Chapter 43: Why Was He Chosen?
Nox slipped out of the room, leaving Serian still asleep. The princess looked like she hadn’t moved much since he’d woken up with his head on her lap. The thin blanket was still pulled up to her chin, and her breathing was soft and even, her features relaxed in a way he hadn’t seen them when she was awake.
He figured she needed the rest more than he did right now. He carefully closed the door behind him.
The hallway of the old hotel was dim and smelled faintly of dust and old cigarettes, a scent that was almost comforting in its normalcy compared to the reek of monster guts. He walked down the creaky stairs, his boots making soft thuds on the worn wood, and out the front door into the brighter light of day.
The sun was high, probably around noon, judging by the short, sharp shadows cast by the broken edges of nearby buildings. The air here, a few blocks away from where they’d fought Lola, felt a bit cleaner, less like a tomb.
He took a deep breath, the air filling his lungs. His body still ached, a network of throbs and sharp twinges reminding him of Lola’s daggers and the self-inflicted gunshot wound. But underneath the persistent pain, there was a strange, undeniable lightness.
It was as if a heavy, invisible pack he hadn’t even consciously realized he was carrying for years had finally been cut loose from his shoulders, from his heart.
’That feeling...’ he thought, tilting his head back to look up at the clear blue sky visible between the jagged silhouettes of the ruined cityscape. ’It’s like... I can finally breathe again.’
He wasn’t sure if it was just the relief from surviving another near-death experience, or if it had something to do with that "Corrupted Mana" now settled inside him, a dark, potent energy that felt uniquely his.
Maybe it was the undeniable knowledge that he hadn’t just survived his encounters; he’d fought back, he’d made a high-level mercenary run. He’d taken control, in a brutal, ugly way. And it felt... good. The crushing weight of always being the victim, of always being on the receiving end, that was what felt gone.