In the eastern wing of the mansion, far from the gazebo glowing with firefly light, two silhouettes stood in the shadows of an empty corridor. Candles flickered slowly along the stone walls, casting their faces in a wavering glow.
Roswaal (smiling falsely, hands clasped behind his back):
"He still hasn't given his answer, I presume?"
Ram (calm, standing tall, eyes turned toward the window):
"No. But he will accept."
Roswaal narrowed his eyes slightly, his tone remaining light.
Roswaal:
"Such certainty… And why, dear Ram? Have you read his mind?"
Ram:
"I read his weariness. He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know what to do. But he doesn't like to run."
A brief silence. The wind stirred the curtains of a slightly open window.
Roswaal (tilting his head):
"Hmm… So it is the fear of emptiness that will make him fold. Not loyalty."
Ram (still watching him):
"It doesn't matter why. As long as he serves Emilia-sama's cause."
Roswaal let out a quiet, almost sorrowful chuckle.
Roswaal:
"You know, sometimes I wish I could see the world through your eyes. Less ambiguity. More faith."
Ram shrugged slightly. Then, after a pause:
Ram (still staring, arms crossed):
"You distrust him. Yet you want him at your side. As always, you play both sides."
Roswaal (a smirk tugging at his lips):
"Unpredictable pieces are often the most useful… or the most dangerous."
Ram:
"He's crude. A rough beast. He has no respect, no refinement."
She paused, her gaze sharpening.
Ram (in a composed tone):
"But when he fights for you… he inspires a kind of trust you can't fake. Having him as an enemy would be a mistake."
Roswaal watched her closely. Then, in a quieter tone:
Roswaal:
"You speak of him without contempt. That's rare."
Ram (sharply, almost cold):
"Don't mistake clarity for admiration. My trust lies with you."
A heavy silence settled. Roswaal lowered his eyes for a moment, his smile fading slightly.
Roswaal (softly, almost a whisper):
"And if one day… I no longer deserved that trust?"
Ram stepped closer. Without changing her tone, she gently took hold of his sleeve — a quiet, subtle gesture.
Ram:
"Then I'd be here to remind you. Not to judge you."
She released the fabric and turned away.
Ram (softly, as she walked):
"You don't have to be perfect. Just keep moving forward. I'm here for that."
Roswaal remained alone. He lowered his gaze briefly… then closed his eyes.
Roswaal (dry chuckle):
"How lucky I am… to have you by my side, Ram."
It was already past noon, and Guts had taken full advantage of his rare sleep-in. Once a week — Ram's rule — and today was the day.
Only one regret, maybe, in that rare peace: the absence of a scent. Cigarette smoke. Tobacco. Something that used to bring him a moment of peace. Fleeting, but real.
He got up as usual, quietly, and resumed his routine. The murmurs echoing through the mansion? He ignored them. Not his business. He didn't want to get involved.
Maybe when he accepted Emilia's offer the night before, it had only been nostalgia. A vague hope… that maybe this story wouldn't end in fire and blood. That maybe, just maybe, this time wouldn't become another hell.
The sun was high, burning, but the courtyard remained unnaturally quiet. Guts had slipped outside again, away from the hustle of noble affairs.
He only noticed the carriage after he had taken off his coat. Parked near the trees. Elegant. Silent. No one exited. Not his concern.
So, he returned to his routine — long arcs of steel cutting through the air. Each swing a release of lingering fury.
But he wasn't alone.
Someone was watching him, standing near the carriage. Upright, arms crossed behind his back. An older man, yet far from frail. His posture radiated discipline — the kind forged through decades of battle.
Guts slowed. Not out of caution — but to assess.
He could feel something. Not mana. Not a threat. Something deeper. A rage… leashed but alive.
Guts (without looking):
"You planning to stand there all day watching?"
The man approached, unhurried.
???:
"Let's say the view is unusual. One doesn't often see a sword that excessive."
Guts turned, locking his heavy gaze on him.
Guts:
"You want a name, you won't get one. I'm not here to make friends."
The man gave a polite nod.
???:
"I didn't ask. Just observing."
Guts held his stare for a moment. No hostility. Just that… silence. That weight. The one worn by survivors.
Guts (thought):
That look… He's seen death. Carried it. Still carries it. Like me.
???:
"I'm here to… accompany talks between allied camps."
Guts shrugged.
Guts:
"Not my concern. I don't swing my blade for politics."
??? (small smile):
"Then you're merely a spectator in this game of power?"
Guts:
"I'm a blade. Not a voice. And I didn't sign up for thrones or crowns."
The man watched him, as if weighing something.
???:
"Then… you're free?"
Guts (through clenched teeth):
"I'm alive. That's already too much."
A pause.
Then, with fluid grace, the man gave a small bow — not formal, but one warrior's nod to another.
???:
"You'll strike true, so long as you remain yourself."
He turned and walked back to the carriage without another word, offering no name, no explanation.
Guts followed him with his eyes, curiosity briefly tugging at his mind. Then he resumed training.
The steel whistled again through the air.
Training done, Guts returned to the mansion without sparing a glance at the old man by the carriage. He had no desire to talk — and feared what talking could stir. Best to fade back into the background. Stay in the shadows.
But sometimes… avoiding contact only draws attention.
He found Rem in the kitchen, quietly washing the midday dishes. Without a word, he joined her, slipping into the rhythm. Task after task, no pause save for a drink of water or a hand to his brow. Carry, scrub, repair. Nothing noble. Nothing heroic. But strangely peaceful.
Later that afternoon, as he set down an empty bucket outside, he caught sight of the carriage slowly departing. The strangers were leaving, taking their rumors and tensions with them.
Routine could return.
Or so he thought.
He didn't know it yet… but the coming days would shatter the fragile calm he had found. An adventure loomed. One that might — just might — bring him back to life. Back to purpose.
The carriage creaked along the cobbled path. Inside, Felix sat with ears twitching, watching the scenery pass with a pouting expression.
Felix:
"Nyaaah~ I didn't even get to see him! Emilia-chan talks like he's important, and he vanishes before we go? What kind of bodyguard does that?"
Wilhelm, seated across from him, arms folded, didn't answer right away.
Felix (pressing, curious):
"You saw him, right? That Guts guy? What did you think?"
Wilhelm (calm, grave):
"A man… built to survive war. Solid. Dangerous."
Felix raised a brow.
Felix:
"That's it? No juicy comment for this curious kitten?"
Wilhelm finally turned to him.
Wilhelm:
"A man without a master. No banner. One who obeys only himself… can be a priceless ally."
A beat of silence.
Wilhelm (quieter):
"…But also, a terrifying enemy."
Felix winced, then crossed his arms.
Felix:
"Nyaaah… you're not wrong. But Emilia believes in him. And I believe in Emilia."
Wilhelm didn't respond. His eyes drifted back to the road — distant, haunted. The past, perhaps, stirred just beyond his reach.
The carriage rolled on toward the capital… leaving behind a mansion wrapped in tension — and a black swordsman, now tied to this strange world.