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 - Counter's Price
The storage shed behind the vigilante corps' station. The smell of damp earth mixed with the smell of rusted iron, clinging to the back of his nose.
Orvan stood in the dim shed, looking down at the remains of the iron sword lying on the ground. A blade snapped cleanly in two. A shattered guard. It was the weapon that had broken in his hands days ago, when he had deflected a monster's blow at the edge of the old battlefield, Valgrein.
He lowered himself to the ground and touched his finger to the cross-section of the broken blade. Cold. The chill of iron seeped in from his fingertip. It had once been a sword. One of the few decent iron weapons in the settlement—few enough to count on one hand. Now it was nothing but scrap iron.
(Lost again.)
Orvan gently gripped the bandage on his right wrist with his left hand. Beneath the old bandage, an old wound pulsed quietly. There was no pain. Just heat.
"...What are you doing."
A voice came from behind him. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Azmariya, the mainstay of the vigilante corps. Short-cropped black hair. Sun-bronzed skin. On her back, an iron sword—rare for this settlement. She stood at the entrance of the shed.
Orvan didn't answer. He lifted his finger from the broken blade's cross-section and slowly stood.
Azmariya glanced at the iron sword's remains at Orvan's feet. Blatant irritation surfaced in her eyes.
"Disposing of the broken iron sword, and procuring a weapon for the next battle. That's your order. You understand."
Orvan nodded silently.
Azmariya stepped one pace into the shed. The sound of her feet on the dirt floor echoed strangely loud.
"I'm telling you not to waste the settlement's weapons. Do you have any idea how much trouble the vigilante corps went through to obtain that iron sword? Recovered from the old battlefield, repaired with iron-smithing arts, finally made usable—and you broke it in an instant."
Orvan stayed silent. He had no intention of arguing. It was the truth.
"I don't care if you're the oddball who deflects or whatever, but if your way of fighting devours the settlement's resources, you won't be in the vigilante corps anymore. Remember that."
Having said only that, Azmariya turned her back and left the shed. Her footsteps receded.
Orvan was left alone in the storage shed.
(Don't waste the settlement's weapons.)
Azmariya's words repeated in his head. She was right. Not a single thing she said was wrong. Iron was the same as life. In this settlement, breaking a weapon was considered a great loss. About eighty years had passed since the end of the Ash-Iron War. Quality iron had long since vanished from the continent. Weapons could only rely on relics from the old battlefield or goods brought by traveling merchants. That precious iron—Orvan had shattered it in an instant.
(But back then, if I hadn't deflected it, Puisu would have died.)
Orvan picked up a single fragment of the broken blade. He placed it on his palm. The weight of rusted iron. Something that had once been a tool to protect people.
(I have no choice but to secure my own weapon.)
He clenched the fragment and left the storage shed.
Outside, it was mid-afternoon. The sky over the settlement of Oldis was covered in thin clouds. A dry wind blew, kicking up dust from the stone-paved road. Orvan walked toward the secondhand goods shop of Miranda, touching the wood pieces and stone fragments hanging from his belt as if to confirm they were there.
Miranda's secondhand shop was in an alley slightly off the settlement's central street. A small wooden shop, with rusted swords and broken spears propped carelessly beside the entrance. In front of the shop were scraps of iron apparently recovered from the old battlefield, and daily goods purchased from traveling merchants.
As Orvan stood before the shop, a voice came from inside.
"Two silver coins. Any less, and I'll never sell to your face again."
"Come on... you're as strict as ever, old lady Miranda."
"Strict suits me fine. Iron is the same as life. Selling it cheap would be an insult."
The traveling merchant came out of the shop. When his eyes met Orvan's, he awkwardly averted his gaze for a moment and left.
Orvan passed through the shop entrance.
The interior was dim, filled with the smell of oil and rust. Various weapons hung on the walls, and scraps of iron and old armor were piled on the floor. Sitting on a wooden crate at the back of the shop, the owner Miranda looked at Orvan.
Miranda was a woman of fifty. Her salt-and-pepper hair was tied back in a single bundle, and her wrinkled face held the sharpness cultivated through years of business. Her eyes were narrow, glinting as if appraising him.
"...It's you. What are you looking for."
Orvan didn't answer. He looked at the weapons hanging on the wall, one by one. A rusted short sword. A wooden stick. A stone axe. All were either relics recovered from the old battlefield or crude items repaired with iron-smithing arts.
(None of them can withstand it.)
Orvan understood. There was no weapon in this shop that could withstand the impact of causal reversal. If he deflected, it would shatter in a single blow. Even so, he had to carry something. He couldn't fight with nothing.
He picked up the cheapest stone axe. A crude weapon—just a stone blade tied to a wooden handle with cord. Not even worth one silver coin.
"Is that really what you want."
Orvan looked at Miranda, still holding the stone axe.
"You're the deflecting warrior, aren't you. I've heard about you. Every time you deflect a monster's blow, your weapon shatters."
Orvan didn't answer.
Miranda rose from the wooden crate and walked over to stand before Orvan. With her wrinkled hand, she touched the stone axe.
"What are you looking for? What you're really looking for isn't a stone axe like this."
Orvan stayed silent. He couldn't answer. He didn't even know himself what he was looking for. Just something that didn't matter if it broke. Something he wouldn't regret losing. That was all he was searching for.
