Chapter 757: The Will of God (8)
The Burnt One questioned.
“What were you expecting?”
No answer came.
Or rather, none dared to reply.
In despair, everyone looked at Oliver, whose body was covered in burns, his side and right shoulder pierced, his right arm severed.
Moreover, they were overwhelmed by the demon who stood over Oliver, holding a flaming sword.
No one answered.
"······."
Time seemed to freeze, leaving an eerie silence to settle over everything.
Fortunately, the Burnt One wasn’t displeased by this. After all, he hadn’t asked the question expecting an answer.
For this reason, even though no one gave him a reply, an excuse, or a defense, the Burnt One continued to speak as if the answer were already determined.
"Did you perhaps expect that, by running away, he would handle everything?"
"······."
"If that’s what you thought, then you’re not only foolish but utterly shameless. How could you expect him to bear the burden of your sins? How could you hope for him to rise and save you?"
The Burnt One’s gaze narrowed, focusing on one particular spot.
There, an old man and a young boy stood together.
A grandfather and his grandson, watching the fallen Oliver and silently praying to God that he would rise and fight again.
The old man sensed that it was the only way to save his grandson’s life.
It wasn’t entirely incorrect. The problem was that the Burnt One had heard that prayer.
The selfish prayer, wishing that the already broken Oliver would rise and suffer once more. Truly...
“Disgusting.”
“Lord... please…”
As the old man met the Burnt One’s gaze, his teeth clacked together in terror as he called out to God.
To escape a terror beyond his comprehension. Yet God remained silent. Only the Burnt One responded.
“Do not dare call upon him. He permitted me to be here. And don’t dare to regret this. I descended to this land because of the kindling of sins you all have built up.”
The Burnt One stepped forward, moving toward the crowd.
Step.
The Kel Liberation Army, the Fighter Crew, the Chosen Ones...
Step.
The city’s police and soldiers—even the Holy Knights—stood there, countless in number.
Step.
Yet no one moved. All they could do was watch as death in human form approached.
Step.
Just as the Burnt One was about to carry out his task...
“You... you have to keep your promise.”
Oliver stood up.
...
Everyone turned their heads toward the source of the voice, a silence different from when the Burnt One spoke descending over the scene.
The Burnt One was no exception.
The demon who had descended upon the world halted his seemingly unstoppable footsteps, slowly turning his head to see Oliver rising unsteadily.
His entire head had turned a pale white, his left eye burned and blind, his body bearing burns in several places, his arm missing—Oliver was in shambles.
It wouldn’t have been surprising if he had collapsed on the spot, yet he forced himself to stand upright and opened his mouth.
“I haven’t... fallen... yet—”
Thud!
Flames erupted from the Burnt One’s severed arm, striking Oliver squarely in the chest.
The impact, made of fire, sent Oliver flying backward, where he fell again.
“Guh… guh…!”
Lying on his back, Oliver was in such agony that he could hardly breathe, but the Burnt One ignored him, intending to continue on his way.
“Your promise… keep it!”
Oliver’s voice halted the Burnt One once more. Even while struggling to breathe, he forced his body to rise.
Thud.
As he tried to stand, Oliver collapsed, his face pressing into the ground.
He had attempted to brace himself with his severed right arm, only to fall over.
Though one side of his face was smeared with dirt, Oliver pressed his left hand to the ground again, pushing himself up, while the Burnt One watched.
“Stop.”
The Burnt One spoke to Oliver through telepathic transmission, his genuine intent conveyed despite it being telepathic.
“Do not get up.”
Oliver ignored him, trying to rise.
His scorched body screamed in pain, and tears like blood dripped from his eyes, but Oliver didn’t care. He stood.
Thwack!
Once more, the Burnt One swung his fiery arm, striking Oliver across the face.
Oliver’s neck snapped back as his body flew backward, landing near the others.
“H-his face…”
The onlookers gasped at the sight of Oliver’s face.
The skin on his face appeared to have peeled off, but upon closer inspection, they realized it wasn’t his real skin—it was a "false face," a black magic item, or rather, a leather mask that had been torn.
“······.”
People stared in silence at the real face of Oliver, or rather, Dave, that lay beneath the torn mask, feeling a strange kind of silence that was different from the previous one—a silence born not of fear or terror but of bewilderment.
Because...
“What is this…? He’s... a kid?”
A middle-aged man looked at Oliver’s face, which still bore traces of youth, his expression complicated, momentarily forgetting the dread of impending doom.
