Another Footprint of History

The vast land slept beneath the darkness. All was silent, the stillness seeming to mourn the souls that had passed away upon this land. The starry sky hung upside down, and shooting stars crossed half the violet-red heavens, vanishing in a flash, as though symbolizing those names that had shone briefly in the long river of history.

Bresen stood silently in the cold night wind, issuing order after order. The guards galloped through the ruins of Green Village, exterminating the remaining enemies. Every undead creature had to be purified. Every one.

The young Captain of the Guard felt that only by doing this could he feel a little better.

He checked the time. He had half an hour left.

Zeto watched the scene from afar. He shook the glass flask in his hand and nudged the young man beside him. "You're Essen, right?"

Essen was slightly taken aback.

"My name is Zeto. Want some?" He raised the flat flask. "Genuine Clear Lake firewine. Lyons and I found it in a wine cellar. Sadly, after this war, I don't know whether we'll still be able to drink it..."

He paused for a moment.

"You know, I used to have a dream. I wanted to become the best scout."

"But now, I regret it a little."

Essen found the man extremely strange, but he became somewhat curious about why he regretted it. No one regretted something for no reason, right?

"Why?" he asked.

"My greatest goal used to be finding the enemy, because finding the enemy was my value. But now, what I want most is to hide those villagers away. Hide them, and at least they won't be killed. But you know what? I'm powerless. There's nothing I can do—"

"This isn't your fault."

"I'm a soldier." Zeto took a sip of wine. "When I saw that girl crying, I wished I could have died on that battlefield like Koffinto. But I'm still alive, so I can't run away."

The young man fell silent. For some reason, Brando came to mind. He had the illusion that the young man who had led them out of danger time and again could lead them out of this shadow as well.

Perhaps his premonition was true. Every difficulty would be resolved—

Hopefully.

He thought.

Brando sat beside Freya.

To be honest, Brando did not think he was good at comforting people. He felt that someone else might have done a better job, but that damned Bresen had left with a sour expression, while Essen stayed far away and refused to come over—hey, wasn't this your captain?

Fortunately, Freya soon regained control of her emotions. Yet she kept staring blankly in a certain direction, her once-bright eyes now filled with loneliness.

Brando recognized that loneliness. He had seen the same look in the eyes of the one known as the Valkyrie—quiet sorrow flowing within them, as though it could never be dispelled.

But suddenly, he felt it was a pity. Compared to that, he preferred the simple, soft-hearted, and stubborn Freya—the Freya who could get angry over little things.

But how should he begin? He hesitated for a long time, yet when the words reached his lips, they seemed pale and powerless. He had prepared several lines in his mind, but none of them felt right.

Just as his head began to ache, the girl spoke first.

"Mr. Brando," she called.

"Hm?"

"Why do you think there has to be war?"

Ah, he had never seriously thought about that question. In the game, great guilds went to war over the division of benefits, reputation, or even merely pride. Between nations, they fought over interests, sovereignty, and territory; the flames of war could spread across the land at any moment.

Before, he might have answered that humans were creatures always driven by desire, yearning for conquest and plunder, and so they endlessly warred against one another.

But after everything that had happened today, especially Freya's helpless tears, which had been forever etched into his heart and could never be erased, he suddenly realized how laughable that answer was. No one could rise above their own race. Humans—both weak and strong.

"War will always happen. We can only choose to accept it."

"We were born in a terrible age. We can't choose our age, but we can try to change it," Brando answered. As he spoke, his heart suddenly opened up because of his own words. "Perhaps we can't change anything, but at least we once fought alongside many others to make it happen—such memories are already priceless."

He remembered those days in the game when he had fought for Eluin: so many friends, so many like-minded companions, so many vows. Though in the end the song had ended and everyone had gone their separate ways, he had recalled those days countless times—yet never regretted them because they were gone.

Those were memories that belonged to Eluin.

They haunted his dreams, leaving him unable to forget them for so long.

The girl was silent beside him.

"Freya."

"Hm?"

"You must love them very much."

"Hm." The girl replied, "After my father died, Aunt Syl always took care of me. They were proud of me."

"But wasn't I the same? I loved them more than anything."

"It's just that I find it strange. Why did heaven choose you?" Brando said.

"Hm?"

"Freya, have you ever thought about what it would be like if one day you became the guardian deity of this land?"

"How could that be possible, Mr. Brando? Are you secretly laughing at me—" The girl sounded a little angry, but her voice then lowered. "I do want to be a good captain, but I only have so much strength, only that little. I only want to fulfill my responsibility. Anything farther than that, I can't do."

No, you did not merely do it—you did it well. Freya, you would become Eluin's last hero, and also the one people remembered most dearly.

Humble, earnest, strong, and kind-hearted—heaven had given you ordinary talents, yet also bestowed upon you the finest qualities and an extraordinary life.

