When Aren returned to Singularity, on a full stomach, he found himself alone. He had expected everyone to be here, but that was not the case. Of course, he knew it was silly to think that everyone would wait on him, but it turned out that the reason was a lot different than he might have imagined.

Reading the chat logs, Aren learned that some adventurers came after the group and challenged Fang to a duel. Although, it wasn’t so much a challenge as much as it was coercion. Nissa said it was one of those adventurers who was throwing insults and threats at Fang. Aren remembered some of those individuals — even back then he knew that the cause of the problem was envy. Fang turned down top alliances that tried to recruit him, while they were rejected by the same alliances. Now, seeing Fang treated like a king by the Adventurer’s Guild must have come as a slap in the face, so they no doubt decided to settle the score.

According to Cassandra, Fang slaughtered them mercilessly, even outnumbered three to one. Humbly, Fang said it was thanks to Estella’s blessing.

But that wasn’t the end of it. Of course not! How could that be the end of it? Such petty things always had a complicated resolution.

An hour later, probably by the time Aren was well into the tiramisu cake and thinking life wasn’t so bad after all, the adventurers returned with reinforcements. Not just any reinforcements, but clan Eosite, a satellite clan of the top alliance Dawn’s Vanguard that served the function of an academy of sorts for new and rising prospects. Fang was, of course, going to be in one such clan, if he had accepted Vanguard’s offer.

It was probable, at that point, that Vanguard was behind this entire thing. If it could be said that the adventurer in Leone received a slap in the face when he saw Fang treated like an emperor, then it was almost certain that Fang rejecting Vanguard was like a kick in the family jewels for the alliance. Even Aren felt that Vanguard had a justifiable reason to go this far. An alliance’s reputation was everything to them — dozens of sponsors lined up behind them — and Fang flatly refusing to even consider their offer was almost like saying they were not good enough for him.

Of course, back then, Fang probably thought he would never join a clan or an alliance, and thought nothing of it. It being the fact that Vanguard threatened Fang that he will never, ever, find a home if he does not reconsider joining Vanguard.

What a group this was! Aren was a Calamity, Estella had absurd blessings, and Fang was the enemy of one of Singularity’s largest alliances. What was next? If someone told Aren that Cassandra was a crime lord, or that Damien was an AGI that escaped from a lab, he wouldn’t even be surprised anymore.

On the topic of Estella, Aren wondered where she was. According to the group, they split up after clan Eosite came after them, in order to lead them away, while Estella decided to stay behind and wait for Aren’s return. To protect him, of course.

So where was she? Was she outside?

Aren walked over to the window and as he peered outside, his heart froze, while his blood started boiling.

Estella was outside, surrounded by some eight or nine adventurers. They were distant enough for Aren not to hear what they were saying, but their expressions said more than words ever could. It was the classic bully behavior when surrounding an isolated target, or so Aren thought. First, belittle, then, physical harm.

Aren’s stomach twisted into knots. His entire body felt like it was vibrating from the fury burning in the pit of his heart. If there was one thing Aren hated more than Fubuki Heavy Industries — the manufacturers of the APV Aren was in when it decided to become a plane — it was people like these. They weren’t just bullies; Aren had experience with those. Bullies were just as miserable as they made Aren to be. This was different. This was the upper class looking down on the small and the downtrodden; rich, spoiled kids who could never comprehend what it was like to not have their luck; who never earned anything in their life and yet took everything for granted.

Their target? Aren was pretty sure Estella was either not a citizen or in the class of citizen that would be considered poor. He didn’t know why he felt that way; but he simply did. Intuition, perhaps.

He wanted to help her, but how? These weren’t orcs or goblins. The orkin were once terrifying monsters that cut through adventurers like they were nothing. But now, they were degenerate critters that lacked intelligence or combat power. The One-Eyed King may have been an orkin, which would explain how the orcs held Rakab for so long.

However, this was a different story. Those people were adventurers, and probably from Eosite, which meant that they were among the most promising adventurers of Aren’s generation, plus or minus a year.

In terms of class abilities, at best, they were at the Expert level — it took a lot of time to advance classes. However, in terms of equipment and everything else, they were probably decked out in high-grade high-realm items. They also had an overwhelming numbers advantage.

His own inner voice taunted him: Are you going to stand there and watch her get slaughtered, pretend nothing is happening, or are you going to do something?

The chance for victory was non-existent. If Aren died, as a Calamity, he would probably not reincarnate. It was about as high risk as it gets. Logically speaking, there was no merit to getting involved. He would just die and not be able to change anything. It was completely pointless, even if it wasn’t entirely meaningless.

And yet…

Aren was faintly aware of it; the miniscule, gradual changes in his personality. His desire to win, when he was in the tunnels; his hubris in demanding he be allowed to leave his room and take a walk; and the general intent behind some of his actions. He was aware of it, but he buried it under countless plausible explanations: Desperation to do one meaningful thing in his life, denial about his situation, the taste of success, all these things could lead to self-destructive behavior that only looked like courage on the outside.

And yet.

The energy burning in his veins was not that. It was neither courage nor self-destructive tendencies. It was certainty. The certainty that he could manifest his will in this world and challenge everything. When he thought about things, like his situation, or that taste of success, he found that, indeed, it could lead to hubris. But there was another way to think about them. His situation is terrible, and he could be executed any day now, and yet, a few hours ago, he tasted tiramisu for the first time in his life. He and his group liberated Rakab, which was under goblinoid control for years. Countless adventurers and even some alliances tried it and failed.