Though the man’s voice was low, his words spread clearly, so that everyone around him heard.
The crowd grew restless, seeing Oliver’s real face.
“Haa…”
Breathing faintly, Oliver reached up and touched his face.
Feeling the torn leather mask, Oliver removed it, then struggled like a newborn to turn over and rise once more.
Ragged breaths, trembling limbs.
Everyone watched.
The Burnt One, too, looked on.
The Burnt One clenched his cracked lips, then shouted as if he were sick of it all.
“Do not get up!”
His thunderous voice echoed in everyone’s mind, yet Oliver, as before, ignored it and stood.
In contrast, the Burnt One refrained from striking him again.
He knew that if Oliver had risen twice, he would rise a third time. So instead, he rebuked him.
“I told you I hate wasting time…”
Bent over, Oliver supported himself with his one remaining arm and stood.
“That’s not something I need to worry about, is it?”
“Do you think I won’t kill you? Is that why you’re acting so stubborn?”
“Well… I haven’t really thought about that. The only thing I’m thinking about is that I’m standing right now.”
“...Why are you doing this?”
The Burnt One asked, seemingly unable to understand. The demon, far beyond human, looked at Oliver, showing a hint of bewilderment.
“Why are you trying to save them? You see what I see, don’t you? They are sinners.”
The Burnt One gestured toward the people around him.
“They are criminals who killed innocent children, cheering to rid themselves of anxiety and fear. Tell me… why are you enduring such pain to save those creatures?”
The flames in the Burnt One’s eyes flared.
“Do you harbor hope?! Do you think if you try hard enough, they will repent and a new history will begin?!”
The Burnt One shook his head.
“I’m sorry, but that will never happen. I’m not belittling your will as childish; it’s just that someone else has already tried and failed. Your…”
He trailed off as if speaking of something forbidden, clenching his fist in frustration, with a palpable sense of regret.
“I guarantee that even if you save them, nothing will change.”
"······."
“Some may be moved and try to atone, but not all of them, and even less so any large groups like a nation. They’ll keep invading, exploiting, and building sins—only more cleverly.”
"······."
“After more time passes, today’s events will fade into legend, and some will even tarnish your name to fulfill their own petty desires.”
“So you’re planning to bring about the apocalypse and erase it all to start over?”
“Yes.”
“Is there any guarantee that the new humans won’t sin?”
“That’s irrelevant. I can simply erase them and start anew.”
In this grim answer, given from the perspective of a demon far beyond human, the cruel inevitability of the apocalypse lay bare.
Oliver, having weighed that cruel answer, spoke calmly.
“One day, a shepherd prayed to God, asking for a flock of sheep.”
"······."
“He vowed to make them thrive, to repay God’s grace, and offer boundless glory.”
"...One day, the shepherd lost a single sheep. A small, scrawny one.”
“And God asked where that sheep was.”
“The shepherd answered that he had lost it. He said that if he went looking, he would lose the rest of the healthy sheep… And God said…”
“Save it, anyway.”
Oliver’s words resounded softly in the air.
Some quietly wept, and the Burnt One lowered his head.
“These are not lost sheep, nor small, scrawny ones. They’re blackened sheep, covered in filth.”
“Then the filth can be washed away.”
“It will be exhausting, dirty work.”
“With determination, it can be done.”
“It’s questionable whether it can be washed away completely, and you may end up stained by it. You might even bear the filth yourself… It’s madness!!”
“I agree. I know well what it’s like to take on such madness. That’s why I’m doing it.”
“Is it guilt?”
“I’m just giving back what I received.”
Hearing his answer, the Burnt One raised his head. His flickering eyes of flame settled, as he raised his sword in the air.
“I take it you’ve answered the question I once posed.”
The question of what to do about humanity’s unerasable sins.
Oliver answered by choosing to bear them.
“One last question, if I may.”
“Please, go ahead.”
“Even if you fail to stop me, no one will remember. They will all die. And you cannot stop me… Who, then, would recognize your thorny path?”
A question, full of genuine confusion.
Oliver glanced over the sinners around him, then, without hesitation, pointed to the Burnt One.
“You would remember.”
"······."
The Burnt One’s eyes flickered once more.
But the flickering flames soon calmed. With a look of resolve, he set his expression and spoke firmly.
“Very well. As befits your resolve and your purpose, I shall shatter you, Noble One.”