Chapter 70 : Stop Sleeping

Shiver…

Cold.

A blizzard howled.

“Damn, it’s freezing.”

I was climbing a snow-covered mountain.

I didn’t remember when I had begun.

When I came to my senses, I was already climbing.

I didn’t know why, either.

If someone asked me why I climbed, I would tell them to lift their head and look at the summit.

And I’d say, “Because it’s there.”

“…”

Anyway, I kept climbing.

A man trudging toward the peak without knowing why—that was me.

Maybe once I reached the summit, I’d understand.

Fueled by vague hope, curiosity, and stubborn endurance, I climbed on.

Whoooosh!

The wind bit like knives.

“Ugh…”

It froze me to the bone.

I pulled my collar up tight and pressed on.

My legs sank deep.

Snow piled as high as my knees.

And then, through the storm, something flew at me.

I jerked my head back just in time, then looked to see where it had come from.

“Heh, heh, heh…”

A mob of specters laughed like ghosts as they crept toward me.

As if the climb weren’t hard enough, now fiends came too.

I sighed.

“Really? What the hell are you bastards doing here.”

They carried all sorts of weapons—swords, spears, axes, daggers.

One even wielded something like a wagon wheel wrapped in blades.

The sight jolted my memory.

I knew these faces.

They were the ones I had killed.

“…Huh?”

It felt strange.

“Wait… the ones I killed?”

Confusion clouded my head.

“Is this the afterlife? Did I die? Are they here to welcome me to hell?”

Reality and dream blurred together.

Was this real? A dream? Hell?

I couldn’t tell.

But one thing was certain—I wasn’t going to just lie down and die.

“Devil. So you ended up here too.”

A hulking brute with a massive greatsword strode through the snow.

“I’ve been waiting for you in hell. Welcome!”

The lackeys at his side roared with laughter.

“Ah. You. That brainless bear…”

I remembered him now.

The brute Gustav.

Beside him, a shorter man cackled, adding,

“You lasted long. Impressive, impressive.”

He was the underboss who had threatened Hans’s family—and who had given me a sword.

Sorry, I couldn’t recall his name.

“You worm! Did you think you could kill me and live unpunished?”

Baron Barankia appeared next, roaring through the snow.

Behind him walked Sir Kael, who offered me a polite nod.

I returned it with the same.

Behind them came Barankia’s knights and soldiers I had cut down.

They glared at me with murderous eyes, but I barely cared.

“So you lot died too, huh.”

The twin assassins stepped forward.

“You should have just handed over the dagger.”

“We would have driven that demon sword into his heart.”

I protested.

“I did stab him in the heart. And he didn’t die. What else could I do?”

“…Oh. Really?”

The brothers scratched their cheeks awkwardly.

“Well… nothing to be done then.”

The piper-mage floated forward, spells circling him.

I greeted him first.

“Old man! How’s death treating you? Still afraid of the coming night?”

He chuckled mid-sip of a potion.

“Not too bad. Though the hellfire stings. Care to try it yourself?”

I shook my head.

“No. I’ve still got work left.”

Then came Shushruta’s senior brothers.

I still remembered the rain drizzling over my head that day.

Before they could speak, I snapped,

“Shut it.”

“We haven’t even—”

“Not a word. Unless you want to die a second time.”

“….”

Others appeared too, though their faces were too faint to recall. I ignored them.

Linda, the madwoman, was nowhere to be seen.

“Haaah…”

My sigh drifted into white vapor.

I looked up.

The peak loomed far away—and all the dead blocked the path.

I conjured my Starlight Sword and leveled it.

“Anyone who doesn’t want to die again—move. I may be a man, but I don’t like killing twice.”

But they only laughed like fiends and advanced.

“Tch.”

I gripped my blade and rushed them, leaping through the snow.

It had been a week since Ashuban was brought to House Stavanger.

And still, he slept like the dead.

“How is he?”

Count Hermann Stavanger asked.

The elderly priest feeling Ashuban’s pulse replied,

“His pulse is normal.”

“Then why does he not wake?”

“His left arm is badly wounded, but his life is not in danger. Whoever treated him did excellent work.”

“Yes. Our house physician tended him.”

The priest nodded.

“Indeed. The healing was well done. All that remains is recovery. His muscles show strain from overexertion, but those have healed. The rest are minor injuries. None threaten his life.”

“Then… is there some hidden internal injury I do not know of?”

The priest shook his head.

“No. Or rather… no mana is detectable within him at all. It is difficult to say whether there are internal injuries.”

“Then why won’t he wake?”

“That, I cannot say for certain. But I suspect it is the aftermath of exhausting excessive power. Knights who spend every drop of their mana sometimes collapse into such a state.”

“…I see.”

The Count exhaled heavily.

