"This world is sick," Mujun continued, his voice remaining low, "not because of anyone in particular… but because this world chooses to be this way."
His violet gaze dimmed—not losing its light, but becoming too deep to reflect it.
"All my life, I have tried to find the cure. I thought… if I suffered enough, walked far enough, endured enough… I would find the source of this sickness."
His lips curved slightly. It wasn't a smile.
"But I never truly understood where it all began. Through my oppression as a slave… through the torture… through the escapes and the never-ending journeys," his voice did not tremble, and that was precisely what made it painful, "I kept searching for it."
He exhaled softly.
"All I found was one stupid question that kept looping in my head: 'Why me?'"
Mujun stared at the ground beneath his feet, as if looking back at shadows that had never left.
"Until I saw the fates of other slaves, far more horrific than my own," he continued. "A father forced to watch his daughter being raped to death. A mother clutching the body of her starving child. Children staring blankly as their parents were tortured until they no longer moved."
His breath hitched for a split second, then stabilized.
"A slave remains a slave," he said flatly. "And that stupid question changed. It became: 'Why us?'"
He lifted his gaze once more. "Until I saw the nobles, basking in grandeur built upon the misery of others," he said quietly. "A Hero worshipped and hailed like a god." His tone held no hatred—only a profound exhaustion.
"I thought they were the free ones. Without shackles. Without chains. But the reality is…" Mujun slowly raised his hand, touching the collar on his neck. "Everyone is still wearing a slave collar. It's just that… some do not realize it."
He turned toward Pritty.
"And that stupid question changed once more. It became: 'Why… us all?'"
Mujun fell silent for a moment, long enough for his next words to sound like a final surrender.
"I'm tired, Pritty." Not a complaint. Not a plea for sympathy. Just a fact. "Tired of asking. Tired of searching for answers."
He gave a thin smile, bitter yet honest. "Even though the answer has been standing right in front of my eyes all along. This world is sick, Pritty," he said softly but surely. "And I… can no longer pretend not to see it."
"My intention is not to destroy it. I want to heal it."
His hand touched the collar on his neck again; his fingers were cold.
"I am freer than you, Pritty," he spoke gently. "I am freer than Reina. You see this collar on my neck," he said quietly. "But you do not see the collar shackling your own."
Mujun's gaze remained calm. Too calm for someone preparing to sacrifice everything.
"Because I am the one who is freer," he continued, "this responsibility… must be borne by me. And after all of this is over… I will be the freest person in this sick world."
Hearing those words, Pritty's face froze. Her beauty seemed to lose its color in an instant. Her lips pressed tight, then parted slightly as if to interrupt—but not a single word managed to escape. Her glistening golden eyes reflected Mujun's face, which remained steady, too firm to be shaken by tears. In the end, Pritty only took a long breath, turned her face away, and walked off without looking back.
Mujun gave a bitter smile. He immediately followed from behind, maintaining his distance like a shadow that knew its place. Soon they would enter a crowded area. Walking side-by-side with a Saint in front of so many eyes was not a right suited for a slave—at least, that was how this world wrote it.
Empathy is a double-edged sword. Mujun understood that well. If one is not careful, empathy turns into sympathy, and sympathy drags a person into an abyss that is not theirs to bear. Pritty, despite being a Saint, was still human. She had no right to change another's conviction. Yet knowing that someone she called a friend was walking toward an unstoppable danger—it was enough to shake her heart. That turmoil was evident in her slightly faster pace, her bated breath, and her shoulders that looked more tensed than usual.
With Pritty walking in front, no one dared bother Mujun. They entered the ranks of the army, which was arranged neatly facing a high podium. There, stood a woman with a straight back who immediately commanded attention, even before her face was visible.
Armor covered her entire body, fitting and sturdy, not merely a noble's decoration. Dark blue hair—the color of the deep sea before a storm—fell short, touching the nape of her neck without any effort to look graceful. A greatsword leaned at her side, the red gem on its pommel glowing quietly in the sunlight. A steel helm was tucked between her arm and her left ribs, held with a casual yet disciplined air.
From a distance, the figure looked like a statue of a hero—not one built to be worshipped, but one standing as a marker of power. A symbol that in this place, a command need not be spoken aloud to be obeyed.
As if sensing the gaze from behind, the woman turned.
Her face was revealed, and instantly the ranks around her seemed to dim. Her sapphire-blue eyes stared straight at Mujun—calm, deep, without a ripple, like sunlight piercing the water's surface and sinking deep to the bottom. There was no excessive warmth, nor any threatening cold. Only the absolute composure of someone accustomed to making grand decisions without hesitation.
Her skin reflected a soft light, almost like porcelain. Her beauty was not the kind that begged for attention, but the kind that commanded it. Anyone standing before her would understand why many described the feeling as love at first sight—and why that feeling was often dangerous.
Mujun took a soft breath before stepping closer.
Like Pritty before her, Reina asked about the Hero's whereabouts.
"Where is he?"
Then, after a brief pause.
"Are you sure?"
Only two sentences. No more. There was no change in her expression, no pressure in her tone. Yet therein lay her strength. Reina did not ask to seek an emotional answer. She asked to confirm a fact.
She had been raised with noble etiquette since childhood, but as a princess, she did not need to use it for herself. She only needed to ensure that those beneath her did it correctly.
"He will come," he said, pausing for a moment. "and I am certain."
Mujun answered briefly, just as he knew Reina wanted. No long explanations, no sycophancy, no empty praise. And indeed, none were needed.
The conversation ended just like that. Not because there was nothing left to say, but because under the gaze of hundreds of soldiers of the Hero's faction, there were things that must remain unsaid.
Reina and Mujun stood side-by-side on the podium, looking out over the ranks of the Hero's faction soldiers who had long been basking under the scorching sun. Those faces were rigid, weapons gripped tightly, discipline maintained—yet exhaustion could not be entirely hidden.