Heroist
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Raising a thumb in acknowledgment, the erudite wraps himself in his tattered, zombie-clawed jacket and ambles through the abandoned corridors of the administration building. The clouded windows obscure the view, revealing only a hazy mist that prevents seeing anything beyond vague outlines. If they were in one of the games created by Aiya, they could probably use the current atmosphere to save on rendering detailed objects, shadows, and lighting. Ghostly silhouettes peek out from behind corners with empty eye sockets: a rickety folding ladder, a forgotten mop bucket, a broken broom propped against the door. A fresh layer of dirt and dust forms meandering trails across the building, likely his own. His soul involuntarily freezes in anticipation of the killer lurking on the staircase, and his calloused fingers grip the handle of his trusty pickaxe more tightly.
Descending to the entrance, the young man leans against the cracked wall and momentarily looks up. This gesture almost cost him his repaired glasses; only his trained reflexes allowed him to catch the spectacles as they slipped from his nose. "It was a mistake to give away the erudite's glasses... Maybe I should ask Tanna to fix my vision." An ironic thought flashes through his mind. Not a drop of rain, not a ray of sunlight, not a breath of wind; the deed is done, but victory is still not felt. It's as if they are trying to clean up the mess, following a tattered, bottomless bag of waste.
Rummaging through his pockets, the killer finds a pack he took from a corpse. Let at least the cigarette smoke momentarily break through this poisonous haze. Smoke fills his lungs, and his mind is filled with the distorted faces of the city's inhabitants, whom he had to put to rest. Among them, the memory of the "Luck" merchant is most vivid. A foolish, foolish girl. Why did she stay? What were they all hoping for? That a hero-savior would descend from the sky? Heal them from zombism with one hand, and incinerate the Harrans and traitors with the other? And how many nameless residents did he blow up in the Temple? Of all the city's inhabitants, only one survived, and even she was fed to the phantom idol. Thus, with one stroke, Asuguh lost one-tenth of his family. Now, the assassin will deliver her findings and cause a civilian incident. Yes, this is not a victory.
Feeling the bitter taste of bitterness and frustration on his tongue, the young man takes a long breath, as if hoping to smoke out his soul along with the smoke. Pushing off the wall, he walks to the dim window and looks with interest at his own reflection. Messy, unwashed hair is scattered to the sides like a pile of burnt hay, and his skin is covered with a layer of dried blood. Repaired glasses cover his crooked nose, which was damaged in a self-detonation. His hands, still thin and frail, are now adorned with hastily tied scars, like a rag doll. Under his nails are dirt, grime, and the remains of slain ghouls. And in his eyes... In his eyes, a spark of a foreign soul and consciousness flickers with the light of the moon.
Taking a deeper drag, the erudite paces the administrative building. Reinforcements will come from the northern allies. The Asuguh, battered, maimed, and happy, will return from the battlefield. Each will have many stories about the horrors they experienced, the deaths of their comrades, and their miraculous salvation. And he will be an outsider at this celebration of life, a guest invited only out of politeness. His story, unlike that of normal people, ended long ago, and more than once. He can, of course, make excuses: Tanna's death "doesn't count," and in the last mission, he simply didn't take protective talismans because of his condition. He can even be proud of his resourcefulness, which saved his allies from death. Or he can even boast about his condition: after all, Asmidul can safely disarm chests! But all of this is, of course, just excuses. In the face of the goddess, he "cheated" on the exam called life: while everyone was content with their one and only chance, he has already retaken this test three times. Knowing the number of obelisks, this is probably just the beginning.
And at the end of this story, he will have to answer a simple, but very important question. The same one that prominent scientists and researchers probably ask themselves. "Have I brought more good to this world than evil?" Will his achievements outweigh the souls he has personally destroyed and the country of the dead, version two, that he has thrust upon the northern lands? Is his life, is his Asuguh, worth all this? Or would it be better for the world if he and his entire squad crashed into the Margel shield?
