Chapter 233

Chapter 233 – Now, Look. This is a Fist.

Upon departing the Second Black-White Slums, I dedicated the subsequent days to traversing the open terrain without pause.

When the sun was up, I journeyed beneath the vast azure canopy, and when darkness fell, I advanced while contemplating the stars strewn across the night sky.

Whenever the trek grew monotonous, I would sprint for a while, and if that too lost its appeal, I would throw myself down onto the grass to observe the boundless heavens.

My march only ceased when the horizon blurred so completely that I could no longer distinguish between the earth and the firmament.

“Is anyone missing?”

Hearing my voice, the Troubleshooters trailing in my wake winced and swapped uneasy glances.

These were the exact individuals who had sneaked into the Second Black-White Slums only to be apprehended.

For several days, I had forced them to match my pace across the wilderness, and as I took attendance, it appeared every single one had managed to keep up.

“Excellent. To call yourselves Troubleshooters, this is the bare minimum endurance required. Yes, indeed. However…”

I directed my attention toward the man stationed at the front of the line.

Despite days of relentless travel, his exhausted frame remained rigid, and his sharp, hawkish eyes glared at me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.

“…Argh!”

“Apologies. Your expression was simply too intimidating.”

The fellow whose eye I had just jabbed gripped his face in agony, stumbling blindly.

“Tell me, what is your designation?”

“You… despicable bastard…”

A cold aura of murderous intent began to radiate from him.

Impressive, truly.

Despite the brutal thrashing he received during the infiltration, his spirit remained unbroken. And that was after sprinting for days on end without rest.

They really were Troubleshooters through and through.

Indeed, that exact brand of stubbornness is mandatory for survival.

In that case, acting as their senior(?), it was only proper that I provide these Troubleshooters with a lesson.

I brought my fist crashing straight down onto the crown of the man exuding the hostile aura.

The murderous intent drifting through the air dissolved instantly, and the unconscious fellow collapsed to the earth like an empty sack.

“You have grown much gentler. Does anyone else wish to become equally gentle?”

Speak up if you do.

The Eastern Continent’s Jay Reeducator will gladly bestow some gentleness upon you.

I cracked my knuckles in anticipation, but to my dismay, not a soul stepped forward.

Left with no choice, I suppressed my disappointment and turned my focus back to the man at the front.

“Designation.”

“…No. 17.”

“And the fellow who just collapsed?”

“No. 11… sir.”

“Sir? In that case, this is a fist, sir.”

A resounding slap cracked across the open landscape.

His head snapped sideways, and he wobbled briefly before regaining his balance. Massaging his rapidly swelling red cheek, he shot a glare in my direction.

“That was not a fist, it was an open palm…”

“Incorrect. It is a fist.”

“…”

No. 17 stared back at me, utterly dumbfounded.

His expression clearly communicated: What sort of ridiculous logic is this?

And that was precisely the point I wanted to address.

“You have spent your lives serving as Decullan’s Troubleshooters, nodding submissively whenever they decreed a palm was a fist or called black white. It never bothered you when Decullan did it, so why does it bother you when I do?”

“How can you even com—”

“Not comparable? Explain why.”

The actions I was taking at this very moment were identical to the methods employed by Decullan.

Thus, I wasn’t claiming to be a righteous individual. But watching these Troubleshooters tamely swallow Decullan’s edicts while instantly bristling at mine made my temper flare.

Observe them now.

The score of Troubleshooters present were all glaring at me with eyes brimming with resentment—what a farce.

Would they ever dare cast such looks at Decullan?

Never.

The absolute second they tried, execution would follow.

I could understand their plight well enough.

Yet it was precisely that understanding which made their current defiance so irritating to tolerate.

“I unraveled the restriction magic binding your souls. And I ensured you all knew it. Strictly speaking, that makes me your savior, the person who bestowed your liberty. Is that not so?”

“That is…”

No. 17 fell silent, unable to construct a response.

“Were you truly content with the existence you led? If there are any genuine loyalists to Decullan here, raise your hand. If it is true devotion driving your hostility toward me, I can respect that.”

A heavy, uncomfortable quiet washed over the assembled Troubleshooters.

Predictably, not a single arm was raised.

Was it not entirely expected?

A passing thought entered my mind—Could the tension be making them too hesitant?—so I closed my eyes and requested a show of hands once more, but the outcome remained unchanged.

Content with this, I nodded and forced the Troubleshooters to look me in the eye.

Then, elevating my right hand, I announced:

“Now, observe. This is a fist. Correct?”

“…Yes, it is.”

No. 17 had shifted to a respectful tone.

I offered him a approving look, then drove my lifted right hand squarely into his jaw.

Another sharp crack echoed across the empty fields.

“Wh-why did you do that this time…”

“An ancient proverb dictates that if someone strikes your right cheek, you should present the left. Furthermore, you committed an error.”

What error?

“This is not a fist—it is an open palm.”

“…”

“No matter how fiercely I declare it to be a fist, the objective reality remains that it is a palm. This holds true even if I possess far greater power than you, capable of ending your life in a heartbeat. Therefore, let me pose a query.”

I twisted my expression into a look of feigned bewilderment, meeting the gaze of every single Troubleshooter in turn.

They focused intently, eager to hear whatever bizarre claim I would utter next—it was quite a spectacle.

Once I commanded their complete concentration, I splayed the fingers of my right hand and demanded:

“What is this? Reflect deeply before you provide an answer.”

The retorts came in pieces.

“A p-palm, master.”

“A fist.”

“Palm…”

A few stuck to the physical reality they witnessed, while others read my facial expressions and answered ‘fist.’

As the Troubleshooters offered their clashing conclusions, I locked onto No. 17 at the vanguard.

