Chapter Seventeen: Old Grievances from Years Past

I smiled as I gazed at Lamia, watching the flames flicker across her flawless cheeks.

Lamia asked, “Do you have something to say?”

I replied, “Those two children from ten years ago were you.”

Salvador leapt up, shouting, “What did you say?”

The answer was obvious. Ten years ago, I had saved Lamia’s life, and it had been during her most helpless, vulnerable moment. I intended to use this debt of gratitude to further cement my position, seizing the opportunity to rise above. If what I had done for her before had perhaps still fallen short, then now, surely, she would be moved.

When you are at your weakest and most desperate, even the smallest kindness seems invaluable, impossible to repay. That is precisely Lamia’s situation. I was certain she could not forget her savior; in her heart, his—my—image must be radiant and towering, impossible to erase.

Worship me, Lamia, and use all your abilities and authority to help me ascend to the summit of power.

I stood, puffed out my chest, and declared loudly, “My original name is Longinus! I am the warrior who stepped forward and saved you and your brother!”

They all fell silent.

Betty broke the silence: “I don’t believe it.”

I glared at the doubter. There are always ignorant people who fail to see the truth, just as the world questioned the savior sent by Jehovah. Their blindness leads them to slander the righteous, committing sins that cannot be washed away.

Betty said, “Didn’t you say your name was Fishbone? Why did you change it as soon as the commander told the story?”

I shouted, “Because in that moment, I remembered my true name!”

Betty said, “That’s too much of a coincidence.”

I hurried to look at Lamia. Her expression remained calm and indifferent. I quickly said, “Commander Lamia, you must believe me. I remember that day: Orchide led me and Mielce out for a trial. He made us take the longest route, avoid danger, and gather supplies. The factory was at… it was at Silent Lake, yes, right nearby.”

Salvador asked, “I can’t recall. Sis, what about you?”

Lamia lowered her head, murmured, and replied, “He got the location right.”

I secretly breathed a sigh of relief, for I had been guessing. I only remembered a vague direction from that incident, since the storm had left the three of us somewhat lost. If I had gotten it wrong, would I not have gone from hero to fraud? Such is the fickleness of human hearts, so easily clouded by prejudice. Sometimes, a single misstep leads to ruin, turning truth upside down.

I patted Salvador’s shoulder, trying to make my gaze gentle and kind. “Child, I ask for nothing more—just a simple thank you.”

Salvador said, “Sorry, I still find it hard to believe. As Betty said, it’s just too bizarre, too coincidental.”

If it weren’t for the commander, I’d have struck this ungrateful brat.

Lamia asked, “I want to know what happened afterward. Did Simon die? Since you’re alive, Simon must have died.”

I took off my coat, lifted my shirt, and showed her the scar across my chest and abdomen. “That Simon nearly killed me. But Orchide arrived, wounded Simon’s neck—his injury was fatal. The man escaped, even Orchide couldn’t catch him.”

Suddenly, Lamia touched my wound. Her palm was slick with cold sweat. I noticed her hand was smaller, more beautiful, and gentler than I had imagined—not the hand of a warrior, but more like those of a clerk or student.

After all, she was still only an eighteen-year-old girl.

At that moment, I felt it didn’t matter anymore. Whether she believed me or not—what difference did it make? I had saved her, and she had grown brilliantly, becoming an outstanding warrior; that, in itself, was the best repayment. The ones she truly should thank and remember were Flora and Trex, who protected her to their last breath. I merely suffered a few wounds—what was that compared to their sacrifice?

Lamia said, “Well, this world really is small.”

Salvador said, “You actually believe him?”

Lamia replied, “Belief is irrelevant. Whether he’s Longinus or Fishbone, he’s a trustworthy comrade.”

That was not bad at all—better than a tearful embrace or a noisy reunion. Although I rather wanted to hug the commander, considering her strength and character, I dismissed the idea.

I suddenly remembered something important and searched my pack, pulling out a golden fountain pen. Lamia and Salvador’s eyes were drawn to it instantly, unable to look away.

This pen had been lost by Simon in battle and was Orchide’s trophy, but he no longer needed it.

I said, “Perhaps it’s not much of a clue, but maybe this can help you find Simon Magnus?”

Salvador said, “Sis, that’s… Simon’s! I’ll never forget that meeting! He spun this exact pen!”

Lamia took the pen and said, “Thank you.” Nothing more, not a single additional word; she even turned away, refusing to look at me.

Ah, see—she truly hadn’t kept that debt of gratitude in her heart. So be it; though the benefit was slight, there was no real loss.

