Chapter 17 _ At the Bottom of Helplessness, or a Discipline That Resembled Revenge
I didn’t know where I was going.
My feet moved on their own,
as if putting distance between myself and the guild
might somehow quiet the noise inside my head.
I had run.
Not because I didn’t care—
but because I cared too much
and had nothing to offer.
No money.
No strength.
No words that wouldn’t turn into lies.
The city passed by in a blur.
I stopped only when my lungs burned.
“…So this is what I am.”
I leaned against a wall and slid down to the ground.
My hands trembled.
When Iris had offered herself so casually,
I had felt something inside me snap.
Not desire.
Shame.
The shame of knowing that even if I reached out,
my hands would come back empty.
I wanted to help her.
But wanting meant nothing.
“You are alive.”
A familiar voice cut through my thoughts.
I looked up.
Frey stood there—
no, hovered there, arms folded, eyes unreadable.
“You fled.”
“…Yeah.”
“And yet you are still breathing.”
“…Yeah.”
She tilted her head.
“Explain.”
I swallowed.
“If I had stayed…
I would’ve said something comforting.”
“Something meaningless.”
“And I would’ve hated myself for it.”
Silence fell between us.
Then Frey nodded once.
“…Good.”
“Good?” I repeated.
“You did not lie to her,” she said.
“Nor did you lie to yourself.”
“That restraint is… rare.”
Her words didn’t comfort me.
They only sharpened the pain.
“I’m weak,” I said.
“Mentally. Physically.
As a man. As a living thing.”
“I can’t protect anyone.”
“I can’t even carry my own resolve for more than a moment.”
I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my skin.
“But… I don’t want to look away again.”
Frey watched me carefully.
“…Then what will you do?”
I stood up.
“I’ll train.”
“Not to become strong.”
“Just… to stop being useless.”
That night, I returned to the outskirts of the city.
The ground there was uneven,
strewn with stones and discarded timber.
I picked up a heavy piece of wood
and began to swing it.
Again.
And again.
My arms screamed in protest.
My grip slipped.
I swung until my palms tore open
and blood stained the dirt.
I kept going.
This wasn’t punishment.
It was proof.
Proof that I was still alive,
still capable of choosing pain over escape.
The next morning,
I returned to the waste collector’s job.
Arabes glanced at my blistered hands.
“…Rough night?”
“Something like that.”
He said nothing more.
Work was work.
We hauled waste.
We scrubbed filth from stone.
We washed ourselves in the stream.
My muscles burned.
My back ached.
But the pain felt… honest.
Days passed.
I worked during the day
and trained at night.
Swing.
Lift.
Aim.
Again.
Again.
Again.
I didn’t count the hours.
I counted the moments when my body told me to stop—
and moved anyway.
Not because I was brave.
But because stopping would mean turning away.
One night, as I collapsed onto the ground,
Frey appeared beside me.
“You are slow,” she said.
“I know.”
“You are clumsy.”
“I know.”
“You may never be strong.”
“…I know.”
She stared at me for a long moment.
“…And yet you persist.”
She looked away.
“Very well.”
“I will not help you.”
“But I will not stop you.”
“That is all you get.”
“…That’s enough.”
I lay there, staring at the stars.
My body hurt.
My heart hurt.
But for the first time since coming to this world,
the pain didn’t feel hollow.
I didn’t know if I could ever stand beside Iris.
I didn’t know if I would ever be worthy of her pain.
But I knew this—
I would not run again.
Not from her.
Not from myself.
And not from the weakness
that still lived inside my flesh.
