Let me begin with a certain man.
A man more idealistic than anyone, who died because of it.
His dream was simple.
He merely wished with all his heart for everyone to be happy.
Every young boy once harbored such a dream, but upon realizing the cruelty of reality, they would abandon it—discard such naive idealism.
Happiness comes at the cost of sacrifice—this is the simplest truth every child learns as they grow.
Yet, there are always those who refuse to pay that price, choosing instead to walk a different path.
Some tread the path of saints, becoming arbiters of the scales; others transform into kings, measuring gains and losses within their hearts... Or perhaps, borrowing immense power from the world itself, wielding that cursed strength to answer the pleas of all who sought his aid.
When corrupt officials came to him, lamenting the deaths of their kin, he would avenge them without hesitation. Yet the villagers struggling on the brink of poverty, simply because they did not ask for his help, were left to their fate.
He cared not for the righteousness of the means, nor questioned the morality of the ends. The man demanded of himself to become an impartial wishing machine.
Life held no distinction of worth, no division of age—it was merely a unit of measurement, NPCs who voiced their wishes and quests.
As a hero, he needed only to accept requests and fulfill them, regardless of method or purpose.
And so, by the time he realized it, it was already too late—
To accept all requests equally was to love no life in particular.
When this ironclad rule was finally engraved upon his heart, the hero was pierced through the back by his closest friend, bringing his fleeting first life to an end.
It was said that his beloved wife, driven mad by grief, became a vengeful specter in the wake of his death. For that, he could only offer his deepest apologies.
Ah... The hero sighed with the lament of a mere mortal.
If only he could have a second life—he would, without fail—
Answer the cries of the weak, even if they were never spoken aloud. He would lift up those battered hearts, rather than obsessively chasing after wishes.
Yes, such actions would be justice itself. What he sought was to walk hand in hand with justice.
To become an hero of justice—perhaps this was the first and final answer for all heroes who wished for everyone's happiness.
Though he had nearly lost sight of his goal, the words of a holy knight brought him to his senses in time. To atone for his mistakes, he resolved to dedicate his second life.
Yet it did not end there, for someone intervened—offering salvation in a far more perfect way, redeeming both the weak and the hero alike.
If it was the man who had saved him and the homunculus, then surely, he would guide him toward an even brighter path.
Holding onto this hope, the hero accepted the young man's conditions, becoming his servant in this war—another blue piece held in reserve.
But why had he failed to realize back then?
That the young man's words were lethal poison, and the helping hand he extended concealed a blade coated in venom.
He had merely fallen from one trap into another. From beginning to end, he had been like a puppet, unable to break free—even willingly handing the strings to his enemy.
—This shouldn't continue. He always made the wrong choices at critical moments, but at least this time, he allowed himself the right to reconsider.
"Here we are."
The sound of interwoven footsteps ceased. Led by the black-robed young man, Siegfried found himself standing in yet another forest. With his sharp memory, he recognized this place.
"Indeed, this is where you caught up with Sieg—where Sieg was beaten to the brink of death by Gordes, where you tried to sacrifice yourself to save him, only to be stopped by me..."
Sakatsuki turned around, meeting Siegfried's wary gaze. "Don't worry, there are no traps here. I simply believe that where something begins, it should also end. That's all."
After a pause, the young man continued, "But before we officially begin our battle, I have one last question—what exactly compelled you to oppose me? Was it because my methods clashed with your ideals? Or because you finally felt remorse for the Black Faction?"
"It's not that... Well, perhaps a bit of both," Siegfried replied after a moment of thought. "But the final reason that drove me to this was deception."
"Deception?" Sakatsuki blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. Siegfried went on:
"From the very beginning, our meeting was filled with deceit. You concealed your true identity, your true faction, your true purpose... I cannot wield my sword for someone built on lies, especially after realizing his actions lack justification."
"To me, this deception ultimately stems from distrust—and that distrust comes from within you. Deep down, you believe that once your goal is exposed, we would stand against you without hesitation."
"...Isn't that the truth? After all, my wish carries the possibility of destroying the world..."
"No. At least for me, while I might be surprised, I wouldn't oppose you before repaying my debt to you." Siegfried wasn't lying; his gaze remained sincere. "Because I've always believed that humanity won't perish because of the outcome of a single war. The ones who can rewrite humanity's future are never the withered bones of the dead like us."
