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In front of the stables, Allen turned to look at Isolte.
The moon dipped slightly at the horizon.
A faint glimmer of light illuminated his face, which had been shrouded in shadow.
His expression was calm, his demeanor normal.
Confirming that Allen was unharmed, Isolte's nerves relaxed abruptly, and her legs nearly gave way beneath her. She almost collapsed onto the ground.
Only now did the corpses around her, the thick scent of blood, and the imagery of death truly sink in.
Her stomach churned, yet despite the overwhelming sense of wrongness, she still wanted to turn and take another look at the mountain of corpses.
This bizarre scene, which had haunted her dreams since childhood, had somehow manifested in reality.
Even though she was terrified—even though she had received elite education since youth and had never witnessed such brutal carnage—she still wanted to see it again.
Why?
Why had something resembling her recurring nightmare appeared in real life?
Lost in thought, she numbly turned her head.
Tap.
The next moment, footsteps landed beside her, and a bloodstained hand covered her eyes.
Even stained with blood, the texture of that palm was familiar. She turned toward it.
Allen's eyes gleamed under the moonlight.
He stood before her, facing her directly, blocking the mountain of corpses and sea of blood from her sight.
Not his back—his front.
Allen Boreas Greyrat, her senior brother, was looking at her.
Isolte froze for a moment before Allen lowered his head, bringing his face close to hers, meeting her gaze.
The horrific scene behind him was completely obscured by his presence.
The nausea in her stomach vanished instantly.
"Why are you awake?"
Staring at Allen's face, Isolte instinctively raised her hand to wipe the blood from his cheek—but at the last second, she pretended to adjust the scabbard strapped to her chest instead.
—She was still in her nightgown.
—And she wasn't wearing anything underneath.
Well, that was just an excuse. The truth was, Isolte had never felt much shame about her body in front of Allen. It was just…
Inappropriate, wasn't it?
"I… slept too much during the day, so I couldn't rest well at night. Good thing you're okay, Senior Brother. But… what happened? I saw the bodies at the inn's front desk, and…"
Allen recalled her pacing in the hallway after he had restored his Flow. He nodded and replied casually, "James set up an ambush to stop me from returning to the capital. Remember the Red Dragon's Jaw incident?"
Isolte's face stiffened.
"Then these people…?"
"Bait for the trap. This time, they involved a Northern King who treats human lives like trash. Judging by his noble attire, he wasn't from Asura, so he didn't care."
"The town is empty because all its residents are probably right here."
Isolte's stomach twisted again. Half to distract herself and half out of genuine concern, she asked, "The… Northern King? The ambush? Where is he now?"
Allen tilted his chin toward the side. "Dead."
Isolte turned—Weed's severed head lay on the ground nearby.
"I made sure he died in the most painful way possible. A fitting end for his 'achievements.'"
With that, he glanced back at the pile of corpses.
Isolte subconsciously tried to look again, but Allen covered her eyes once more. At the same time, the scenes she had witnessed while entering the town overlapped with the current carnage. As a fellow Water God Style practitioner, she instantly pieced together what Allen must have done here.
"So… you fought alone? Then the tavern was the first battleground? Why didn't you let us—"
Allen cut her off with a calm voice.
"None of you have experienced slaughter on this scale. More importantly, none of you could handle the aftermath inside these stables, right? Even you reacted like this. Eris might fare slightly better, but Sylphie and Rudeus are kind-hearted. They'd probably break if they saw this."
"Because, in a way… if I, Allen, hadn't decided to go to the capital, none of this would've happened."
Isolte paled, falling silent.
Allen glanced at her.
"It's not your fault. This was inevitable. If I'd delayed any longer, the ambush might've happened in Buena Village instead. That's why I made such a public exit from Roa—to send a message."
"The capital? I'm coming."
Isolte looked at Allen as he continued coldly.
"Now, they can settle this once and for all."
"Let's go. We'll talk outside. The stables reek of blood, and… there's still a lot to do tonight."
"Okay."
The two turned to leave. Before stepping out, Allen cast one last glance behind him.
The piled corpses of townsfolk—elders, youths, adults, children—lay in a grotesque heap.
This was the real reason he had chosen to slaughter the tavern's patrons so brutally.
Because they deserved it.
Allen was no saint, but faced with this blood-soaked reality, he couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow—"I did not kill them, yet they died because of me."
Had he been wrong? No. If anything, he was the victim.
Had the townsfolk been wrong? No. They were just trying to survive, only to meet a sudden, gruesome end.
When Allen first noticed the town's unnatural lack of light upon arrival, he had already guessed the truth.
That was why he'd said, "We're too late."
