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 - Loss —The Right Hand Being Shaved Away—
The bonfire light flickered in the plaza of the settlement of Ordith.
The night after repelling the vanguard. Thick clouds covered the sky, and almost no starlight reached the ground. Even so, the plaza was bright. Two, then three bonfires blazed, and around them gathered the warriors of the self-defense force and the residents.
"Great work today! We drove back that many monsters—you should be proud!"
"It was Azmariya's leadership that did it. Without her, the settlement would've been finished by now."
The smell of alcohol drifted on the wind. A cloudy brew made from nothing but fermented barley, said to have been passed down since the Ash-Iron War. The warriors raised wooden cups and shouted.
Azmariya stood at the center of the plaza. Short-cropped black hair. Sun-bronzed skin. An iron sword on her back. People naturally gathered around her.
"Today's victory belongs to everyone. But don't get carried away. The main force hasn't arrived yet."
Azmariya's voice carried well even through the revelry. The warriors nodded at her words.
"Even so, let's drink tonight! Tomorrow's problems can wait for tomorrow!"
Laughter rose. Firewood was fed to the bonfire, and sparks danced upward.
No one spoke Orvan's name.
---
In a corner of the inn "The Weary Foot."
Orvan sat alone, breaking apart hard bread. When he put strength into his fingertips, the bread crumbled with a dry sound. He brought a fragment to his mouth. It had almost no taste. He washed it down with water.
The inn was quiet. The clamor of the plaza reached him like distant waves. The innkeeper, Gares, was wiping plates behind the counter.
"...You don't want to drink?"
Gares's voice was low and blunt. Orvan didn't answer. He simply pinched another fragment of bread and brought it to his mouth.
"You fought too, didn't you. I can tell just by looking at your face."
Orvan gripped the bandage on his right wrist with his left hand. Beneath the bandage, an old wound pulsed quietly.
"...I didn't fight to be celebrated."
Gares said nothing more. He simply placed a wooden cup of water in front of Orvan.
That was when it happened.
The inn's door flew open.
"Orvan!"
Puisu came running in, his left arm still suspended in a cloth sling. His flaxen hair, springing every which way, was plastered to his forehead with sweat. His blue-gray eyes wavered, reflecting the bonfire's light.
"Please come! The plaza—it's incredible! Everyone's talking about what happened today...!"
Orvan stopped breaking the bread.
"I'll tell them properly how many monsters you drove back! Then everyone will understand!"
Puisu's voice was fast, and trembling slightly. He was enduring the pain in his left arm—every so often, his face twisted.
Orvan looked at Puisu's face.
"I'm not going."
It was a short reply.
Puisu's smile vanished in an instant.
"...Why? You fought so hard today. If you were there, everyone would—"
"Don't talk about me."
Puisu was at a loss for words.
Orvan shoved the last fragment of hard bread into his mouth. Washed it down with water. His throat clicked.
"...Why? I was saved by you, and then—"
"I saved you because I felt like it."
Puisu bit his lip. His blue-gray eyes were moist.
"...I understand."
That was all Puisu said before turning away. The inn's door closed slowly.
Orvan sat alone.
(This is fine.)
He repeated it in his mind.
(If I let people close, the number of people I have to protect grows. And the more people I have to protect, the more I have to lose.)
Orvan stared at the bandage on his right wrist. The old bandage, rewrapped countless times, was frayed in places.
(I don't resent him.)
(I just can't let anyone get any closer.)
Orvan stood. He placed a single copper coin on the wooden cup.
"Thanks for the meal."
Gares nodded without a word.
Orvan left the inn.
Outside, the night darkness wrapped around him. From the direction of the plaza, laughter and singing drifted over. The bonfire's glow sent shadows wavering across the inn's walls.
Orvan did not head toward the plaza.
He walked toward the outskirts of the settlement. The stone-paved road gave way to dirt. The lights of the houses grew sparser.
He headed for the watch post. The northeast watchtower. The settlement's boundary line.
(If I'm going to protect, it's there.)
Only Orvan's footsteps echoed in the night's silence.
---
The northeast watchtower was a crude wooden structure standing at the edge of the settlement.
When Orvan arrived, one of the scouts was standing atop it.
"...Orvan? What's wrong, not going to the feast?"
"I'm relieving you. Get down."
The scout looked surprised for a moment, but climbed down the ladder without a word.
"...Sorry. Thanks."
Orvan climbed the ladder in silence.
The wind was strong atop the watchtower. The moon peeked faintly through a gap in the clouds.
Orvan looked down at the southern side of the settlement. He could see the roof of the food storehouse. Beyond it, the bonfire light of the plaza flickered small.
(Under that light, everyone's laughing.)
(That's enough.)
Orvan put a hand to his belt. The wooden pieces and stone fragments tied with cord clinked.
(If I can protect them, that's enough.)
The wind blew.
---
By the time the feast reached its peak.
From atop the watchtower, Orvan's eyes caught movement in the southern darkness.
Something moved.
(...That's—)
Orvan strained his eyes.
The southern edge. Near the food storehouse. Shadows moving low through the darkness. One, two, three—
(Humanoid monsters.)
Orvan's body went rigid with tension.
Below the watchtower, another scout raised his voice.
"South! Intruders from the southern edge! Seven humanoid monsters! They're heading for the food storehouse!"
The alarm bell began to ring. Clang, clang, clang—the dry metallic sound sliced through the revelry.
From the direction of the plaza came screams and shouts. The warriors, sobering from the feast's drink, were scrambling for their weapons.
(There's no time.)
Orvan slid down the ladder.
