside.
"Three silver coins is the best I can do. Even if it's been repaired with iron-forging, it'll only last half as long."
"Can't you do a little better? This here was dug up from the old battlefield of Valgrein, you know."
"No, I can't. Iron is life. I don't sell goods to people who treat it carelessly."
Orvan didn't stop. He merely glanced at the rusted sword propped against the storefront. That too was probably a relic from the old battlefield. Iron-forging—the art of processing scrap iron picked up from old battlefields—was a necessity in this land. The quality was low. Durability as a weapon was about half of normal. Even so, with proper iron unobtainable, people had no choice but to rely on it.
As he continued down the road, the training grounds of the self-defense corps headquarters came into view.
The Oldis Self-Defense Corps, roughly thirty members. The settlement's defense organization, with a female warrior named Azmariya as its main force. Even now, her sharp commands rang out across the training grounds.
"Your stances are sloppy! Do you think you can stop a horde of monsters like that?!"
Young warriors swung wooden swords, sweat flying. Orvan leaned his back against the outer wall of the headquarters, maintaining a borrowed short sword while watching the scene from a distance. The short sword was borrowed. What hung from his waist belt was nothing but wood chips and stone fragments. He hadn't held a proper weapon in a long time.
(That kind of training won't stop monsters.)
He thought so in his heart. But he didn't say it aloud. Even if he did, no one would listen.
Indeed, no one spoke to Orvan. The warriors at the training grounds noticed his presence but wouldn't even meet his gaze. That was everyday life.
In front of the inn "The Weary Foot," the proprietor Gares was deep in conversation with a traveling merchant.
"Apparently a pack of shadow wolves attacked a merchant group on the north side of the Ash-Iron Plains. Two guards were killed."
"Monsters have been increasing lately. There's even a rumor that humanoid monsters have made a nest in the ruins of the mountain pass fortress."
"...What a wretched age. Eighty years since the war ended, and the land is still barren."
Orvan passed by the inn without stopping. He thought Gares glanced at him for a moment, but neither said anything. That was Orvan's place in this settlement.
At the watchtower on the edge of the settlement, a woman was receiving a group of traveling merchants.
Her long reddish-brown hair was tied back, and she didn't bother fixing the slightly unruly strands even when the wind tousled them. Her amber eyes narrowed as if appraising the other party. She stood slightly taller than Orvan—about five foot eight. The guide, Shizukurei. Twenty-eight years old.
She was an intermediary connecting warriors and settlements, well-versed in battlefield terrain, monster distribution, and the circumstances of each settlement. Becoming a guide required over five years of combat experience and geographical knowledge; there were only about two hundred across the entire continent. Shizukurei was one of them.
When Orvan approached, Shizukurei met his eyes for just a moment. But no words were exchanged. That was fine.
A girl carrying water walked along the stone-paved road, her bucket swaying. A thin girl, still young. The bucket was too heavy for her body, and water splashed with each step, leaving small stains on the stone.
Orvan stepped to the edge of the road and waited for the girl to pass. She glanced up at him for an instant. Their eyes met.
"...Hello."
It was a small voice. Orvan said nothing, giving a slight nod.
The girl smiled just a little and walked on, her bucket swaying. Orvan watched her retreating figure for a moment. A small kindness. A gesture not put into words.
Shizukurei, who had been watching, approached Orvan.
"Did you find a weapon?"
Orvan didn't answer.
"...I see."
Shizukurei didn't press further. She was one of Orvan's teachers, and at the same time, the person who knew his way of fighting best. She had once lost comrades fighting the same way. That was precisely why she voiced a warning to Orvan.
"Your way of fighting will someday leave you alone."
She had said that to him before.
Orvan answered nothing. There was no answer to give.
Shizukurei was deep in conversation with the group of traveling merchants. The increase of monsters around the Ash-Iron Plains. The merchants' expressions were grim. Shizukurei's amber eyes narrowed slightly.
In the evening, Orvan finished his work for daily wages and returned to his hut on the edge of the settlement. The hut was crude, its walls nothing but boards joined together. When the wind blew, sand slipped through the gaps. But it was enough for one person to live in.
He removed the shattered blade fragment from his belt and placed it on his palm.
(The day I first lost something.)
That was three years ago. A comrade was attacked by a monster far above their level. Orvan instinctively shielded his comrade and repelled the attack with the short sword in his hand. The short sword shattered. But his comrade was saved.
That was因果返し—Causality Reversal—a rare phenomenon that manifested in this world.
When facing a life-threatening crisis, if one repelled an attack with a weapon in hand, the cost was losing "something." The weapon itself, or stamina, memories, precious things. What was lost could not be chosen. This phenomenon manifested only rarely, but those in whom it did were respected as "Returners"—and feared in equal measure.
Orvan was a Returner.
But he never flaunted his way of fighting. The Returner's code—unwritten, yet a custom shared across the entire continent. Do not speak of the number of things lost. Do not flaunt one's ability.
Orvan gripped the fragment. Beneath the old bandage on his right wrist, an old wound ached.
(Even so, I—)
He retied the fragment to his belt and quietly stood up.
Night.
A scream rose from the watchtower.
"It's an abnormal number! Hurry, hurry, come quickly!"
Orvan hadn't been sleeping. He burst from his hut and ran up the hill. Under the moonlight, on the north side of the settlement—from the direction of the old battlefield Valgrein—countless shadows writhed.
A horde of humanoid monsters. Ugly humanoid creatures standing between five and six and a half feet tall. Individually weak in combat, but they overwhelmed by numbers. Danger rank C.
Their number was clearly abnormal.
The self-defense corps was urgently assembled, and Azmariya directed the defensive formation. The settlement's residents began evacuating to the food storehouse, and children's cries echoed through the night.
"Stay calm! There are many, but each one is weak! Don't panic!"
Azmariya's voice was powerful. She was the main force of the self-defense corps and the guardian of this settlement. Her skill was certain, and the warriors moved according to her orders.
Orvan, in a corner of the self-defense corps headquarters, removed the shattered blade fragment from his belt once more and gazed at it for a while.
Bathed in moonlight, the fragment seemed to glow coldly.
(The day I first lost a weapon.)
That day had been night as well. A comrade's scream. A monster's roar. And the sensation of iron shattering in his hand.
Orvan gripped the fragment and retied it to his belt.
He stood up quietly.
In the settlement's plaza, Shizukurei stood.
"...The horde is coming. Their number, at the lowest estimate, is fifty. A scale we've never seen before."
The self-defense corps and residents held their breath.
"But cowering here won't change anything. We have no choice but to protect it. Oldis—with our own hands."
Shizukurei's voice was calm. There was firm resolve in it. She was a guide, not a warrior. But her words moved the warriors' hearts.
Orvan listened to those words from behind the crowd.
No one gave him orders. No one expected anything from him.
That was fine.
Orvan headed to a watch position on the outskirts before anyone noticed. Beneath the bandage on his right wrist, the old wound ached. There was no pain. Just heat.
He stood at the settlement's boundary line.
The darkness of night pressed in from the north. Countless footsteps. The sound of feet trampling the ground. The breath of monsters carried on the wind.
Orvan removed the first weapon fragment from his belt and gripped it in his right hand.
The coldness of iron spread across his palm.
(If this can protect something—)
He faced the darkness of night. Preparing for the battle to come.
Still not knowing what he would lose.
The wind blew.
From atop the hill, countless shadows looked down upon him.
Orvan took one step forward.
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