And Still, I Felt

This time… it wasn't the curse.

This time… it was me.

Not some voice whispering in my ear. Not rage boiling over. Just a decision. Cold and conscious.

I stood there, sword in hand, staring at the scum who are coming to kill me. Not for power. Not for justice. Just because I tried protecting those poor womens and girls just because I stood for justice.

The atmosphere around me was dense. The silence before the storm. But my heartbeat thudded loud like war drums. This wasn't like with the Devil Banishers. This time… I wanted to fight.

I shifted my stance—left hand and right leg forward, right hand holding the sword with left leg back for balance. I wasn't perfect, but Jonathan's teachings weren't gone. They lived in my bones now.

The first man lunged.

I flinched.

Just for a second. Just enough to miss my mark. My blade sliced through his right hand instead of his neck. He howled, blood spraying, stumbling back. Even now… part of me resisted. The part of me that didn't want to kill.

That hesitation nearly cost me.

The second attacker didn't wait. He came with a scream, axe raised. I swung—not wildly, but deliberately—and my sword tore through his throat. Blood poured like a waterfall, hot and thick. His eyes widened in shock, then dulled as he collapsed, gurgling.

My chest tightened. Not from fear. From pain. Something inside cracked.

But I didn't stop.

I swung again, cutting through the leg of another. Then again. Again. Each motion sharper. Cleaner. Like the sword was no longer a tool, but a part of me. My body moved before I could think. Jonathan's voice echoed in my head—"Your blade isn't an accessory it's a part of your body"

They came at me in waves—more than fifty in total.

I managed to kill around ten. Wounded maybe nineteen. But the numbers were overwhelming. They circled, closing in like rats. My breath grew heavy, arms tired, steps slower.

And then… I felt it.

The sword. It pulsed in my hand—like a second heartbeat. The air bent. Time slowed.

From the blade, he emerged.

A presence, pitch-black, like the shadows of the dead. The spirit in my sword. No longer silent.

I dropped to my knees. Not from fear. From pressure. The sheer gravity of him weighed me down like a thousand chains.

"WHAT IS IN THIS CURSED WORLD THAT YOU WISH TO PROTECT?" His voice was thunder in my ears. "WHAT DRIVES YOU TO FIGHT, TO KILL, TO BLEED? WHO ARE YOU FIGHTING FOR?"

I couldn't answer.

My mind fumbled for something—anything. But there was nothing. Just silence.

"THERE IS NOTHING WORTH SAVING." His words hit like knives. "DID YOU NOT SEE THOSE GIRLS ABANDON YOU? NOT EVEN A SECOND THOUGHT. THE UNCONSCIOUS ONE LEFT BEHIND. THE WORLD DOES NOT CARE FOR THE WEAK. THEY BLAME OTHERS FOR THEIR WOUNDS. THEY BETRAY. THEY FORSAKE."

He wasn't wrong.

But something in me rebelled. My heart pounded harder. My lips trembled, and I shouted—raw and broken—

"YOU'RE WRONG!"

My voice cracked in the stillness. "Maybe this world is cursed. Maybe most people are selfish… but not all. Annya's smile still exists. That fox girl—she saved the unconscious one. And there are others. People like her… like me… like Miss Annya, still waiting. Waiting for someone to protect them. From the darkness. From themselves. From the weight this damned world puts on their shoulders!"

The spirit went silent.

I forced myself up. Shaking like a newborn deer. My head low—not from shame, but from the burden I now carried.

And in that moment… I saw something.

His eyes. Hollow and void—but for a flicker. A flicker of change. Maybe even… a smile.

Or maybe I imagined it.

The sword pulsed again. Energy surged through me, wild and brutal. The blade was cloaked in a dark aura, crackling with cursed power. It screamed in my hands. If I let it overflow, it would tear me apart.

But I didn't.

I gritted my teeth and swung.

The first strike—

Twelve bodies flew back. Some sliced in half, others missing heads or limbs. Blood gushed in waves. Flesh split like rotten wood. Bones cracked like twigs. The battlefield became a crimson swamp.

My right arm screamed in agony. It felt like it had torn from the socket. But I gripped harder.

I swung again.

The rest—those who tried to flee—didn't make it.

My blade tore through them like a reaper's scythe. Chests split open. Backs cleaved in two. A spray of red painted the walls. It was a massacre. A bath of blood.

My coat—once black—was soaked. My shirt—once white—now a deep, sticky red. My boots stepped over bodies, crushed ribs beneath.

My arm hung limp, bone likely broken.

But worse than that… my heart ached.

It wasn't guilt.

It was something else. Something deeper. A reminder that, despite what I'd just done, despite how much blood was on my hands…

I still felt.

And that pain?

It was proof I was still human.