Morgan looked at him, something flickering within those blood-red eyes.
Hewlett did not look at him again.
He turned his head toward the deep passage at the entrance; Cedric and Lia's figures had long since disappeared into the darkness.
Morgan looked at him, and only after a long silence did he speak.
“Go with them.”
His voice was very faint, as if squeezed from the depths of his throat.
“Cedric and Lia need someone to draw Edwin's attention from the front.”
Hewlett nodded.
“What about you?”
Morgan lowered his head, looking down at his hands resting on his knees.
“If Cedric and Lia fail...”
He paused.
“I will use myself as a bargaining chip to secure the right to survive for the kinsmen who have suffered with me.”
Hewlett looked at him, remaining silent for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
He turned around and walked over to the two half-demon warriors.
The two warriors were still kneeling on the ground, the raw blood marks on their wrists shocking to behold. They bowed their heads, their shoulders trembling slightly.
Hewlett crouched down, reaching out to gently pat the head of one of the warriors.
That hand was large, with thick knuckles and palm calluses so heavy they seemed like a shell.
Yet the movement was very gentle, as if soothing a frightened young beast.
The warrior raised his head, his blood-red eyes filled with tears.
Hewlett offered no words of comfort; he simply patted the backs of their heads and stood up.
He picked up the shield leaning against the wall, strapped it to his left arm, drew the longsword from his waist to glance at it, and sheathed it once more.
With his movements, his armor let out a faint metallic rasp that rang out with exceptional clarity in the empty hall.
Then he turned around and walked toward the entrance.
His footsteps were steady and unhurried.
The open palm emblem on his shield gleamed with a faint silver sheen under the light of the magic glowstones.
His figure disappeared into the passage.
Only Morgan and the two half-demon warriors remained in the hall.
The light of the magic glowstones remained ghastly pale, illuminating his face, which was worn to the point of near numbness.
He sat alone for a very, very long time.
The two half-demon warriors knelt on the ground, the blood marks on their wrists shocking to behold, heads bowed, shoulders trembling slightly.
Finally, one of them raised his head, his blood-red eyes filled with guilt.
“Lord Morgan... it was us... we exposed the sanctuary's location.”
His voice was raspy, carrying a tremor he could not suppress.
“If we hadn't gone out to search for food, if we hadn't been captured...”
“Enough.”
Morgan's voice was faint—devoid of blame or comfort, filled only with a deep, utterly exhausted calm.
He raised his head and looked at the two warriors.
One was named Ian, and the other Colin, both Low-tier Transcendent warriors.
“I know you had no choice at the time.”
Morgan leaned back against the chair, his gaze resting on the faces of the two warriors before drifting past them to somewhere far beyond.
More than three months ago, the Epic demons to the west had suddenly gone on a rampage.
Two Epic demons engaged in a grand battle in the western part of the Withered Wood Wasteland, turning the entire western wilderness upside down.
Morgan had not paid it much mind, as the battleground of those two demons was extremely far from the sanctuary, and a short-lived chaotic brawl would not affect them.
What he had failed to foresee was that this chaotic brawl would drag on for so long.
The two Epic demons fought for an entire month without stopping, and as the situation escalated, their subservient demons also began to rampage.
The flames of war spread outward from the west, expanding in every direction like wildfire.
Seeing the situation constantly pressing toward the north, Morgan did not dare gamble, no matter how small the risk was.
Because to the north lay Sathoggua.
Throat of the Wasteland, a High-tier Epic demon lord.
If it were awakened, the entire sanctuary would be wiped out in an instant.
And so, Morgan made a decision.
He gathered nearly all the Legendary and High-tier Transcendent combat forces in the sanctuary.
They marched south to intercept the rampaging demons that were driven by the war toward the north.
He led the team personally, guiding those demons in other directions.
At that time, there were virtually no Legendary figures left guarding the sanctuary.
Everyone had been led away by him.
The severity of the situation had forced his hand. Before leaving,
he thought his preparations were thorough enough.
