Rewind time a bit, shifting the perspective to the unfortunate Gro’s reunion scene with his old friend.
“Hope you’ve been well, Your Excellency the Saint.”
Gro’s lips curved into a stiff smile as he greeted the man who had just rescued Ileil.
But Dorias didn’t seem to buy it; his gray-blue pupils were like a frozen lake surface, filled with chill, completely different from the gentle gaze when looking at Ileil—as if appraising a heretic who committed all manner of evils.
“Black Edge…” Dorias murmured Gro’s infamous title. “Long time no see; you’ve learned to sheath your edge and become mature and restrained.”
“Don’t call me Black Edge anymore; that’s just a hate-attracting target the Kastit monarch bestowed upon me. Now I no longer belong to the north; perhaps you should try to get to know the current me anew.”
Gro said lightly. In Dorias’s eyes, Gro was worlds apart from the arrogant, war-mongering youth of over twenty years ago; time could easily smooth a person’s edges.
What slightly surprised Dorias was that time hadn’t left many traces on his appearance. Aside from some changes in temperament, Dorias could hardly see any signs of aging on Gro—except for the addition of numerous fine scars on his olive skin and a few strands of silver in his thick black hair.
“You mean… you plan to wipe away the sins you committed in the past just like that?”
Dorias countered, while Gro put on an indifferent demeanor:
“Then what do you think, how should I atone for the sins I committed as a Kastit? I was born in a nation that glorifies conquest and plunder—weaving war frenzy in the name of valkyries. I killed countless enemies who wielded weapons against me, including no few of Your Excellency’s compatriots, those Aressto people defending their homes…”
Gro stared at the saint whose expression grew increasingly somber, continuing:
“I won’t evade the crimes I’ve committed. But before atoning, I first have to pursue my own long-cherished wish, Your Excellency. Even if you want to clean house for your comrades, you’ll probably have to get past the duke first…”
Before Gro finished, Dorias’s giant sword was already at his throat. The lingering holy light on the blade scorched Gro’s skin, emitting a faint sizzle.
“You think I don’t dare act here?” Dorias’s words were filled with killing intent: “Twenty years ago, when you burned, killed, and plundered on Aressto’s northern border, treating lives like grass, you weren’t so eloquent.”
Raindrops fell on the giant sword’s blade, evaporating into hissing white mist. As long as Dorias exerted a bit of force, the giant sword could pierce Gro’s throat. But no fear showed on Gro’s face; he said impassively: “Kill a reformed Kastit soldier, or turn your blade toward those cultists stirring trouble in the shadows—you have your own judgment.”
“It’s been over twenty years.” Dorias’s voice seemed to come from far away. “You’ve learned to use ‘reformed’ as a respectable excuse.”
Gro placed his fingers on the side of the blade, pushing away the sword tip aimed at him: “Rather than an excuse, I’d prefer to call it… mutual interests.” He tilted his head slightly, looking at the camp behind the saint that had been burned beyond recognition.
“Witches don’t care if the ones burned to death are Aressto or Kastit people.”
Dorias was silent for a moment; his giant sword finally lowered slowly as he asked: “You know this fire was the work of a witch?”
“Does that surprise you? Staying in Aurean these years, I’ve dealt with witches; I haven’t dulled to that extent—you know, the ones who died in this fire were all my people.”
Gro’s gaze fell on the silver-haired girl on the saint’s back, his tone gaining a bit of respect: “But I must thank you, Mr. Dorias—you saved my adopted daughter.”
Dorias turned his head to glance sideways at the comatose Ileil; he seemed not to trust Gro’s statement:
“Adopted daughter?”
“Yes, this pitiable girl is the child I adopted; her name is Ileil.” Gro seemed to make his story more convincing by adding:
“I once had a comrade who went through life and death with me; unfortunately, he died—leaving this pitiable girl entrusted to me.”
Originally, Dorias’s expression was relatively calm, but after hearing Gro’s words, it underwent subtle changes.
“If I remember correctly, over twenty years ago… you also had such a comrade by your side. I still remember—at that time, I nearly had my head chopped off by the righteous saint. Fortunately, your comrade stopped you… so I could escape the ensuing accident from behind.”
Gro said unhurriedly. And as Dorias listened to his narration, his face grew paler, his gray-blue pupils trembling incessantly.
“Has that gentleman come to Renn Town? If he has, convey my regards… after all, he’s the benefactor who blocked the sword for me.”
“……”
Dorias didn’t respond to Gro’s words. Gro watched Dorias’s expression gradually dim, his brows slightly raised. As if realizing something, he immediately changed the topic:
“You’ve worked hard, Mr. Saint. Since the witch crisis is temporarily over, let me take Ileil for treatment first—you probably have more important matters at hand now?”
Dorias didn’t speak; he silently handed the unconscious Ileil to Gro. Only after watching Gro personally carry the slender girl did he slowly say:
“Take her to the duke’s manor; the church priests are waiting there. No need to trouble others for healing; they can’t detect the witch’s lingering filth.”
Dorias’s voice was low and weary, as if the earlier confrontation had exhausted all his strength. As he turned, the hem of his holy robe swept over the charred grass, emitting a faint rustle.
“The old accounts from twenty years ago, I’ll set aside for now.” The saint sheathed his giant sword on his back, the clang of metal collision particularly clear in the rain curtain.
“I hope you’re truly speaking these words with the intent to atone, Gro.”
Gro felt Ileil on his back tremble lightly; the girl’s warm breath brushed over the scar on his nape.
“I’m immensely grateful.” Gro nodded slightly, his boot heel crushing a piece of charred wood. “But allow me to ask one more thing—Your Excellency. That comrade of yours, is he doing well later?”
Dorias’s figure clearly stiffened for an instant. He didn’t turn back, just heavily thrust his giant sword into the muddy ground, splashing mud that further soaked his already drenched robe hem.
“He’s dead.” The saint’s voice mingled with the rain, almost inaudible. “Died in the last southern campaign launched by you Kastit people.”