Suddenly, Lamia gripped her gun in her left hand and drew her sword with her right. My heart skipped a beat as I hurriedly swallowed Odin’s Eye. I heard light footsteps—eight people outside, we were surrounded.

Why was I so plagued by misfortune? I only wanted to reach the skyscraper sooner, but why was the journey always fraught with trouble?

Outside, someone said, “Four people.”

Another replied, “One’s carrying Jiu Rong’s sword?”

The first confirmed, “Exactly.”

Lamia looked at the sword in her hand. “Are you from the Sword and Shield Society? I am a Ranger from the Skyscraper!”

Someone outside shouted, “I’ll give you a chance to surrender. Drop your weapons and walk out with your hands raised!”

Lamia replied, “I’m afraid I can’t comply. We have no quarrel with you.”

Sword and Shield Society said, “You’re holding the weapon of our fallen commander; it concerns his honor.”

Lamia said, “The weapon can be returned, but we know nothing of his death, nor are we involved.”

Sword and Shield Society: “That will be determined after judgment.”

Lamia said, “You have no right to judge me.”

The Sword and Shield Society fell silent.

I knew their ways well and said, “Be careful, they’re about to charge in.”

The door boomed, and a fully armored figure, resembling a medieval knight, burst through the entrance. Lamia did not fire but slashed at him with her sword. He raised his large shield to block, but Lamia leapt up, kicking between his sword and shield, striking his helmet. He flew out the door like a hurled lead ball.

Another burst in—they didn’t seem intent on killing, using their shields to barge toward us. Lamia swung Jiu Rong’s sword in heavy blows; the big man was forced back, metal clashing with a dizzying, ear-splitting sound. On her third strike, the shield shattered, yet the sword remained intact. The man retreated step by step, his demeanor respectful.

This was Sword and Shield Society’s rule: when outnumbering their opponent, and the foe is human, they follow dueling principles—single combat, unless casualties occur or the situation becomes urgent.

But they would not always stick rigidly to the code.

Lamia stepped outside, I followed close behind. Eight Sword and Shield knights formed a fan-shaped line, clad in black exoskeletal armor—some plain and graceless, like walking rectangular boxes, a few light and elegant, resembling agile Siberian wolves.

I noticed one “box” moved, its head aimed at me, but I couldn’t discern its expression.

Lamia said, “This area is not without demons. We are all human—there’s no benefit in mutual slaughter. I will report all that I’ve witnessed truthfully; afterward, please allow us to leave.”

Sword and Shield Society remained silent. A wolf-armored knight stepped forward, not carrying a shield, but holding a sword similar to Lamia’s, though bigger. He pointed his blade at Lamia.

Lamia struck first, slashing vertically. The knight sidestepped; her attack missed. He swung at Lamia’s right arm, but she suddenly ducked in, raising her arm to block his wrist. She tried to lift him, but he headbutted her. Lamia’s forehead bled. At the same time, she launched both feet, kicking him away. The wolf-armored knight staggered back several steps before halting.

“If not for my armor, you would have gutted me,” said the wolf-armored knight. “It is my honor to fall to you, exceptional warrior.”

Lamia wiped the blood from her cheek, as if immersed in battle like a Native warrior. She declared, “The Sword and Shield Society’s martial reputation is well deserved. This duel is my glory as well.”

The wolf-armored knight added, “But you’ve taken a serious blow to the head, your breathing is unsteady—you won’t withstand our next fighter.”

Lamia’s gaze turned cold. “Who is your next fighter?”

“Milce, draw your sword,” said the wolf-armored knight.

The rectangular box that had been watching me removed his helmet, entered a password on his arm, and his armor automatically disengaged and fell away—Milce emerged.

He was much as I remembered, but his gaze was like a blade of steel—unyielding, resolute. He wore long, curly hair; his heroic face was sharply defined, a thin scar on the left side, which only heightened his masculine aura.

Milce glanced at me—he unmistakably recognized me. I could see his countless questions, but he suppressed them, obeying the iron rules and current command.

I said to Lamia, “Let me.”

Lamia asked, “Do you think I can’t win?”

I replied, “I know him.”

Lamia nodded, stepped back slowly. As she passed me, her lips brushed my ear, whispering, “Take care not to be hurt. That’s an order.”

I said, “Commander, I can’t promise that. Milce is formidable.”

Lamia lightly touched the scar on my chest and abdomen. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but she hurried away, seeming flustered.

I suspected she was suffering a mild concussion.