Long after a great war, the land lies ravaged. Iron is precious, and decent weapons come only from traveling merchants or ancient battlefields. Each settlement keeps a few self-defense warriors, scraping by.
Orvan, a silent warrior, saves his comrade Puyis from a superior monster by deflecting its attack with his weapon. The weapon shatters, but Puyis survives.
Thus it begins. Each deflection costs him something. The more he protects, the more vanishes from his hands. Orvan seeks things to def
Parry of the Void - A silent warrior of the desolate land
There was a man standing on a hill. A small hill with withered grass, overlooking the settlement of Ordis. Each time the wind blew, the man's soot-stained black hair stuck to his forehead. His gray eyes reflected nothing. He simply stared intently at the void before him.
The man's name was Orvan. Twenty-five years old. Clad in leather armor covered in patches, his chestplate and shoulder guards mismatched in color. Thick cloth was wrapped tightly around his forearms with no gaps, and an old bandage was wound around his right wrist. A bandage he had resolved in his heart never to remove.
Orvan slowly raised his right arm. There was nothing in his hand.
Just like that, diagonally upward—he swung his arm through, as if repelling something.
The wind sliced. His body unconsciously traced movements it had once learned. Not to deflect attacks, but to repel them head-on. To sacrifice one's weapon to protect what must be protected. He repeated those movements without showing them to anyone.
A shattered blade fragment tied to his belt with a cord clinked.
Orvan let his eyes fall on that fragment once. The iron shard was rusted, its luster gone. It had once been a single short sword. On the night he first protected something, it shattered into pieces.
(That time, I truly protected them.)
He swung his arm through once more.
Below the hill, the settlement of Ordis was quiet again today.
A small settlement of about three hundred people. Located in the hilly region of the continent's central area, to the north stretched the Ashiron Plains—a vast wasteland that had once been the main battlefield of the Ashiron War. The great war that ended about eighty years ago. Both sides exhausted their iron resources, and quality iron vanished from the entire continent. Now, weapons and tools alike could only rely on relics recovered from old battlefields or goods that traveling merchants brought from distant lands.
Orvan descended the hill and walked toward the outskirts of the settlement. The stone-paved road was chipped in places, with 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, he heard voices from inside.
"Three silver coins is the best I can do. Even if you repair it with iron refinement, it'll only last half as long."
"Can't you do a little better? This here's a piece dug up from the old battlefield of Valgrein."
"No, I can't. Iron is life itself. I won't sell goods to someone who treats it carelessly."
Orvan didn't stop walking. He merely glanced at the rusted sword propped up in front of the shop. That too was probably a relic from the old battlefield. Iron refinement—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' station came into view.
The Ordis Self-Defense Corps, about thirty members. A defense organization for the settlement, with a female warrior named Azumariya as its main force. Even now, her sharp commands echoed across the training grounds.
"Your stances are too loose! Do you think you can stop a horde of monsters like that!"
Young warriors swung wooden swords, sending sweat flying. Orvan leaned his back against the outer wall of the station, maintaining a nearby short sword while watching the scene from a distance. The short sword was borrowed. What hung from his waist belt was nothing but pieces of wood and stone. 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.
In fact, 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 "Weary Feet," the proprietor Gares was deep in conversation with a traveling merchant.
"Apparently a pack of shadow wolves attacked a traveling merchant on the north side of the Ashiron 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 fort."
"...What a terrible era. Eighty years since the war ended, and the land is still barren."
Orvan passed by the front of the inn without stopping. He felt Gares glance at him for a moment, but neither said anything. That was Orvan's standing in this settlement.
At the watchtower on the outskirts of the settlement, a woman was receiving a group of traveling merchants.
Her long reddish-brown hair was tied back, and her slightly curly hair wasn't fixed even when ruffled by the wind. Her amber eyes narrowed as if appraising the other party. She was slightly taller than Orvan at 174 centimeters. 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, and 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 water bucket swaying. A thin girl, still very young. The bucket was too heavy for her body, and with each step water splashed, creating small stains on the stone pavement.
Orvan stepped to the edge of the road and waited for the girl to pass. The girl looked up at Orvan for a moment. Their eyes met.
"...Hello."
It was a small voice. Orvan silently gave a slight nod.
The girl smiled just a little and walked away, her bucket swaying. Orvan watched her retreating figure for just a moment. A small consideration. A mere 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 mentors and, at the same time, the one who knew his way of fighting best. She had a past of losing comrades to that same way of fighting. 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.
Shizukurei was deep in conversation with the group of traveling merchants. The increase of monsters around the Ashiron Plains. The merchants' expressions were dark. Shizukurei's amber eyes narrowed slightly.
In the evening, Orvan finished his work to earn his daily wage and returned to his hut on the outskirts of the settlement. The hut was crude, its walls merely boards joined together. When the wind blew, sand slipped through the gaps. But it was enough for living alone.
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 of higher rank. Orvan instinctively shielded his comrade and repelled the attack with the short sword in his hand. The short sword shattered. But his comrade was protected.
That was因果返し—karma reversal—a rare phenomenon that manifested in this world.
When facing a life-threatening crisis, if one repels an attack with a weapon in hand, something is lost as compensation. The weapon itself, or stamina, memories, precious things. What is lost cannot be chosen. This phenomenon manifested only rarely, but those in whom it manifested were respected as "Repellers" and simultaneously feared.
Orvan was a Repeller.
But he did not flaunt his way of fighting. The code of Repellers—unwritten, but 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 and come!"
Orvan hadn't been sleeping. He dashed out of 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 could be seen writhing.
A horde of humanoid monsters. Ugly humanoid creatures about 1.5 to 2 meters tall. Their individual combat strength was low, but they overwhelmed by numbers. Danger rank C.
Their number was clearly abnormal.
The self-defense corps was urgently assembled, and Azumariya directed the defense. The settlement's residents began evacuating to the food storehouse, and children's cries echoed through the night.
"Calm down! There are many, but each one is weak! Don't panic!"
Azumariya'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 instructions.
In a corner of the self-defense corps' station, Orvan again removed the shattered blade fragment from his belt and gazed at it for a while.
The fragment, illuminated by moonlight, seemed to shine coldly.
(The day I first lost a weapon.)
That day, too, was night. 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 quietly stood up.
In the settlement's plaza, Shizukurei stood.
"...The horde is coming. Their number, at the lowest estimate, is fifty. A scale unlike anything before."
The self-defense corps and residents held their breath.
"But cowering here won't change anything. We have no choice but to protect. Ordis—with our own hands."
Shizukurei's voice was calm. There was a 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 the watch position on the outskirts before anyone noticed. Beneath the bandage on his right wrist, the old wound ached. There was no pain. It was just hot.
He stood at the settlement's boundary line.
The darkness of night pressed in from the north. Countless footsteps. The sound of feet treading the ground. The breathing 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 I can protect something with this—)
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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