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🕑 Added 2025-02-08 12:18:33 +0000 UTCGod’s will (8)
Burnt One spoke.
[What were you expecting?]
No answer came.
More precisely, no one dared to answer.
They despaired at the sight of Oliver, his entire body burned, his side and right shoulder pierced, his right arm severed.
And they were overwhelmed by the demon standing above such an Oliver, wielding a sword of flames.
No one could respond.
"······."
Time seemed to freeze, and a heavy silence descended.
Fortunately, Burnt One did not find this displeasing. It had never been a question meant to be answered in the first place.
Thus, even without receiving any answer, excuse, or defense, Burnt One simply continued speaking, as if the answer had already been determined.
[Surely… you weren’t expecting that if you ran, this one would take care of everything?]
"······."
[If that was your expectation, then you are not only foolish but also utterly shameless. How could you wish for this one to clean up the sins you committed? How could you hope that this one would rise and save you?]
Burnt One, who had been staring into the void, turned his gaze toward a particular spot.
There, an old man and a child stood.
A grandfather and grandson, the old man was watching the fallen Oliver and, unable to help himself, was praying to God for him to rise and fight once more.
For he instinctively knew it was the only way to save his grandson.
It wasn’t an entirely mistaken thought.
The problem was that Burnt One had heard the prayer.
A selfish plea for the already broken Oliver to rise and suffer again. Truly—
[Disgusting.]
"Oh, God…"
The old man, locking eyes with Burnt One, clattered his teeth together—clack, clack, clack—calling out to God.
Desperate to escape a terror beyond his comprehension.
But God remained silent.
Only Burnt One responded.
[Do not dare call upon Him. He allowed my emergence. And do not dare regret. My descent upon this land is the result of the sins you have heaped upon it.]
Burnt One stepped forward, walking toward the gathered people.
Step.
The Kel Liberation Army, the Fighter Crew, the Chosen Ones—
Step.
The capital’s police, the soldiers, even the Paladins—so many people stood there.
Step.
Yet no one could move.
They could only watch as death, in human form, approached.
Step.
Just as Burnt One was about to fulfill his purpose—
"You… must keep your promise."
Oliver stood up.
***
A silence different from when Burnt One spoke fell over the crowd as everyone turned their heads toward the voice.
Even Burnt One was no exception.
The demon who had descended upon the world halted his unstoppable steps and slowly turned his head.
There, struggling to stand, was Oliver.
His entire head had turned stark white, his left eye burned and blinded, his body covered in burns, one arm severed—he was utterly ruined.
A man who should have collapsed at any moment forced his back straight and opened his mouth.
"I have not fallen yet—"
Wham!
Flames surged from the severed arm of Burnt One, slamming into Oliver’s chest.
A shockwave of fire erupted, sending Oliver flying backward, where he crashed to the ground.
"Ugh…! Kuh…! Cough…!"
Lying on his back, Oliver gasped, unable to breathe from the pain.
Burnt One, leaving him there, turned to resume his path.
"You must… keep your promise!"
Once again, Oliver halted him.
Even as he struggled to breathe, he twisted his body and tried to rise.
Thud.
As he attempted to stand, Oliver collapsed again, his face hitting the ground.
His severed right arm had failed to support him.
Though one side of his face was now covered in dust, Oliver still planted his left hand on the ground and forced himself up.
Burnt One watched him.
[Stop.]
The voice of Burnt One reached Oliver through telepathy.
Though it was merely a transmitted thought, sincerity resonated within it.
[Do not rise.]
Oliver ignored it and continued to stand.
His burned flesh screamed in agony, and blood, like tears, dripped from his eyes.
Yet he paid no mind and continued to rise.
Whack!
Once more, Burnt One struck him with his fiery arm.
This time, across the face.
Oliver’s neck twisted sharply, his body flung backward.
He crashed right before the feet of the gathered people.
"His… his face…!"
Those who saw Oliver’s face gasped in horror.
His face had been torn apart.
But then, they noticed something odd and looked closer.
Indeed, his face had been ripped—
But it was not his real face that had been torn.
It was a black magic item, known as a ‘false face’ or a ‘skin mask,’ that had been shredded.
"······."
Seeing the true face beneath the mask, those who recognized it—not as Dave, but as Oliver—fell into a silence distinct from before.
It was not silence born from fear, terror, or despair, but from sheer bewilderment.
Because—
“What the…? He’s just a kid?”
A middle-aged man, upon seeing Oliver’s face—still bearing traces of boyhood—momentarily forgot the impending doom before him. His expression turned complex, hard to put into words, and he mumbled.
