Trembling, Marc watched the moment he had caught the missiles, letting the other two fall onto the battlefield. Under normal circumstances, he would never have let them drop.
He also saw again the hundreds—no, thousands—of heads he had crushed. The bodies he had slammed violently into the ground. The tanks he had hurled at the enemy. The corpses he had used as whips...
The carnage had been brutal and swift, and no one had escaped.
He now understood why the soldier had been so reluctant...
Suddenly, Marc didn't feel well. Not well at all...
He wanted to vomit. To vomit himself out. To reject himself. To kill himself. To disappear. A deep sickness settled into his body, making it so heavy that he collapsed to his knees.
His hands trembled and he began to choke, as if his body wanted to expel something infected—and the problem was that this something was none other than himself.
Big drops of sweat started soaking his face, which turned greenish and blue. His vision blurred. No, he could no longer see at all.
It was complete darkness. He was lost. Completely lost. His bearings, his senses, his moral principles, his convictions, his dreams, his reality...
All had been wiped away again.
"Impossible. What have I done? I was supposed to… I was supposed to save the world, not let it die just to kill my enemies… What will happen if I do it again?… Who am I?… What have I done?… What have I…"
In the darkness of his soul, arms and hands clung to him again, gripping him with all their strength. They shattered the silence of his void like breaking glass to slip into his mind.
They clawed at him and strangled him, dragged him down, yanked at his hair.
The victims screamed and wept in his head. They howled their deaths at their murderer.
Thousands of voices merged, haunting Marc's mind in the void.
Marc tried to push them away, but even his own body no longer responded to him. He couldn't even speak inside his dying mind.
"No. Leave me alone."
"Murderer. You try to fix things, but you only make them worse."
"Give me back my brother."
"Assassin."
"Sir Knight, weren't you supposed to protect me?"
"Where do you think you're going, you failure?"
"Why were you given this thing?"
"You should have died instead."
Marc clutched his head in his hands, but the voices only intensified, hammering him.
"No… Sorry… No… Sorry… Sorry… Sorry… I didn't mean to…"
"MARC!"
"I didn't mean to, sorry… Sorry…"
"MARC!!"
"I didn't mean to…"
"Marc, look at me!"
"Sorry, sorry…"
Suddenly, Elie cupped Marc's head in her hands and stared straight into his eyes.
"Marc, you don't have to be afraid. It's all right. I'm here."
Marc looked into Elie's blue eyes. She seemed to be crying, yet no tears fell. Perhaps it was compassion, perhaps sorrow. He didn't know.
The voices retreated little by little, as if fleeing Elie's presence. Their final grip left deep marks on Marc's mind.
He could no longer cry for them. He could no longer cry at all...
His mind tried to calm itself as he looked at the young woman who had rushed to his aid. He couldn't face the voices and the responsibility, but he could at least try to ignore them...
So, little by little, he focused on Elie's eyes. Setting aside his pain, pouring his consciousness into the turquoise of his friend's gaze to find relief.
Soon, the anxious turquoise blue seeped into Marc's empty, terrified mind, and a hint of calm began to haunt his dark thoughts...
After a while, he simply held Elie in his arms.
"Sorry…"
Elie held him too. As tightly as she could.
"Don't worry, Marc. Keep moving forward."
Chris stood a little further down the corridor.
He watched the two lovers comforting each other.
They had given him armor so he could take part in the war, and since then, all he had done was shoot, slash, strike, and repeat.
He had taken part in the capture of Roan and come out alive. He had improved slightly, though he was still far from Marc's level—after all, he didn't go into the other world or stay with them.
In a way, that was good news for him, even if war didn't suit him at all.
It was nothing but daily slaughter, senseless carnage without an end.
The Emperor had placed him here because he believed every "friend" Marc brought back possessed some special power that could be useful. And so Chris had been roped into this endless cycle of war and conflict.
His first kill had been accidental. And even though taking a life was supposed to leave a mark—especially the first time—Chris hadn't felt much.
It had shaken him a little, but he had quickly focused on the next target, never forgetting that he too had to survive in this hell.
In another sense, it brought him closer to Marc's level in terms of battle and experience. Even if he lacked Marc's aura.
He had returned to rest, to celebrate the victory of another advance with his unit.
But seeing Marc in that state left him unsettled.
He knew what Marc had endured, and so he wondered:
"If this is the sacrifice I must make to have my revenge, is it really worth it, Marc?"
He pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning against and headed back toward the rest camp. Birch, another Garidan city, awaited them within the week.
The army was harsh and demanding—and in wartime, that demand was doubled. It was the first time Chris had ever felt such pressure. It was strange, new, but he was managing to adapt...
He turned one last time to look at his rival, held in the arms of his friend.
His eyes carried sorrow for him...
**
"Chris, pass the ball."
"No!"
Chris pushed forward on the court, unstoppable. In one of the memories flashing back to him, he was playing against a nameless little village team—one that usually never made it far in tournaments. But that year, that very team had climbed to second place, thanks to the arrival of a new player. For the first time in four years, Chris's team was not uncontested at the top.
"Chris, I said pass the ball!"
"No!"
Despite the stakes, Chris was considered the star of the competition. He was, without a doubt, the best player ever to set foot on that court. But his throne was now threatened by another boy who had dragged his team to the top. And for Chris, that was unacceptable.
"I will win."
A fire lit in his eyes. Fueled by passion, he dribbled past players one after another, carrying the ball alone up the court. His teammates shouted for him to pass, the fans screamed for him to go on by himself. Chris heard nothing. He was far too focused on the goal to listen to anyone.