This world—Mushoku Tensei—was no lighthearted adventure like in the original story.
An ambush was an ambush. If the townsfolk had been evacuated, leaking information, it wouldn't have been an ambush at all.
And this—this was the fundamental reason he had always resisted the Human God.
What if, one day, the dismembered remains of the people he cared about—Roxy, Sylphie, Eris, Hilda, Paul, Zenith, Norn, Aisha, Isolte—were piled before him like garbage?
What if it happened just as suddenly as this?
Allen would lose his mind.
This was also the real reason he had initially gone to Buena Village as a bystander, detached from the plot.
Fear of the future—of his foresight failing—had played a small part, but at the time, he hadn't been able to think clearly.
And the Human God?
That bastard was exactly the kind of monster who would orchestrate such cruelty. The original timeline's manipulation of Oldeus was still fresh in Allen's mind—every word had been a knife to the heart.
This wasn't about desensitization to bloodshed. If a second wave of assassins came, the truth would come out eventually. But if he told his companions now, how would they react?
Simple. They would stand by him, shoulder his burden as their own.
And the atrocities committed by this Northern King would crush them like a boulder, weighing on their conscience.
That was something Allen refused to allow.
The weight of guilt?
He would bear it alone.
Because—
He glanced at Isolte, who was sneaking another look at the corpses, her face deathly pale.
Their eyes met. Flustered, she immediately averted her gaze and hurried out of the stables.
Allen followed.
Because—
He had already endured the Human God's torment for over twelve years.
What was a little more pressure now?
"Allen… Isolte, stop… mmm…"
Inside the inn, moonlight streamed through the window, casting a pale glow over the bedsheets.
"Ah… Ahh…!! Mmm!!"
A petite body arched on the bed, trembling violently before collapsing back with a creak of the mattress.
Sylphie's eyes snapped open.
Under the moonlight, her face burned crimson, her russet eyes dazed as they fixed on the ceiling.
A second later, clarity returned—her pupils widening in shock.
Her body's sensations didn't lie.
Her skirt was damp, clinging to her thighs.
A moment later, she fully processed where she was and what had just happened.
She lay frozen for a long while before finally turning her head—
And blinked in confusion.
Beside her, Eris was still fast asleep.
But Isolte was gone.
Sylphie touched her damp nightgown, then pushed herself up in a daze.
Then she noticed something else—her face felt cool, just like the skin beneath her nightgown.
She reached up.
Her cheeks were wet.
Just like in the dream.
Isolte stepped out of the stables. Earlier, the air outside had seemed thick with the stench of blood, but now, after leaving the pile of corpses behind, it felt refreshingly clean.
"Later, I'll need to bury the bodies. No—there's no time. Does the inn smell strongly of blood?"
Isolte hesitated.
"Not really."
Allen nodded.
"Let's not tell the other three. Tomorrow, we'll wake them early while they're still groggy and leave quickly. I'll send a letter to Sauros later, asking him to send someone to investigate the consequences of his negligence."
Isolte blinked, realizing Allen held no fondness for Sauros.
"Will Lord Sauros blame James…?"
"No."
"?"
"At most, Sauros will send James a warning. This town is on the farthest edge of the Fittoa Region, surviving only on passing adventurers. It generates little tax, produces no grain—it's practically worthless. As long as the bodies are cleared out, new migrants will replace the dead soon enough."
"Dead people? Dead people don't matter. To him, they're meaningless."
Isolte stared at Allen, opening and closing her mouth several times before finally staying silent. Then Allen continued:
"You're wondering if I plan to change this situation?"
Isolte stayed quiet for a moment.
"But coming from me, that would be laughable, wouldn't it? I'm nobility too. If not for this trip, I'd never have seen something like this. And if I weren't a devout follower of Millis, believing all its people deserve salvation… I might not even care enough to say this."
"Bath."
"?!?"
Isolte jerked her head up—only to see Allen staring emotionlessly at a water trough behind a broken wall in a nearby backyard.
"I'm covered in blood. Wait here. I'll be quick."
"O-okay…"
Allen walked off. Soon, the sound of splashing water echoed from behind the wall.
Isolte lowered her gaze to the hem of her nightgown, which barely reached mid-thigh.
Lost in thought.
Had the gods shown her that scene in her dreams for a reason?
She'd had the same dream just before entering the town—after years of not seeing it.
In the dream, the voice had said it was a "gaze from above."
Was that "gaze" the source of this prophetic vision?
Truly, divine power was beyond human comprehension.
But what was the deeper meaning?
The first time she'd had this dream was the night Allen had first spoken to her as a child.
That had been the origin of everything.
