Translator: CinderTL
Endless darkness engulfed Roland like a surging tide, yet his consciousness remained unnervingly clear.
He felt suspended in the void's center, yet utterly detached from his physical body.
This darkness carried an inexplicable familiarity, as if it were a forgotten corner of his memory, where traces of the past lingered.
As he pondered this bizarre predicament, a voice suddenly pierced the silence.
At first, it was a distant murmur, like countless people whispering simultaneously, or the grating echo of metal scraping against metal.
The voice grew closer, becoming clearer yet increasingly chaotic.
Whispers of varying pitches, speeds, and even languages intertwined, forming a dizzying vortex of noise.
Just as this cacophony threatened to shatter his consciousness...
"Hey! Brother! Where did you go for fun last night? Falling asleep in a place like this? You've got some nerve!"
A mocking voice sliced through the chaos like a sharp blade.
Roland jolted awake, as if forcibly dragged from a deep dream back to reality. He "opened" his eyes.
The boundless darkness vanished abruptly, replaced by a gloomy sky drizzling with light rain.
Following the sound, he saw a man standing nearby.
The man had slightly disheveled black hair, damp strands clinging casually to his forehead and cheeks, yet failing to conceal his sharply defined, strikingly handsome features.
A playful smile tugged at the corner of his lips, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Come on, get up!"
Without waiting for Roland's response, the long-haired man turned and strolled toward a relatively new-looking tombstone nearby, casually continuing, "Didn't you say you wanted to get Ellis a new staff? I've already scouted the place. Not long ago, this area..."
As he walked away, his voice gradually faded into the distance.
"Ellis? Staff?"
Roland wiped the rain from his face, his consciousness slowly returning. He realized with a jolt that he wasn't standing, but lying flat on his back on the cold, damp ground.
Fine, icy rain pattered against his skin, bringing a sharp, clear sensation.
He pushed himself up, his body slightly numb, shook his head to clear his thoughts, and cautiously surveyed his surroundings.
There was no charred crater, no sign of Monen, and none of the smoke and blood that had permeated the battlefield in his memory.
He was in a dilapidated graveyard.
Tilted tombstones stood in disarray like broken teeth, many weathered by time until their inscriptions were barely legible.
Withered vines coiled around stone crosses like snakes, casting distorted shadows under the gray, overcast sky.
In the drizzling rain, damp mist clung to the ground, slowly drifting through the graveyard and shrouding the entire area in an eerie haze.
In the distance, the skeletal branches of withered trees stretched toward the low-hanging, somber sky.
An eerie silence enveloped the scene, broken only by the relentless patter of rain. Not a single insect chirped nor bird sang.
Cold raindrops continued to pelt Roland's face, while his mind churned with confusion.
His memories were crystal clear:
The desperate struggle against Malcolm outside Golden Grain City. The sky-rending dragon breath. The scorched earth and massive crater. And Monen's weary face.
Every detail remained vivid, making it impossible for this to be a dream.
How, then, had he been on a smoke-filled battlefield just moments ago, only to find himself lying in this gloomy, rain-soaked place?
His gaze involuntarily drifted toward the black-haired man standing beside the newly erected tombstone.
The man was casually examining the inscriptions, as if his earlier familiar greeting had been the most natural thing in the world.
Yet Roland was certain he had never seen this face before.
The man's demeanor, however, was so matter-of-fact, as if they were old friends who had known each other for years.
This cognitive dissonance set off alarm bells in Roland's mind.
He slowly rose to his feet, rainwater dripping from his hair. His soaked clothes clung to his skin, sending shivers down his spine.
Where am I?
Who is that man?
Why does he know me?
Seeing Roland still frozen in place, the long-haired man turned impatiently, rainwater streaming down his sharply defined cheekbones.
"What are you still standing there for?" he hissed, his voice urgent.
"That big oaf you recruited agreed to keep watch outside the graveyard, but he's a holy knight—he's never done anything like this before. He'll be clumsy, so we need to hurry!"
With a flick of his wrist, he sent a mud-splattered shovel arcing through the rain.
Roland instinctively caught it.
The icy, solid feel of the shovel's wooden handle was undeniably real. The slight pain from the rough grain pressing into his palm clearly told him this was no dream.
He shook his head, trying to clear his muddled thoughts. Just as he was about to ask about this bizarre situation,
a faint yet piercing hum erupted deep within his ear canal without warning.
The sound didn't come from outside; it felt more like...
vibrating directly in his mind.
Roland instinctively squeezed his eyes shut.
In that instant, as the piercing hum surged through his mind like a swarm of frenzied bees, threatening to tear apart his consciousness,
the cold rain of the graveyard, the damp, musty smell, and the rough texture of the shovel's wooden handle vanished as if erased by an eraser.
Simultaneously, the searing pain in his right arm—the backlash from the dragon breath, like being branded with a red-hot iron—returned with startling clarity, even sharper and more vivid than he remembered.
A scorching, dry gust of wind, thick with the stench of blood and sulfur, slammed into his face.
The soft earth beneath his feet had vanished, replaced by a scorched, scalding ground.
When he opened his eyes again, the cold rain and gray cemetery sky were gone.
In their place was a twilight sky stained an ominous crimson, as if soaked in blood.
The ruined silhouette of Golden Grain City stood starkly desolate against the darkening horizon.
"Cough, cough, cough..."
Roland coughed heavily, then pushed himself up to a sitting position.
Before he could fully regain his senses, two familiar faces, etched with anxiety, suddenly swam into view.
"Roland! How are you feeling?" Avril's clear voice, brimming with undisguised concern, carried over the hot, spark-filled wind, her short brown hair fluttering slightly.
Theresa, kneeling beside him, remained silent, but her silver eyes were fixed intently on him, their depths radiating equal concern.
"I... I'm fine," Roland said, bracing himself on his arms as he tried to sit up. He carefully assessed his condition.
Apart from the severe burns on his right arm from casting Dragon Breath and a wave of exhaustion washing over his entire body, he seemed to have sustained no new injuries.
"Just a bit exhausted."
"That's wonderful!"
Just then, Galvis squeezed through the crowd, his face alight with the bard's characteristic thirst for a thrilling tale.
"Roland! You're finally awake! Tell me everything—how did you defeat that devil? Every detail matters! This will surely become an epic poem for the ages!"
"Get lost, Galvis!" Avril snapped, shoving the bard aside. "Can't you see Roland needs to rest? Save your stories for later!"
While Avril was busy shooing away the clamoring poet, Roland's gaze swept across the scene.
Nearby, Sean and Darco knelt on one knee before Princess Gloria, their expressions grave as they reported something. Duke stood like an unyielding fortress, his greatsword held firmly as he guarded the Imperial Princess's side.
Suddenly, a familiar voice, tinged with amusement, rang out.
"Hey! Our sleeping beauty finally woke up?"
Monen strode over, his face still bearing injuries, but his mischievous grin remained unchanged.
"You sure slept soundly, kid. We couldn't wake you no matter how hard we tried. Almost thought you'd made this crater your new bed."
(End of the Chapter)
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