Brando turned the ebony gargoyle statuette over and over in his hands. Staring into the distance, he sighed. "Freya, I don't know how far you'll go in the future, but I want you to remember something."

"Hm?"

"Do you know what the word 'companion' means? No matter how far you go, there will always be many people by your side. You will never be alone."

Freya froze. Suddenly, a bitter ache welled up in her eyes. She thought of Romane, of Little Finis, of Essen and Macmi, of everyone in the Third Militia Squad.

And, of course, Aunt Syl.

She wiped the corners of her eyes and looked up at the sky—the night was split in two by a fiery crimson curtain. Green Village was burning, and the roaring flames in the darkness seemed to foretell an even greater catastrophe.

"Thank you," she answered softly. "Shameless Brando."

Our protagonist choked.

But when he turned back, Freya's eyes shone brightly, glittering like stars in the night sky. In that moment, Brando suddenly felt that his existence had value. At the very least, history had changed, hadn't it?

Bresen quickly obtained what he wanted—food and medicine. Though Green Village had been almost completely destroyed on the surface, finding such things was not difficult—the undead needed neither food nor medicine, so those supplies had simply been left piled there.

Besides, they had Brando.

Although Buchi, Webin, and the three towns of Green Village all lay within the jurisdiction of Buchi's Guard Detachment, when it came to familiarity with the area, those young guardsmen truly could not compare to Brando.

Drawing on memories from the past, Brando easily found the secret cellars of two country gentry estates. Inside were not only grain, medicine, and supplies, but pig iron, copper, even gold and silver. However, they could not carry the excess goods, so they could only seal the cellars back up exactly as they had found them. Perhaps they might still prove useful someday.

Of course, returning empty-handed after entering a treasure vault was not Brando's habit, especially not as a player. The owners of these estates had all died in this war and had no descendants. Brando knew that the estates would later be reduced to ashes by Madara's undead—the hidden cellars would become the things players most eagerly sought after. Finding just one was enough to make a small fortune.

That was why he knew the locations of these cellars so well—players were creatures who never rose early without profit.

He could not take the large items, but he certainly could not pass up magical equipment. Under everyone's astonished gazes, he opened several hidden compartments with a series of sharp snaps. Most contained gold, silver, jewels, and precious ornaments, but our protagonist disdained them. They were wealth in the game, but on the battlefield, they were worthless except as burdens.

The young deputy captain of the Guard Detachment wore a dark expression as he watched suspiciously. Since when had this fellow learned the tricks of a nighttime thief? But with his character, surely he would not willingly sink so low?

Then Brando pulled out a set of women's half-plate armor with a rustle. It was a retro suit of armor, its bright surface adorned with intricate brass fittings. Its black-and-gold patterns marked it as an art piece in the style of the Year of the Return of Light.

But before people could tear their eyes away from the beautiful armor, Brando produced a padded arming garment from somewhere with another swish. Then he beckoned to Freya. "Freya, come here."

"Hm?" The future Valkyrie was slightly taken aback.

"Try on this armor."

"Wait." Bresen could not help sneering instinctively. "Brando, you don't intend to have Freya wear that decoration, do you? Not all armor is meant for actual combat, understand?"

Brando could not be bothered to pay him any attention. Holding the arming garment, he was about to help Freya put it on. But the girl blushed, her ponytail swaying as she took it from him. "I-I'll do it myself."

He paused. There had not been so many concerns in the game; he and his female knight and warrior companions had always helped one another put on armor. He had forgotten that this was reality.

"What are you thinking?" Bresen could not help asking after watching Freya run behind a pile of timber by herself.

"What?"

"That's an art piece. It's far too heavy. You don't actually intend to have Freya fight in it, do you? Besides, have you militia ever learned how to fight in armor?"

"Too heavy?" It was the first time Brando had ever heard such a claim. He could not help turning to look at the young deputy captain of the Guard Detachment, wondering whether water had gotten into the man's brain.

He did not bother explaining. Instead, he waved Freya over and helped her put on the half-plate. Then he asked, "How does it feel?"

"A little heavy. I'm not very flexible."

The young men behind Bresen broke into snickers. An obvious decorative piece—how could it not be heavy? Most of the laughter was good-natured, though there was no lack of malicious mockery.

Brando ignored them and spoke to the armor instead. "S'taz."

The word was Ancient Language, meaning wind.

In an instant, the half-plate was enveloped in a layer of azure light. With a rush, it rose from Freya's body and fitted closely around her, protecting her from head to toe. The girl froze slightly, then cried out in surprise, "This—?"

Brando turned back. "The Empress of Wind Half-Plate, infused with wind Elements, and someone actually described it as too heavy. Even if the elven craftsman who designed this armor were dead, he probably wouldn't rest in peace."

Bresen's face darkened, while the young knights behind him fell completely silent.