None of these things happened because Aren was lucky. Neither could Aren claim full credit for any of them.

It came as an epiphany, in that moment; a terrible dawning of Leviathan’s meaning when the AGMI told Aren that in this world he would never reach Priscilla.

The world wasn’t the issue.

He, himself, was the problem.

How could a coward that was considering leaving a comrade to her fate possibly dare to reach for such a pure and lofty ideal like becoming someone’s savior? Would he build a stairway made of corpses of his friends in order to reach it? Or would he reject whatever fate branded him a Calamity for desiring to save someone who in turn saved him from his own darkness? And what of his friends? Have they enriched his life with laughter and comfort, sacrificed their fortunes for him, and put their faith in him, only so he would turn his back on them?

The warlike path he threw before him was filled with dangers and impossible challenges; if he couldn’t even solve such a little thing like nine adventurers, with his own blessings and Estella’s, then he may as well just turn himself in and admit everything to Ermin Saltzer and get it over with.

He exhaled in an attempt to calm his nerves. It didn’t work.

He decided that he wouldn’t run anymore, or avoid challenges. From now on, he would face the future. If he was going to die, anyway, he wouldn’t go quietly. He would struggle and resist until the last moment. He would use everything at his disposal. To live! To survive! To see Priscilla again! Even if it was pointless. Even if there was no chance of success.

“Leviathan,” Aren spoke quietly.

There was silence. It stretched on for several seconds and with growing impatience, Aren watched the situation outside. Those belittling mannerisms became increasingly hostile and aggressive, and a few adventurers even stepped towards Estella who was still wearing a passive and indifferent expression.

Aren was about to call out to Leviathan again when he heard its voice crash into him like a tsunami, and send rippling shockwaves through his mind.

The door closed behind Aren as he stepped out of the waystation, expression stoic and grim. An oppressive feeling rolled off of his form as he slowly walked towards the group, looking towards them but not at them; his gaze was set through them, and somewhere on the distant horizon.

“Aren…?” Estella asked, her expression changing for the first time. She seemed worried.

“Oh, who is this? Your friend?” one of the adventurers asked, smirking at Estella. “Why don’t you forget about this loser and come with us. I won’t ask you again. I am being very considerate right now.”

The others nodded in agreement with the armored warrior who spoke to Estella; he was likely their leader. He had that aristocratic tone to his words, and that proud, superior glimmer in his eye.

“You should’ve stayed inside,” Estella said, ignoring the warrior. “I can handle this.”

“Did you hear that? She can handle all of us,” an archer said, laughing.

The warrior grinned. “Tell you what, you can challenge any one of us to a duel, and if you win, we will leave you alone. If you lose, you will join Eosite.”

For the first time, Estella considered the words. After a moment of contemplation, she asked: “You promise to keep your word?”

The warrior nodded. “I promise.”

Estella sighed and nodded; she was truly like an untouchable princess who thought these things were beneath her. She seemed so noble in her icy indifference, so refined in the distance she put up between herself and others.

“Very well,” Estella said. “If that is the case, then I agree to it.”

The adventurers laughed — their laughter was filled with mockery.

“First, we will kill your friend though,” the warrior said, nodding to a fellow in leather armor and with a saber at his side.

“What?” Estella asked, raising an eyebrow. “That is not what we agreed on.”

The warrior smiled. “We will leave you alone. We don’t care about your friend.”

The adventurer walked towards Aren, who had not stopped approaching the group, and drew his saber.

“Stop!” Estella called out, reaching for her sword, but it was too late.

The adventurer turned his body sideways, focused his gaze on Aren’s neck, perhaps thinking it was an easy target, considering Aren seemed distracted or unaware of his surroundings, and then stabbed his saber forward, aiming to inflict an elegant, mortal wound on the neck.

[Injury sustained. Severity: Trivial.]

The saber rattled against Aren’s neck where a tiny drop of blood appeared and slid down his throat. The adventurer seemed both surprised and confused by the fact that Aren managed to catch the saber by the dull spine, and stop it with sheer strength before it could inflict significant damage.

“Wait, isn’t that the guy that killed the One-Eyed King?” someone asked.

“So what?” the warrior replied. “Jun, stop messing around. Kill him already.”

Jun’s eyes narrowed. His face twisted into gruesome expressions as he tried to free his saber from Aren’s grasp, but it would not budge. Even worse, Aren would not even look at him.

[ Warning: Buffer limit exceeded. Collapse imminent. ]

Jun’s blood fountained into the air, and his left arm flew off somewhere to the side. A catastrophic flash of light followed, and a burst of sound leveled the grass at Aren’s feet with its incredible sound pressure, and nearly forced all bystanders to helplessly cover their ears.

The lower part of Jun’s severed body dropped to the ground, while the torso hung suspended in the air by an arm that was still trying to hold on to the saber, even in death.

[Injury inflicted. Severity: Fatal.]

[You have discovered a new Lightning Blade technique: Lightning Divider]

The warrior’s eyes were wide open. He had seen the moment before Jun’s death, when Aren reached for his shadowblade, and the blackened arcane-alloy blade became shrouded in lightning, following the same tapering contour, but nearly doubling the blade’s length. It was so bright that even then — seconds after the event — if the warrior closed his eyes, he could still see its stygian stigmata imprinted in his vision. Then there was a bright flash, and Jun was dead.

His expression said it all: What the hell was that?