"...Two copper coins. It's the cheapest stone axe."
Orvan held out two copper coins. Miranda accepted the payment and stared at Orvan's face for a while.
"Iron is the same as life. That's exactly why no one will understand your way of doing things."
Miranda's voice was quiet. But her words pierced Orvan's chest sharply.
"Who in this settlement do you think would accept someone who fights by breaking their weapons? Someone who treats iron carelessly can't survive in this land."
Orvan left the shop with the stone axe in hand.
The outside air felt strangely cold.
(No one will understand.)
Miranda's words repeated in his head. He knew. He had long known that his way of fighting clashed head-on with this settlement's values.
Orvan tied the stone axe to his belt and began walking north through the settlement. Toward the old battlefield, Valgrein. To search for a weapon that didn't matter if it broke—with his own hands.
The edge of the old battlefield, Valgrein.
The vast plain that had been the main battlefield of the Ash-Iron War remained desolate even now. Countless relics were buried in the ground, with broken swords and shattered shields jutting out here and there. Every time the wind blew, the smell of rusted iron mixed with the smell of decay drifted through the air. Danger rank B. A death plain where humanoid monsters, shadow wolves, and rock-eating insects roamed.
At the edge of the plain, Orvan was gathering rotting iron plates and fragments of broken swords.
(This won't withstand it either.)
The iron plate he picked up crumbled to pieces when he pressed it with his finger. The fragments of broken swords were deeply corroded by rust, unable to even be swung properly. None of them were of a quality that could withstand the impact of causal reversal. All were inferior goods that would break after a single swing.
Even so, Orvan kept gathering iron scraps. He attempted to process them with simple iron-smithing arts. He heated the iron scraps picked up from the old battlefield and struck them into shape. But what he produced was always fragile weapons.
(It doesn't matter if it breaks. If I can protect with it.)
Orvan told himself this as he struck the iron scraps.
"Orvan-san!"
A voice came. When he turned around, he saw a boy with flaxen, springy hair running toward him. His blue-gray eyes sparkled as they found Orvan. Puisu, a scout apprentice. Sixteen years old. The boy Orvan had saved from a monster days ago.
Puisu stood before Orvan, out of breath. The scar on his left eyebrow glistened with sweat.
"What are you doing in a place like this?! Oh, are you maybe gathering iron scraps? I'll help too!"
Orvan stopped striking the iron scraps and looked at Puisu.
"Don't come."
"Huh, why?! I want to be useful!"
"It's dangerous. Stay back."
Puisu showed a momentarily dejected expression. But he quickly rebuilt his smile.
"It's fine! I'm a scout apprentice, so I'm used to danger. Besides, I owe you for saving me, Orvan-san. I want to give something back."
Orvan didn't answer. He picked up iron scraps and checked their weight in his palm.
(The closer the one you protect is, the greater what you lose.)
Orvan knew that Puisu looked up to him. Since that day he'd been saved from the monster, Puisu kept trying to come to Orvan's side. But Orvan kept refusing.
(Don't stay close. Don't stay by my side.)
He thought this in his heart. He didn't say it aloud. If he did, this boy would be hurt. But being close was even more dangerous. With Orvan's way of fighting, he'd drag those around him into it. It wouldn't end with just losing a weapon. Someday, he'd lose something far more important.
"...I want to be useful."
Puisu's voice became slightly smaller. His blue-gray eyes stared straight at Orvan.
Orvan averted his gaze from those eyes.
"...Do what you want."
"Yes! Thank you, Orvan-san!"
Puisu laughed happily and began searching for iron scraps on the ground. His dimples showed. An innocent smile. In this desolate land, that brightness was, conversely, painful to look at.
Orvan kept striking the iron scraps, avoiding looking at Puisu's smile.
Dusk.
Orvan returned to the settlement and happened to pass by the inn "The Weary Foot." The owner, Gares, was talking with several residents in front of the shop. When Orvan approached, the conversation stopped dead.
The residents glanced at Orvan. Then immediately averted their eyes.
"...That's the deflecting man. They say he attracts monsters."
"Don't. They say if you get involved with him, you'll lose your weapons. Don't let your children near him either."
Orvan could hear them. But he didn't stop walking. He passed by the inn and headed for the vigilante corps' station.
(Attracting monsters.)
So that kind of rumor was circulating. Orvan let out a small breath in his heart. There was no basis for causal reversal attracting monsters. But people fear the unknown. They try to keep what they can't understand at a distance.
(That's fine.)
Orvan told himself this.
In a corner of the vigilante corps' station, Orvan ate alone. Hard bread and thin porridge. The warriors gathered in the center of the station to eat. Only around Orvan was there a gaping empty space.
(Alone is fine.)
He bit into the bread. No taste. Just the work of getting it down his throat.
"Orvan-san, can I sit next to you?"
Puisu, holding a bowl of porridge, tried to sit beside Orvan.
Orvan stood up.
"...I eat alone."
"Huh... but."
Orvan didn't look at Puisu's face. He took his bowl and went outside the station.
Outside, it was already dark. The light of the stars faintly illuminated the stone pavement.
Orvan sat behind the station and sipped his porridge alone. A cold wind blew, and the steam from the porridge vanished immediately.
(This is fine.)
(Alone is fine.)
He repeated this in his heart.
The next morning.
Orvan headed for the forest to the west of the settlement. The place w
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