Though his voice was barely above a whisper, it echoed clearly through the crowd for all to hear.
And the people wavered. Upon seeing Oliver’s real face.
“Haa…”
With a breath so faint it seemed as if it could cease at any moment, Oliver raised a hand to touch his own face.
Feeling the torn skin mask, he removed it completely.
Then, like an infant struggling, he twisted his battered body, trying to stand once more.
Labored breathing. Trembling limbs.
Everyone witnessed it.
Even Burnt One.
He clenched his cracked lips tightly, then, as if growing weary, roared.
[I told you not to rise!]
Like thunder, his voice resounded in everyone's minds, yet Oliver ignored it just as he had before.
The difference this time—
Burnt One did not raise his fist again.
Because if Oliver had risen twice, he knew he would rise a third time as well.
Instead, he rebuked him.
[Did I not tell you that I despise wasting time?]
With his waist bent so low his head nearly touched the ground, Oliver supported himself on his one remaining arm and stood.
“I have no reason to care about that.”
[Do you think I won’t kill you? Is that why you’re acting so stubborn?]
“I’m not sure. I haven’t really thought about it. The only thing on my mind right now is that I am still standing.”
[······Why do you go this far?]
Burnt One asked.
As if he truly could not comprehend.
A demon, who had long transcended human understanding, radiated genuine incomprehension as he asked Oliver for a reason.
[Why do you seek to save them? You see what I see—they are sinners.]
Burnt One, growing agitated, gestured toward the people around them.
[Sinners who, in their desperation to cast away their fear and uncertainty, murdered innocent children and cheered as they did so. Answer me—why do you bear such pain to save such wretches?]
His eyes flared with flames.
[Do you… still hold onto hope?! Do you believe that if you try hard enough, they will repent and usher in a new era?!]
Burnt One shook his head.
[I regret to inform you, that will not happen. I do not say this to belittle your resolve—I say this because someone has already tried. And failed.]
He trailed off.
As if he was not allowed to speak further.
Frustrated, he clenched his fists, and in his stance, a hint of sorrow was evident.
[I assure you, even if you save these sinners, nothing will change significantly.]
“······.”
[Some may be moved and seek to atone for their sins, but not all. And certainly not entire nations. They will continue to invade, exploit, discriminate, and pile up their sins—only more cunningly!]
“······.”
[As time passes, today’s events will fade into mere myth. Some will use your name to justify their hollow ambitions, tarnishing it in the process.]
“So, you plan to erase everything and start over?”
[Yes.]
“Is there any guarantee that new humans won’t commit the same sins?”
[It does not matter. If they do, I will erase them and start anew.]
A cruel answer, born from the gap between demon and human perspectives.
Oliver took in that brutal answer, then calmly spoke.
“One day, a shepherd prayed to God. He asked for a flock of sheep.”
[······.]
“He swore that he would nurture them, bring them prosperity, and dedicate all their glory to God.”
[······.]
“But one day, the shepherd lost a single sheep—a small, frail, unimpressive one.”
“And God asked him, ‘Where is the sheep?’”
[The shepherd replied, ‘I lost it. If I go searching for it, I might lose the rest of my healthy flock.’]
“And God said—”
“Find it anyway.”
Oliver’s words rippled through the air.
Some people quietly wept.
Even Burnt One lowered his head.
[These are not lost sheep. Nor are they frail, unimpressive sheep. They are blackened, filthy sheep, stained with sin.]
“Sins can be washed away.”
[It will be a grueling, dirty task.]
“If one has the will, it can be done.”
[There’s no guarantee they’ll truly be cleansed. Worse, you may end up tainted by their filth. You may drown in it entirely! This is madness!!]
“I agree. But I received such madness once. That’s why I understand it. And that’s why I will do it.”
[Is it guilt?]
“I am merely returning what was given to me.”
Hearing that, Burnt One lifted his head.
The flickering flames in his eyes wavered—then gradually steadied.
He raised his sword into the air.
[I suppose this serves as your answer to a question I once asked.]
The question of what should be done about the unerasable sins of humanity.
Oliver had answered—he would bear them.
[One final question.]
“Go ahead.”
[If you fail to stop me, no one will remember this. Everyone will die. And you cannot stop me. So—why take this thorn-covered path? Who will remember you for it?]
A question asked in true incomprehension.
Oliver glanced over the sinners before him—then, without hesitation, pointed at Burnt One.
“You will.”
[······.]
The flames in the demon’s eyes flickered again.
But they soon settled, and with a resolute expression, he tightened his grip on his sword.
[Very well. In accordance with your will, in accordance with your resolve, I shall shatter you, O noble one.]
