The room was silent.No children's cries outside. No voices in the hallway.Only the slow, metallic rhythm of a man getting dressed.
Guts stood shirtless in front of the wooden table.The pale light of dawn slid over the scars carved deep into his skin — marks old and new, from a war with no end.He strapped on each piece of his armor with the mechanical precision of a veteran.Every buckle pulled tight. Every strap locked. Every plate secured.
First the gauntlet.Then the shoulder strap.Finally, the back harness — ready to carry Dragonslayer.
He exhaled deeply, once the armor sealed around him like a second skin.He was no longer just a man.He was a weapon — waiting for its target.
But something felt off.Not in the armor. Not in the weight of the steel.In his mind.
This mission… this alliance with Crusch… It didn't sit right.He wasn't a diplomat. Not a pawn on a royal chessboard.He was a sword.And yet, today… he was supposed to talk. Convince. Bargain.
Tch. Enough.
He growled to himself, shrugged, and reached for his cloak.That's when a knock came at the door.
Guts turned slightly. He didn't answer right away.A breath. Then a soft voice — unmistakable:
Rem:"…It's me. May I come in?"
He hesitated, then muttered:
Guts:"Make it quick."
The door opened gently. Rem stepped in, holding a carefully folded envelope, sealed with the dragon crest.Her steps were steady, but her gaze avoided his.
Rem:"This letter… it's for you. From Master Roswaal."
He didn't reach out.
Guts (low voice):"Did you read it?"
Rem nodded faintly.
Rem:"Yes. He asked me to read it to you aloud.He said… it would be clearer that way."
A sigh. Guts slowly turned toward her, his shadow swallowing the morning light.
Guts:"Then go ahead. I'm listening."
Letter from Roswaal to Guts
Dear Guts,If you're reading this — or rather, if Rem is reading it to you, as I hope — then you haven't fled.That alone is more than most would have done.
You chose to rise again.To not stay paralyzed by your mistake. Good.Because this is how the men who change history are born.
Emilia needs allies.Real, visible support. And for that, she needs a pact — a strong symbol.That's where Crusch Karsten comes in.
You're going to meet her.You'll extend your hand.And you'll offer her something no one else can.
Not words. No — that's not your role.You'll offer her a victory.
Talk to her about the White Whale.Remind her it still prowls the skies of Lugnica.That the Flugel Tree, vast and eternal, shudders every time its shadow passes too close to the branches.
Tell her we know when and where it will appear.The latest magical activity around the Flugel Tree — cross-referenced with old records — confirms it will return in the coming days.
And better still… we have an advantage.
The Roswaal Domain holds deposits of raw magilite deep in the Elior Forest — a rare mineral.
That is what you offer Crusch:Access to the mineral.The exact location.And a victory.
Whether she does it for glory, for her troops, or to crush a nightmare from the past — I don't care, as long as she accepts.
If she still hesitates, show yourself.She's never seen you. She doesn't know your words —But she'll see your sword.Your eyes.Your resolve.
Crusch Karsten is not a woman of appearances.She'll understand.
Lead her to the Whale.Come back drenched in its blood.And then the world will see Emilia differently.
This isn't just a hunt. It's a message.And you… are its messenger.
The future rests on your blade, Guts.Don't let it fall.
— Roswaal L. Mathers
Guts said nothing.
Silence fell again, heavy as the metal of his sword.Rem gently folded the letter, not daring to close the space between them.
He'd stayed motionless the whole time, seated at the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees.
Now he slowly straightened up.His jaw clenched.His gaze locked to the floor.
Another hunt. Another monster to kill to earn another noble's trust.And this time, I have to smile while doing it.
He tugged on his gauntlet strap, tightening it with care.Each movement was calm, precise — yet his fingers trembled, just a little.Not from fear. From clarity.
A mineral as bait. A millennial tree as a landmark.A war that isn't mine…And still, I'm going.
He stood without a word, strapped on his belt and sword, then paused in front of the open window.The morning air had changed.Sharper. As if it too sensed what was coming.
Behind him, Rem watched him.
She said nothing. But her eyes were tense.She understood him better now.She read the silences, the gestures, the subtle shifts.
She saw a man who rose — not for himself.Not for glory.Not even for Emilia.
But to keep a promise.
He never said "yes."But he already chose.
He's not running anymore.
Rem lowered her gaze.Then murmured, almost to herself:
Rem (softly):"You're going to go, aren't you…Even if it costs you again."
Guts didn't need to answer.
He opened the door.And let the wind erase what little hesitation remained.