“Is there truly no other way?”

The priest laid both hands upon Ashuban’s chest and murmured a prayer.

A gentle light flowed into him.

The pallor of Ashuban’s face softened slightly.

“I have infused him with a blessing of vitality. His body is cold. Keep the room warm, and massage his limbs often to keep the blood from stagnating.”

“…So you mean all we can do is wait?”

The priest nodded gravely.

“Sadly, yes. For now, that is all.”

“…Understood.”

The Count bowed his head, heavy with thought.

Hans’s family, standing nearby, let out a sorrowful sigh.

When the priest departed, Count Hermann Stavanger returned to console them.

“Do not worry too much. They say there are no grave injuries. He will wake soon enough.”

Joy looked up at him with downcast eyes.

“…Truly?”

The Count smiled and set a reassuring hand on her head.

“Indeed. Sir Ashuban is a strong swordsman.”

Since his arrival at House Stavanger, Ashuban had been tended with utmost care by Hans’s family.

How could they not, after he risked his life for them and returned battered, barely alive?

Gratitude, sorrow, guilt, pity—all mixed together.

When he was first carried in on a stretcher, Joy had wailed and clung to him, thinking him already dead.

Ashuban was kept in a separate wing at the edge of the estate.

The Count had cleared it out entirely, assigning only trusted people there, and forbade anyone from leaving its confines.

The guard was several times stricter than usual.

For word could never spread that the Red-Eyed Demon, killer of a noble, was being sheltered by House Stavanger.

The Count had even summoned priests from across the land, binding each by sacred oaths of secrecy, to treat Ashuban.

The elderly priest who had just departed was one of them.

Yet their verdicts were the same:

His health was sound. Why he would not wake—none could say.

And so House Stavanger and Hans’s family waited, watching over him.

The family spent most of their days in his chamber.

Hans and Julia took turns massaging his limbs, wiping his body with damp cloths.

Joy wove wildflowers into bracelets for his wrist, one each day. By now, seven adorned him.

As she braided another, she spoke softly.

“Uncle, when will you wake up?”

“…”

“You have to. Or else I’ll cry.”

The family took turns speaking to him.

Hans recounted what had happened.

Julia confessed how deeply she had worried, her eyes moist with tears.

Joy chattered about chasing butterflies yesterday, about a dream where she played with him.

In truth, most of the talking came from Joy.

Holding his rough hand in her little palms, she rambled on.

“Uncle, you know… the Count and the knights always talk about you. Some sound hopeful, some worried. I think some are even afraid.”

“…”

“People call you a devil. But why? You’re not a devil. You saved my parents. Devils don’t save people, do they? I’m right, aren’t I?”

Hans, watching his daughter’s innocent words, finally stood.

Julia rose as well, after tending the hearth.

The moon had risen outside.

“Joy, it’s bedtime.”

“…Okay.”

She reluctantly let go of Ashuban’s hand.

“Good night, Uncle.”

As she followed her parents out, she rubbed her eyes and murmured,

“Oh, right. You’re already asleep. Stop sleeping.”

Click.

The door closed. Silence settled over the room.

Moonlight streamed in.

Moments later, a shadow slipped inside with it.

House Stavanger was no easy place to intrude upon.

The estate was like a fortress no assassin would dare approach—especially the annex where Ashuban lay, doubly guarded.

And yet the shadow passed through the window without the slightest hindrance.

She lowered her hood.

Midnight-black hair spilled down, framing a face of striking beauty, gleaming in the pale moonlight.

Shushruta approached the bedside.

“Ashuban. Do you hear me?”

“…”

“A whole week has passed. What are you doing in there?”

“…”

She gently took his arm.

It was cold.

She clicked her tongue.

“Cold body.”

Crackle.

She went to the fireplace, tossing in more logs and shifting them with a poker until the flames leapt high.

“Tsk. Tsk. Is this the best they can do? This pitiful fire barely warms a room.”

Following what Ashuban had once taught her, she coaxed the flames higher, nearly brushing the chimney top, then nodded in satisfaction.

“Yes. This is how it should be.”

She returned, pulling back the blanket to inspect his wounds.

The physician of House Stavanger had treated them, wrapping and salving, but she wiped that away and applied her own green ointment.

“Pah. Such crude medicine. This salve is a hundred times better.”

She covered every cut, every bruise, not just the ruined arm.

Then she tucked the blanket back around him.

“…Still cold.”

She rubbed his arms and legs firmly, then at last sat down beside him.

Her eyes lingered on the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Then she leaned down, resting upon him.

“Ashuban. You lazy fool. How long do you mean to sleep…?”

Murmuring, Shushruta lay upon his chest, and before long, lulled by its rhythm, drifted into sleep herself.

(End of Chapter)

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