Routes, manpower, contingency plans—every single step had been deduced over and over.
Yet a single, most crucial link shattered everything.
The food from Dalton had not arrived at the agreed-upon time.
Looking back now, that transport team had likely perished in the demon rampage to the west.
By the time Morgan led the team back to the sanctuary, two months had passed.
Famine had spread to an insufferable degree.
The grain sacks were empty, the tree bark stripped clean, and even the Low Rank demons in the Forbidden Zone had been hunted to extinction.
The half-demons began eating grass roots, mud, and anything they could swallow.
Some fainted from hunger in corners; others never woke again.
Leby, Ian, and Colin—they were the ones who had gone out during that time.
Morgan could not find it in himself to blame them.
Because back then, if they hadn't gone out to search for food,
and if Morgan and the other Legendary figures hadn't returned in time, the sanctuary might have already perished in the famine.
“What about Leby?”
Morgan's voice was faint, as if asking a question to which he already knew the answer.
Ian's eyes turned red; he bowed his head without speaking.
Colin's voice squeezed out of his throat, laced with sobs.
“She was sent away... Those damned mages... they sent her to the City of a Thousand Towers...”
Morgan closed his eyes.
His hands tightly clutched the fabric over his knees, knuckles turning white and veins bulging on the back of his hands.
His breathing grew heavy, as though a boulder pressed upon his chest, every rise and fall trembling slightly.
Only after a long moment did he open his eyes.
In those blood-red eyes, something shattered, then pieced itself back together.
He forced out a smile—faint, so faint it was barely perceptible.
“Rest assured, she will be fine.”
His voice was steady, so steady it felt surreal.
Then he stood up and turned to walk out of the hall.
Outside the hall, the sanctuary was utterly deserted.
On both sides of the narrow passage were small huts carved into the mountain.
The stone doors hung ajar, faint gleams of magic glowstone light leaking through the gaps.
Morgan walked very slowly.
He passed a small hut whose door was half open.
Inside was a stone bed covered in dry straw, upon which lay a tattered hemp garment with frayed threads at the cuffs.
Next to the stone bed sat a chipped clay bowl; a dark, mushy residue lingered at the bottom, dried and cracked.
In the corner lay a pile of bones chewed white, devoid of a single shred of meat, marked only by dense teeth indentations.
He passed another small hut.
A leather pouch on the floor lay deflated and empty.
Beside it was a piece of gnawed tree bark with blackened edges, as if chewed for a long time and spat back out.
He continued forward.
At a corner of the passage stood a wooden barrel, its bottom completely dried out; several dried water lines lingered on the inner wall like markings, recording the day-by-day decline of the water level.
The water mark stopped less than two finger-widths above the bottom of the barrel and had never risen again.
Morgan glanced at it and walked past.
He traversed the passage and walked up the slope leading to the north side.
On the stone stairs, dark stains lay every few steps.
Someone had vomited here, the yellow-green bile splattered on the stairs, dried into a thin hard crust.
Someone had suffered diarrhea here, thin waste seeping into the stone cracks, emanating a faint stench.
Morgan stepped across those stains without looking down.
He walked very slowly, as if counting his steps.
With every step, a memory flashed through his mind.
Someone packing their bags in the square of the City of a Thousand Towers.
Stuffing half a lifetime of belongings into a dilapidated leather trunk, following him out through the city gates without a single backward glance.
Someone turning back in the wilderness, watching that towering magic tower slowly disappear below the horizon, eyes rimmed red yet shedding no tears.
Someone hunted down by demons in the Forbidden Zone, losing an arm, lying on a bed gritting their teeth without uttering a single sound.
Someone too weak from hunger to walk, leaning against his shoulder with cracked lips, their blood-red eyes harboring no hatred, only a silent, stifling trust that tightened around one's heart.
He...
had failed everyone's trust.
Yet these surrounding marks of agony were about to come to an end.
Rate on N.U.
