Ah, my side hurts like a bitch!
Elion was painfully dragging himself toward the meeting point they had agreed on. He had acted all mighty and strong when he killed the High Lord's clone, but his wound was bad—so bad that the long walk ahead of him felt like torture.
Still, he wouldn't give up. Not after all he'd done. At the end of the four days, if the battleship didn't appear, they would have won.
So Elion continued, wearing the High Lord's mask and carrying her sword. Much to his dismay, her body had disintegrated into shadows not long after being beheaded, but her accessories remained. The onyx sword he held now was only a mere replica of the original, but it was still leagues above Farha's own weaponry.
No disrespect—Farha's weapons were masterpieces—but they couldn't hold a candle to Miss Shadow's.
He decided to keep the mask as a sort of trophy. He couldn't keep the whole head, as he'd originally planned, so he settled for the mask. Less gruesome, but it still sent a message.
By noon, after walking for a couple of hours, Elion collapsed near a tree and fell asleep. He'd done his best to bandage his wound with what little he had but exhaustion caught up to him. Hopefully, he wouldn't wake up in the next loop—or not wake up at all, depending on how this one ended.
He wasn't far from Keill's base, but he simply couldn't keep going.
Elion woke in the same spot where he had collapsed, unharmed. He'd half-hoped to be rescued while he slept, but no one had come.
So he had to keep dragging himself, painfully.
When he stood, he tasted blood on his tongue. Crimson bubbled at his lips, running under the mask and down his chin.
This is bad…
An internal wound.
His limbs were growing colder, but he pushed on—one hour, then another.
There was movement ahead, in the foliage. He was still an hour from camp, maybe two considering his staggering pace. The figure in the distance spotted him and rushed toward him.
Let's just hope it's not the High Lord coming to avenge her clone…
The face that emerged from the shadows brought relief—but also a bitter taste. He hadn't forgotten his conversation with Farha in the last loop. The trust he'd built with her had crumbled, but he wasn't in a position to be picky about who saved him.
Elion lifted one hand in a tired wave, clutching his bloodied side with the other.
"Hey, mind giving me a hand?"
Farha narrowed her eyes but recognized his voice and posture even with the mask on. Her suspicion shifted to concern as she rushed to his side.
"Where were you?" she asked. "You were supposed to meet up with us a while ago."
"I was…" Elion coughed, blood spilling further down his chin and neck. "Taking care of an old friend…"
Farha sighed, staring at his mask.
"You really did take her down…"
"Her clone, yes."
"Could you…" she gestured for him to remove the mask.
Elion glared at her, then at his own hands.
"No…" he muttered.
Last time she'd looked at him, she'd seen someone else. He didn't want that again.
"Did you get disfigured or something? I won't judge you, I promise."
The question caught him off guard. It felt oddly innocent.
As if I'd care if I got disfigured… well… maybe I would.
He shook his head, stepped forward, then stumbled—caught by the princess of war.
Guess I'll be leaning on her like the good old times…
They walked back to camp. Farha looked like she wanted to speak the whole way but she didn't. Elion found it amusing—he saw a lot of himself in her in that regard.
The foliage gave way to a familiar clearing. The tent was still there, the same as last time. Eshrod sat by the fire, bandages covering her black arms. She was also missing two fingers… and an ear.
I guess I'm not the only one who had it rough.
Her core was even more sinister than before when he glanced at her with his ability. She was talking to Leonard—the blonde-haired Zeus wannabe—who now had a scar running along her face. They were discussing how she could detect enemies using the electricity in the air.
She must have fought another High Lord clone.
When they spotted Elion and Farha, Eshrod grinned.
"You don't look beat up at all."
"You neither." Elion smirked behind his mask—then winced from the pain.
Alphons sat staring blankly into the fire, his right arm ending in a stump. Hela was tending to Talom, who bore a large scar across his chest.
Lumos emerged from the tent, drawn by the noise. His hair was now short. He wore the same stylish suit as last loop, not a scratch on his face.
Looks like some did have it easier…
The sorcerer rushed to Elion's side, bringing him inside. They laid him on the bed—probably the one Lumos and Keill had used for less innocent purposes, though he tried not to think about that.
Speaking of which, the eccentric woman was chatting with Kellta. Elion didn't understand their exchange without the translation runes, though he was good enough with Terask to catch Keill's words.
The fire-wielding imp squinted at Elion's mask with a silent question, but the young cook offered no answer. Seeing his battered state, Keill tended his wounds with a practiced hand.
"So, I presume not all went according to plan," she said, finishing the bandages.
"Of course everything went to plan!" Elion scoffed. "I made a new friend—named him Gelato—convinced the General of the Sun to trample on his honor by mentioning his now long-dead wife, and for dessert, I killed my archenemy."
"At least you had fun," Keill said with a smile.
"I sure did…" His tone was dark.
There was no real reason for it, in hindsight, but it didn't feel right.
He had entered this loop only two days ago, but outside, it had probably been a year. And all he got out of it was mental baggage, half-resolved revenge, and a frayed relationship with Farha. Though in fairness, that last problem was on his end—she didn't even remember their conversation.
Killing the High Lord's clone had felt good in the moment, but now it felt hollow. He had slain an echo of the past—a soul trapped in time for a thousand years, destined to die when the loop broke anyway.
At least I got a cool new sword, and I've honed my fighting style to its peak.
But in two days, he'd be back to crawling in the mud, following a stupid river god knows where.
It all just seemed so unfair.
Another day passed. Elion sat alone by the fire, still wearing the mask. It just felt right—at least until he could figure out what was wrong with him. Two blades lay before him: the familiar curved sword of the Uru family, and Miss Shadow's onyx sword.
The onyx blade was a thin, katana-like weapon, slightly thicker than what humans typically forged. Its hilt was wrapped in deep green silk, and four golden runes glowed faintly along the back section.
He picked it up and unsheathed it. The weight was perfect, the grip immaculate.
That's going to do just fine.
He went to find Farha, wincing as he stood. She was lying away from the others, her head resting lazily in the grass as she stared at the cloudy sky. When Elion's shadow fell over her, she shot upright like a startled cat.
He held out her sword.
"Thanks for lending it to me," he said simply, as she took the scabbard from his hand.
She stared at it for a moment.
"Why are you giving it back?"
"Because I don't need it anymore. I found my own weapon." His hand tightened on the onyx sword's hilt.
"Right…" She shoved the sword back into the void.
Is it just me, or does she look sad to get it back?
"Well, I'm off." Elion turned to leave, but Farha stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
"Eli… are you… alright?" she asked.
He sighed, not even turning back.
"You've asked me that a lot recently."
"In previous loops?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
He nodded.
"Those weren't me…" she muttered.
Elion stayed silent for a long moment.
"Yes, they were…" he said bitterly, brushing her hand aside and walking away.