"In that case, I only need to act according to my own thoughts and will—yes, just as I've always insisted. And then, with anticipation, I'll wait for someone to overcome this mountain we represent."
Sakatsuki's pupils contracted slightly. After a long silence, he spoke, his voice laced with indescribable complexity. "Thank you for the lesson. It seems I misjudged some things."
"No, you weren't wrong." Siegfried shook his head. "From the moment you chose that wish, everyone who wants to live would stand against you. That was inevitable. I think you understood that long ago."
With nothing left to say, Siegfried drew the demonic sword Balmung once more. Twilight spread like rich wine, painting a dazzling scene behind him. Through sheer will, the hero defied the night, ready to continue his legend here.
"Just as we agreed from the start—come. The battle has already begun, Sakatsuki."
Faced with the Dragon Slayer's urging, Sakatsuki took a deep breath and manifested a pair of pistol gauntlets in his hands: "Thank you for explaining things to me, Siegfried. Rest assured, in this battle, I will not use Command Spells, nor will I suppress your magical energy supply—I will do my utmost to ensure this is a fair fight."
"And in return, should I fall to your hand, I shall offer you the spoils of war," Siegfried said solemnly. "My demonic sword Balmung, and..."
The Assassin began to advance, the Dragon Slayer's gaze resolute. The two warriors locked eyes with their opponent and simultaneously voiced the final condition of their pact.
"The Dragon's Heart."
The next instant, the clash of gun and sword resounded through the heavens.
————
The Holy Lance pulsed, the King's Sword raised high.
Countless chaotic illusions surfaced from the depths of consciousness. Bubbles of memory were drawn out, floating upon the sea, bringing with them a thousand beams of phantom light and ten thousand wisps of war's smoke.
It's always like this, she thought indifferently. Always like this.
Pale sunlight poured down as fragmented shadows curled up. Warriors as insignificant as ants roared, gasped, and screamed. They ran across fields stained crimson with blood and ashes, leaving behind malicious afterbirth upon the gradually crumbling hills, nourishing this world slowly transforming into hell.
The nightmare revealed through the dispersing clouds was too vivid. The girl's soul remained imprisoned above, casting a numb yet agonized gaze upon the battlefield.
She watched as the knight in red-and-white armor roared with hatred, ascending steps forged from corpses to thrust a blade poisoned with venomous spite toward the sacred king.
—The dream always ended abruptly when the Holy Lance pierced someone's chest or the King's Sword shattered another's skull.
Then the dream shifted. After passing through a bizarre, kaleidoscopic passage, the girl once again fell into layer upon layer of dreams until she felt something as hard as rock beneath her feet.
She stood in the cleared outskirts of a town, beside a magi whose age was impossible to discern.
A sword was embedded in the stone, surrounded by people clad in coarse linen, whispering excitedly in hushed tones. There were also knights atop towering steeds, chests puffed out, their ambition plain in their eyes.
The magi proclaimed loudly to the knights of the land:
"He who draws this sword shall become king."
Brave men, those with absolute confidence in their strength, and renowned knights all came forth to attempt drawing the sword, only to give up when they couldn't budge it. These fools—she scoffed inwardly. This sword is a weapon meant to choose the king. Only one who can save this nation may draw it. To think you could pull it out through brute force alone—there should be limits to such naivety.
And so, when no one paid the sword any further heed, she stepped before it.
The magi spoke in calm tones:
"Before you take the sword, you should think carefully."
She pondered. She was always pondering.
The meaning of drawing this sword.
It meant becoming a king who could stand alone.
And so she reached out—as if there was no need to answer at all.
Thus, the magi sighed and waved his hand—the dream always ended here.
Even when she reached out toward the sword, she couldn't touch it at all. Though she had sworn to become a king who could stand on her own—the dream still coldly declared to her, "You do not have such authority."
But, but, but.
This time, the girl's hands grasped the hilt. A cool sensation traveled up her arms and into her heart, startling her so much that her eyes widened in disbelief. She recoiled as if electrocuted, letting go immediately.
"My, my, backing out at the very last moment?"
That familiar, mocking voice—she didn't even need to think. Her body moved on instinct, delivering a sharp kick toward the devilish magi beside her.
"Go die, Merlin!"