"Orvan! Where are you going! Don't leave your post!"
Orvan didn't answer.
He ran toward the southern edge.
---
In front of the food storehouse.
Three humanoid monsters were clawing at the wooden door. The sound of wood splintering filled the air.
Orvan drew a stone axe from his belt. An old stone axe, repaired with iron-refining techniques, bought from the junk dealer Miranda's shop. The blade was dull, the handle unfamiliar in his hand.
(This is all I have.)
Orvan approached from behind the monsters.
The first one noticed him. Its red eyes glinted.
"GUGYAAAAA!"
The monster's claw swung down toward Orvan's face.
Orvan thrust the stone axe into the claw's path.
CLANG!!
Sparks scattered. The monster's arm was deflected. But in that instant, the stone axe's blade shattered, handle and all.
Stone fragments scattered across the ground.
(Next.)
Orvan pulled a shattered blade fragment from his belt. From when his iron sword had broken days ago. The rusty iron shard bit into his palm.
The second monster lunged, baring its fangs.
Orvan thrust the blade fragment in front of the monster's fangs.
CLANG!!
The fangs struck the blade fragment. The impact shot through Orvan's right arm. The blade fragment shattered into dust.
Iron powder danced in the night air.
(Still have more.)
The third monster charged with its body.
Orvan searched for a weapon. No more wooden pieces on his belt. No more stone fragments.
(Nothing.)
The monster's charge closed in.
Orvan's eyes fell on the corpse of the monster lying on the ground. The first monster. Sharp fangs grew from its mouth.
Orvan grabbed one of those fangs. Pulled it out. Warm blood sprayed across his hand.
(This'll do.)
The third monster's charge bore down on him.
Orvan thrust the monster's fang into the charge's path.
CLANG!!
The fang bit into the monster's shoulder. The impact sent Orvan's body flying backward.
He slammed into the ground. Landed on his back. His breath stopped for an instant.
(Deflected it... I think.)
Orvan slowly rose.
The third monster staggered, the fang still lodged in its shoulder. In that opening, Orvan drove his fist into the monster's head.
THUD.
The monster collapsed.
Where had the remaining four gone? Beyond the food storehouse, shadows moved.
(Still more.)
Orvan steadied his breathing. His right hand was smeared with monster blood.
That was when it happened.
He felt something wrong in his right wrist.
---
Orvan looked at his right hand.
He tried to bend his fingers.
His thumb wouldn't move. His index finger wouldn't move. His middle finger moved only halfway.
(...What?)
Sensation beyond his wrist was half gone. The feeling of being touched—absent. He couldn't tell if it was hot or cold.
Orvan removed the bandage from his right wrist with his left hand.
Beneath the bandage, an old wound appeared.
The inner side of his wrist. An old scar. A wound that had opened and closed, opened and closed, every time he deflected something.
That wound had spread wider than before.
Old scar and new damage overlapped. The skin had split, revealing red flesh. There was almost no blood. Instead, a dark, bruised discoloration spread across the inner wrist.
(This is...)
Orvan stared at his unmoving fingers.
(Not a weapon.)
(My body.)
Everything he had lost until now had been a weapon. Iron sword. Stone axe. Blade fragments. Wooden pieces. Stones. Those could be replaced. Go to the junk dealer, buy a new weapon. Go to the old battlefield, pick one up.
(But this—)
Orvan tried to clench his right hand.
His grip strength remained. But fine movements were impossible. When he put force into his fingertips, a sharp pain shot through his wrist. His endurance for supporting long, heavy objects had clearly dropped.
(I can't grip a sword.)
(I can't fight properly.)
Orvan slammed his fist against the storehouse wall.
THUD.
The wall gave a dull sound. The skin of his fist split, and blood seeped out.
Again.
THUD.
His unmoving fingers struck the wall and bent in a strange direction. Pain shot through his wrist.
(Why?)
(Why my body, too?)
Orvan punched the wall a third time.
THUD.
A bloodstain marked the wall. Blood dripped from Orvan's fist.
(Every time I protect, I lose.)
(Not just weapons.)
(My body, too.)
Orvan glared at his unmoving right hand.
Anger surged up from the pit of his stomach. A violent anger with no one to direct it at.
(So this is the price of karma reversal.)
(That's what this is.)
Orvan dropped to his knees.
Blood dripped from his right wrist. A small stain spread across the ground.
(...I still have more.)
Orvan murmured in his heart.
(I can still fight.)
But those words were far weaker than they had ever been before.
---
Midnight.
Orvan sat in front of the food storehouse.
He was rewrapping his right wrist with a bloodstained bandage. He forced his unmoving fingers to bend and fixed them with the bandage.
(Maybe this'll let me move a little.)
Orvan opened and closed his right hand. His thumb, index finger, and middle finger still wouldn't move as he wanted. But with the bandage fixing them, he could put some strength into it.
(A sword is out of the question now.)
(But a short weapon, maybe.)
Orvan looked at his belt. Only one monster fang remained. He wiped off the blood and retied it with cord.
(This'll have to last until the next fight.)
That was when it happened.
He heard footsteps.
Orvan raised his head.
Shizukurei stood there.
Her long reddish-brown hair swayed in the wind. Her amber eyes glowed quietly in the night darkness. The old scar on her left arm rose to the surface under the moonlight.
"...You did it alone again."
Shizukurei's voice was low, carrying well even in the forest.
Orvan didn't answer.
Shizukurei looked at Orvan's right wrist. The bloodstained bandage. She had seen through to the spreading wound beneath it.
"Take off the bandage."
"...It's fine."
"Take it off."
H
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