If not for that afternoon, she might never have grown curious about him.
If not for that day…
Wait.
When had she first realized her feelings for Allen?
Ah, right.
It was the day he was promoted to the Small Dojo. Seeing him stand amid applause and flowers, she'd felt left behind.
That was the first time she understood how much he meant to her.
Because she didn't want to be left behind.
She didn't just want to watch him—she wanted to stand beside him.
The memory surfaced vividly.
Isolte smiled wryly.
She really needed to fix this habit of fixating on appearances.
It wasn't just Allen's looks she loved—it was him, Allen Boreas Greyrat, the person.
But given the current situation… why was she still lost in these thoughts?
Still, the gods' revelation had struck at what she truly desired.
Cowardice…
At that moment, Sylphie's sleeping face flashed through her mind—along with the blue-haired girl Sylphie had mentioned, the petite demon girl Isolte had glimpsed from the mountainside.
If it didn't violate the scriptures… how would they…?
Tap.
Isolte looked up.
Allen had finished washing up and now stood before her, moonlight illuminating his face. His curly hair was slicked back, and his chest bore a massive gash—
"! Senior Brother, you—"
"It's fine. The Northern King got in a cheap shot, but he didn't land it properly."
Isolte silently retracted the hand she'd instinctively raised to check his wound.
Under the moonlight, the two walked slowly back toward the inn.
"You're not wearing shoes. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Senior Brother."
"Hm. Good thing it was you tonight."
She blinked. Allen exhaled.
"You're tougher than them. And a swordsman, too. If the others had seen that, they probably wouldn't sleep for days."
"...Maybe."
Silence.
Their footsteps echoed softly on the stone path, accompanied only by the rustling of Allen's clothes as he used his Flow to dry them.
Isolte gazed at the approaching inn, her eyes unfocused.
After a long pause:
"Senior Brother… do you remember the day you were promoted to the Small Dojo?"
Allen's lips twitched.
"Yeah. James is a fucking asshole."
"?"
"Never mind. James can rot in hell."
Isolte watched Allen's irritated expression and suddenly laughed.
"A long time ago, you used to say strange things like that often. But after you turned seven, you rarely spoke so freely or looked so relaxed."
Allen stiffened, turning to her.
Isolte tilted her head, smiling faintly. Moonlight spilled through her nightgown, outlining the curves of her body beneath the thin fabric. Black silk and pale skin melded together, leaving little to the imagination—yet she seemed completely unbothered.
Allen averted his eyes.
"Relaxed?"
"Mhm. In the capital, I always felt like you were frowning more and more. As if some beast were chasing you, forcing you forward without rest."
"I think… Senior Brother, you've been suffering, haven't you?"
"I always wanted to help, but I never knew how. You seemed so perfect, like you didn't need help. But now I realize…"
"I was naive."
"I'm sorry."
"I think… that's also why you left the capital, isn't it?"
Allen froze mid-step. Isolte stopped with him.
Both stared at the ground.
Allen wanted to say something—but the words tangled in his throat.
The pressure of the System, the Human God's oppression, the suffocating urgency of the past twelve years—all of it had just been laid bare by an "outsider," so effortlessly acknowledged and soothed.
For the first time since arriving in this world…
Someone had seen him.
Not the Mushoku Tensei version of Allen, but the soul from before the transmigration.
As if someone who knew he was a reincarnator had stood before him and said:
"Being a transmigrator isn't easy. I understand your anxiety, your desperation, your endless struggle."
"I'm sorry."
"I couldn't help you."
"For these twelve years…"
"You've worked hard."
Allen's throat tightened.
He stared at the moonlit ground.
For a second, he forgot how to speak.
Beside him, Isolte fell silent too, standing wordlessly at his side.
One second.
Two.
Ten.
Just as he was about to speak—
He noticed something.
Isolte's heartbeat was racing. Her body was tense.
And through his newly restored Flow senses…
Another heartbeat had entered his range.
His head snapped up.
Under the moonlight…
At the inn's entrance…
On the steps…
A small figure stood in the doorway, head tilted as she watched them.
White hair fluttered in the night breeze.
"Allen… why are you all wet?"
Allen stared in shock at Sylphie—who, like Isolte, was barefoot.
She wore a nightgown that accentuated her beast-girl charm.
And it was white.
Moonlight poured over her, rendering the fabric nearly transparent.
From her shoulders to her collarbone, from her chest to her waist, down to her hips and legs—every curve was faintly visible, soft and delicate, glowing like pearl under the silver light.
But Allen's blood ran cold.
The heat of battle faded instantly.
Once again, he was reminded:
Being a transmigrator…
Was fucking complicated.
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