He resumed his steps. One step, two steps—he drew closer to Delroz.
“Banteon. Get away.”
The end of the harsh shout quivered. Beneath the forced strength in the voice, there was an unmistakable tremor of fear. What could possibly scare him this much? There was no need to ask—Banteon already knew. Even in the throes of a rampage, the foolish Esper wasn’t afraid of dying himself—he was terrified he might take Banteon’s life.
Clicking his tongue, Banteon watched. The way Rohan had tried to reach his guide, even as his heart was being pierced. The way Delroz, while being hollowed out from the inside, still tried to evacuate Banteon.
What could be weaker than this? Was there anything more fragile in the world?
“Delroz. Look at me.”
In their dazed eye contact, Delroz’s face was painted with a fear Banteon had never seen before. And that look made him smile. Perhaps he had predicted something like this when he refused Tearot’s offer of suppressants and blockers.
Delroz’s eyes wavered as he realized Banteon’s intent.
“Please… don’t do this.”
Delroz’s voice was pleading. His injured body trembled, blood seeping from his tightly clenched fists. The once-mighty Esper had grown so weak, he couldn’t even stop a single step from his Guide.
Banteon spat another mouthful of blood onto the floor, the clotted mess bubbling up his throat. Delroz’s face went pale. Banteon’s body had already reached its limit.
But even amid the chaos, Banteon’s mind was strangely calm. It felt like everything would be fine. Everything would turn out okay.
“Delroz. You must not know this.”
Delroz’s face, now close enough to touch, was painted in despair. Banteon wiped the blood from the corner of his lips and smiled gently.
“My Esper would never kill me.”
So don’t worry.
Without hesitation, Banteon threw himself into Delroz’s arms. Beyond the fading blur of his dimming consciousness, the voice calling his name like a scream sounded unbearably lovely.
***
Dull, blunt shards of iron, easily crushed between fingers. Fragments of glass weaker than a fingernail. Useless things like that spun and hovered all around him.
Irritating. Tiresome. Why even bother with such trivial nuisances?
They couldn’t even snip a strand of hair—yet they refused to leave his sight. In the pitch-black void where no sound could be heard, he looked around, wondering how long he would have to stay.
Even in a harmless space like this, baseless anxiety made his heart pound. The voiceless urge whispered in his ear—he had to get out, had to find something and leave.
He brushed aside the object that skimmed past his eye and walked through the long darkness. A narrow gap emitted a brilliant beam of light. The radiance poured down so intensely, it hurt his eyes—it was calling to him.
He had to go there.
He had to run. Move. But even as he strained his legs, they wouldn’t budge—as if glued to the ground.
No. If this keeps up…
Though he didn’t know what might happen, panic clenched his chest like a vise. He forced strength into his limbs, and with a movement that felt like his ankles might tear, he finally managed to shift one foot.
Now he could go.
Or so he thought—until all the objects that had been aimlessly orbiting him suddenly darted toward the light at breakneck speed.
At the center of the darkness, in the midst of that brilliant light, stood a man with silver hair.
No!
He screamed, but the voice didn’t make it out. The man stood still, gazing off into the distance. Noble and unyielding. He looked straight ahead, meeting the flying blades head-on.
Please dodge. Please run! The silent scream caught in his throat.
The weapons rained down upon that delicate body, one that could be torn apart with a mere brush.
The moment a sharp metal fragment touched the pale nape of his neck, the distant light exploded before his eyes.
A blinding white flash.
“Ah…”
His stiff tongue finally loosened. He rubbed his trembling jaw, as if staving off a seizure, and lowered his head.
A terrible dream.
His fingers tingled with a dull ache, trembling, so he clenched and unclenched them over and over to relax.
It was the same nightmare Delroz had every night lately.
It always ended just before Banteon’s body was torn to pieces.
He roughly rubbed his face with both hands. A dream. Just a dream. Nothing more than a fragile illusion once awakened. He wasn’t one to be swayed by such weakness. Dreams weren’t his enemy.
Reality was far worse.
“Excuse me for a moment.”
A knock, then the door opened. A therapist dressed in white approached Delroz—not directly, but to the bed beside him.
There lay a frail body, limp and motionless under the therapist’s gentle hands. A figure so delicate, just like the one in his dream.
The therapist wiped the body with a damp cloth and tidied the bedding with practiced movements. Delroz never once looked away from Banteon, who hung limp like a corpse.
Seasons had passed already.