He was about to take the shot after a wild sprint.
"This is it—my moment of glory."
Suddenly, a short-haired boy stepped in. He had chased Chris from the opposite defense line all the way back, just to intercept him. He blocked Chris's shot, leaving him in shock.
And in that moment, Chris saw him. In his eyes, reflected the face of the boy who had taken everything from him. Black eyes met blue. They recognized each other instantly as the best on the court—but on this play, the winner had already been decided. The ball floated in the air, the score tied at one, tension at its peak.
Then the opposing coach shouted:
"Counterattack, boys! Play with Marc!"
Marc. That was his name. Chris had ignored him all season. Why would he look down at those beneath him? But by staring only upward, Chris had failed to see the mountain rising from below—until it caught up to him.
"I've got it."
The counterattack began. Marc started his run a few seconds ahead of Chris, but Chris didn't give up. He chased after him, determined to tackle him at the very last moment.
Both sprinted toward Chris's goal.
For the first time, Chris was running behind someone else. He, who was always followed—by fans, by friends, by admirers—now found himself staring at another's back. Rage filled him. He wasn't supposed to be the one chasing. But that day, he would make Marc regret daring to put him in this position.
"Damn it."
The ball spun between Marc's teammates. Smooth, precise, as if the tension of the final moments had pushed them to execute their tactics flawlessly, the sum of all their training. It was almost professional level. And at the heart of that machine stood Marc, powering his team with his talent.
And Chris… was chasing only Marc's back.
He expected Marc, the star player, to take the final shot at the end of this perfect passing system. But to his surprise, Marc received the ball in midfield.
"What? That's not how this is supposed to go. You're the star, aren't you? What are you doing?"
Marc slowed slightly, drew in a deep breath, and prepared to strike.
Chris grinned.
"Pathetic. You're not that strong. You've just wasted all your team's efforts—and your own."
But then, Marc smiled too. Eyes fixed on the ball, he whispered under his breath:
"Come on. Time to shine."
Chris understood too late. A player was unmarked on the left and no defender had noticed him—except Marc, and Chris.
Desperately, Chris tried to grab Marc's jersey, but it was already too late. The pass was made.
"NO!"
The ball soared—one of the finest passes ever seen in the competition. A pass that embodied all of Marc's talent and his journey.
It floated perfectly above every player's head. All eyes locked on it, hearts tightening as the ball glided through the air. Time itself seemed to slow. Only when it was too late did Chris's team realize the danger of the unmarked player.
The forward received the ball flawlessly at his feet, now face-to-face with the keeper.
The entire crowd held its breath...
And then...
The striker shot, placing it cleanly at the base of the right post. The fans erupted in cheers as the referee's whistle blew, ending the match.
Marc's teammates rushed to the goal scorer, parents following, even the coach tossing aside his bottle as he ran to join the celebration. Everyone rejoiced in victory—everyone but Marc, who lingered back where he had made the decisive pass.
Chris didn't understand. The boy who had won the match stood right before him, yet he was the only one not celebrating.
Chris picked himself up off the floor and marched toward the one responsible for his defeat. His voice rose, filled with anger.
"What the hell did you do? You could've ended the match all on your own! Look at them—those idiots think they won, when it was you! You're the one who carried this team, and now you're all alone. Why would you do that?"
Marc didn't turn around. His gaze lingered on his teammates, distant and hollow, as if he were nothing more than an empty machine. Yet there was a shadow in his eyes—not indifference, but darkness.
And with that same darkness, he answered the star of the opposing team.
"You think I enjoy this?"
Chris couldn't understand.
"I saw him, and I thought it was the best decision. I know his abilities, and I know how many times I shouldn't have trusted him. And yet, I knew that on a real soccer field, it was the best choice to make. I didn't want to pass to him. But in my state, I wasn't sure if I could still win the way I used to. I gambled the victory on that idiot, and it worked out pretty well for me."
Chris didn't understand. He really didn't. And it made him furious.
"You don't look happy about it, though."
The boy finally turned toward him and replied.
"No. I don't care if we win or lose. To be exact, I don't care what the team does, as long as I shine. And if winning lets me shine even brighter, then I'll win. "
Chris stared at him in disbelief. Was he blind? What was the point of being the strongest if no one knew it? Why work so hard if it only meant others would succeed instead? It was pointless—and the proof stood right before him. Nobody celebrated with Marc, and nobody knew he was the best.
"Ridiculous. I would've rather made history alone."
"And in the end, I beat you. You made history as the loser who cost his team the match."
Chris's brow furrowed.
"I was better than you today."
But the boy only shrugged, wiping his face with his jersey as he turned away.
"If you say so."
"I think I know what your problem is. They've shackled you. They've forced you to pass, and now you've forgotten how to play on your own. But that was never what you wanted—you wanted to shine alone. Now, you don't score as much as before. Your talent is wasted on those losers. All you're really giving them is your drive, your fire, and the hope that you'll shine for them. You've lost confidence in yourself, and you don't even want to play soccer anymore. Am I wrong?"
The boy gave no reply.
But Chris didn't wait for an answer. He knew he was right. So he turned and walked toward the locker room.
"I won't even shake your hand. Someone as pathetic as you doesn't deserve to be treated like a rival. And yet, you won today. What a disgrace."
The supporters jeered at Chris as he passed, and Chris shouted back at them in fury.
Marc still didn't turn. Still didn't say a word.
And in the same way, Chris marched toward the battlefield in his armor, confident, as if the world already belonged to him... without Marc ever looking his way.