Discarding the cigarette butt, the maniac detachedly watched the dying spark of life, until he interrupted the victim's torment with the heel of his worn-out boots. He could use Naoya or the Elder with some encouraging life advice right now. How are they doing, by the way? He should take an example from them. But first, he needs to gain some height and get rid of his nerdy glasses, otherwise it looks ridiculous. His hand involuntarily reached under his shirt for the coveted potion.
Swaying from the overwhelming fatigue, the young man snorted, not sure if it was from the cold or from his thoughts, and headed back to headquarters to check if Kibo had left.
Descending to the entrance, the young man leans against the cracked wall and momentarily looks up. This gesture almost cost him his repaired glasses; only his trained reflexes allowed him to catch the spectacles as they slipped from his nose. "It was a mistake to give away the erudite's glasses... Maybe I should ask Tanna to fix my vision." An ironic thought flashes through his mind. Not a drop of rain, not a ray of sunlight, not a breath of wind; the deed is done, but victory is still not felt. It's as if they are trying to clean up the mess, following a tattered, bottomless bag of waste.
Rummaging through his pockets, the killer finds a pack he took from a corpse. Let at least the cigarette smoke momentarily break through this poisonous haze. Smoke fills his lungs, and his mind is filled with the distorted faces of the city's inhabitants, whom he had to put to rest. Among them, the memory of the "Luck" merchant is most vivid. A foolish, foolish girl. Why did she stay? What were they all hoping for? That a hero-savior would descend from the sky? Heal them from zombism with one hand, and incinerate the Harrans and traitors with the other? And how many nameless residents did he blow up in the Temple? Of all the city's inhabitants, only one survived, and even she was fed to the phantom idol. Thus, with one stroke, Asuguh lost one-tenth of his family. Now, the assassin will deliver her findings and cause a civilian incident. Yes, this is not a victory.
Feeling the bitter taste of bitterness and frustration on his tongue, the young man takes a long breath, as if hoping to smoke out his soul along with the smoke. Pushing off the wall, he walks to the dim window and looks with interest at his own reflection. Messy, unwashed hair is scattered to the sides like a pile of burnt hay, and his skin is covered with a layer of dried blood. Repaired glasses cover his crooked nose, which was damaged in a self-detonation. His hands, still thin and frail, are now adorned with hastily tied scars, like a rag doll. Under his nails are dirt, grime, and the remains of slain ghouls. And in his eyes... In his eyes, a spark of a foreign soul and consciousness flickers with the light of the moon.
Taking a deeper drag, the erudite paces the administrative building. Reinforcements will come from the northern allies. The Asuguh, battered, maimed, and happy, will return from the battlefield. Each will have many stories about the horrors they experienced, the deaths of their comrades, and their miraculous salvation. And he will be an outsider at this celebration of life, a guest invited only out of politeness. His story, unlike that of normal people, ended long ago, and more than once. He can, of course, make excuses: Tanna's death "doesn't count," and in the last mission, he simply didn't take protective talismans because of his condition. He can even be proud of his resourcefulness, which saved his allies from death. Or he can even boast about his condition: after all, Asmidul can safely disarm chests! But all of this is, of course, just excuses. In the face of the goddess, he "cheated" on the exam called life: while everyone was content with their one and only chance, he has already retaken this test three times. Knowing the number of obelisks, this is probably just the beginning.
And at the end of this story, he will have to answer a simple, but very important question. The same one that prominent scientists and researchers probably ask themselves. "Have I brought more good to this world than evil?" Will his achievements outweigh the souls he has personally destroyed and the country of the dead, version two, that he has thrust upon the northern lands? Is his life, is his Asuguh, worth all this? Or would it be better for the world if he and his entire squad crashed into the Margel shield?
Discarding the cigarette butt, the maniac detachedly watched the dying spark of life, until he interrupted the victim's torment with the heel of his worn-out boots. He could use Naoya or the Elder with some encouraging life advice right now. How are they doing, by the way? He should take an example from them. But first, he needs to gain some height and get rid of his nerdy glasses, otherwise it looks ridiculous. His hand involuntarily reached under his shirt for the coveted potion.
Swaying from the overwhelming fatigue, the young man snorted, not sure if it was from the cold or from his thoughts, and headed back to headquarters to check if Kibo had left.
Whatever