The snow-filled winter faded, spring had come with fluttering petals, and now the warm winds of early summer had arrived.
And yet, Banteon had not opened his eyes.
His transparent skin, veins clearly visible, was wasting away.
Even with prolonged nutrition through a feeding tube, his body continued to wither. Already fragile from the beginning, Banteon now seemed like he might vanish into dust at any moment.
Delroz hadn’t left his side for even a second, afraid that if he did, Banteon would disappear.
The first humans he encountered when he was finally able to move on his own within the hollow dungeon were all the same.
Selfish. Hypocritical.
They only cared for themselves and stabbed others in the back without hesitation.
And the ones classified as “men” were the worst.
Noisy and filthy.
They couldn’t even hide their greed, strutting around like they owned the place. What a joke.
A pitiful, inept lifeform—Delroz had despised even the fact that it shared the same shape as him.
If only Banteon had been the same.
But Banteon was the kind of man who would leap into danger without so much as a shield, volunteering to be bait. Amid nobles intoxicated with their own vanity, he alone shone with noble dignity.
It had been that way ever since the mines. Though he bore the most exalted bloodline, he always led from the front in the most perilous places. Every time he moved with that indifferent air, as if it were nothing, Delroz’s heart burned.
He would walk into the jaws of death with a body so fragile it could be torn by a single sheet of paper, all because someone had to be bait.
Even now, Delroz could still feel the scorching desert heat wrapped around him.
In the moment he writhed in the agony of a rampage, the hand that reached him hadn’t been that of a saint’s mercy—it was a sweet, despairing curse, like the smile of a devil come to destroy everything.
Even knowing he should stop, his wretched instincts had wanted to consume Banteon.
He could still see it clearly—Banteon collapsing with his arms around Delroz’s neck.
The sensation of fingers brushing the nape of his neck still strangled him cruelly to this day. He knew the feeling would never leave him.
Like a leash knotted around his throat, it choked Delroz with every breath.
Every time he looked at Banteon’s pale, limp body, he remembered that pathetic boy once frozen in ice. The corpse of a Guide who had died in the arms of a foolish Esper.
Would Banteon stay like that forever, eyes closed for eternity?
Would he, too, become like Rohan—forced to watch Banteon die while bleeding from the heart?
Holding onto Banteon’s withered and twisted body…
“…Uh…”
A faint sound—his long lashes quivered, casting a shadow over his eyes. The movement was so subtle, so weak, like a leaf trembling in the wind.
Was it just a desperate illusion brought on by longing?
Even with the doubt, Delroz’s body moved. He leaned in over the bed, bracing himself, trying to get a better look.
The faint breath that had been so shallow began to waver ever so slightly.
As Delroz’s own heartbeat grew loud in his ears, pulsing through his veins like a drumbeat, Banteon’s eyelids twitched again.
It wasn’t an illusion.
Delroz couldn’t determine if what he saw was real or imagined.
Frozen for a long moment, he finally called out the name he had yearned for, his voice trembling.
“Banteon?”
As if responding to the call, a pair of eyes opened slowly—blue as the spring sky.
Clear as flawless crystal, those eyes gently bloomed.
They wandered at first, unable to focus, fluttering in the air like they were adjusting to the light. And then, they turned to Delroz.
The moment their eyes met, everything stopped.
The heart that had just been pounding furiously plummeted to the floor and soared back up like a lie.
“You… You’re awake…”
Delroz managed to open his mouth, but couldn’t say more.
His heart beat so violently it felt as though it would leap out of his open mouth.
Banteon’s bloodless lips parted slightly.
His face, stiff and devoid of strength, managed the faintest smile.
“Told you… I was right…”
His voice was hoarse, cracked, and broken—but he smiled.
He had been right, hadn’t he? That his Esper would never kill him. That the words he’d left behind like a final will weren’t in vain.
Banteon had returned from the brink of death, smiling proudly like a warrior announcing victory.
His eyes curved like crescent moons, white and radiant.
Delroz pressed a hand to his chest.
This wasn’t a dream.
He was breathing.
He had opened his eyes.
It wasn’t an illusion.
With every breath Banteon drew—his chest rising and falling stronger each time—the world trembled around that tiny movement.
“…Yeah.”
Delroz’s reply came out shaky, barely formed.
He nodded, voice wet and trembling.
A single droplet fell onto the white blanket, staining it gray.
This was the moment—just before the 100th day since Banteon’s return from the desert.