“Why are you keeping silent?”

“Well…”

No. 17 hesitated with a deeply slighted expression, prompting me to reassure him with a gentler demeanor.

“I shall not strike you. Speak. I pledge this upon my identity.”

“Regardless of my answer, you will find a reason to strike me anyway. That is the reason I remained silent.”

“So, you choose to do as you please?”

“…Am I forbidden?”

Eyes full of rebellion.

Naturally, that defiance collapsed swiftly.

He unnerved himself and discreetly shifted his gaze away.

I rested a palm against his rigid shoulder. No. 17 flinched, peering up at me with caution.

“Precisely. Maintain that attitude in life.”

“…What?”

There was no mockery in my voice.

This was entirely genuine.

“Until this moment, you were forced to agree whenever they called an open palm a fist, but the circumstances have shifted. You are now permitted to call a palm a palm, or a fist. You are even free to maintain silence as you just did. Everything rests upon your own volition.”

So, what did those words signify?

I scanned the perplexed countenances of the Troubleshooters one by one, finally uttering the statement I had formulated ever since extracting them from Svetlana’s hideout.

“You are liberated.”

“ Bars ”

“…”

“Decullan almost certainly presumes you are deceased. Although I discovered the method to dismantle the spell, Troubleshooter restriction matrixes are designed to shatter exclusively upon the host’s demise under ordinary circumstances. And given the sheer brutality I inflicted upon Svetlana’s subordinates, Decullan will find the conclusion entirely believable.”

At this exact moment, I was granting these Troubleshooters their autonomy.

The identical prize that my brothers-in-arms and I had desperately pursued until our final breaths in my previous existence—I was presenting it to these junior inheritors, having rewritten the timeline.

“If anyone desires to return to Decullan, you are welcome to do so. Disclose my secrets, collect whatever meager rewards he offers—it is a valid path. Pursue whatever course you wish. I shall not interfere.”

Therefore…

“You are dismissed.”

The instant I concluded my speech.

“…”

“…”

The Troubleshooters remained rooted to the spot like stone monuments, failing to move a fraction of an inch.

How much duration slipped away in that quietude?

Beneath the clear sky, a solitary gust of wind swept gently across the terrain. The wild grasses rustled and dipped in response.

And then.

Muffled weeping began to surface from various spots in the group.

Tears fell beneath a sunlit sky.

…In all honesty, I cannot be certain if this is the correct path.

By the metrics of conventional society, Troubleshooters were entities that deserved to be locked away from civilization—creatures born of the dark.

Yet who else would offer salvation to scum like them, if not an equally scum-stained soul?

That was the simple logic guiding my choice.

…That being said, prior to anything else.

Slap!

“Agh, dammit! No, why must you strike me again…”

No. 17, having received another slap, stared at me with completely bewildered eyes.

I locked eyes with him and offered a piece of senior guidance.

“I struck you simply because the whim took me.”

“…But you gave your word that you wouldn’t…”

“That is the nature of freedom.”

No. 17 offered no retort.

The only thing left for me was to harbor a hope.

A hope that No. 17 truly comprehended what freedom meant.

After bestowing liberty even upon No. 11, who had remained unconscious through the ordeal, I remained solitary in the deserted grassland, looking up at the sky.

Following the departure of the Troubleshooters, a storm of considerations swirled through my consciousness.

To speak candidly, my initial sentiment was this.

My stomach burns with envy.

We fought desperately for independence and perished without ever tasting it, yet these fortunate wretches grasped it effortlessly.

A nobler soul might have smiled with profound satisfaction, but I am not built that way—my insides simply twisted.

Even up to the exact millisecond before I dismantled their bindings, I debated executing every last one of them. Or at minimum, shattering their mana cores. Would you believe me?

The reality is, I am still weighing the option.

For some reason, the Troubleshooters had not traveled far—they believed they had escaped my reach, but they remained within the perimeter of my sensory perception.

Which meant I retained the ability to hunt them down and shatter their skulls at any moment.

As I conducted this internal conflict, a silhouette suddenly blocked the light falling upon my face.

“Are you doing alright?”

The speaker was Shine.

“What became of the Black-White Slums?”

“San-nim’s instructor, Rihaim, will oversee the affairs of the Black-White Slums. Did you not dispatch that missive to him? Entreating him to assume the role of director for the orphanage you are establishing within that sector. Even with a fractured mana core, safeguarding a single girl like Evelin will pose no issue for him.”

“How did you ascertain it involved Evelin?”

“You constantly travel back and forth between the Academy and the Black-White Slums—if I failed to deduce that much, would I not be an absolute simpleton?”

The logic was sound, prompting a nod from me, before Shine’s initial inquiry echoed back into my awareness.

“Nonetheless, I inquired if you are truly alright.”

“Regarding what?”

“The Troubleshooters. They possess the means to seek out Decullan and exchange your secrets for profit, do they not? Or they might harbor vengeance against Svetlana and instigate chaos. They lack immense power, but they are masters of underhanded strategies. Exactly like yourself.”

“Hmm.”

Rather than providing a verbal reply, I pushed myself up, assumed a cross-legged position, and observed the dancing blades of grass.

Shine took a seat adjacent to me and continued.

“They exude an aura reminiscent of your own. Birds of a feather? Is that the justification for your clemency?”

“…”

“What occurs if they venture out and execute atrocities? Blameless citizens could suffer consequences as a direct result of your choices.”

I cast my gaze toward the clear heavens.

Shine refrained from pressing the matter further after that point.

After indulging in the quietude stretching between us for a brief spell, I organized my reflections and spoke.

“It would certainly leave an unpleasant taste in my mouth if the Troubleshooters sought out Decullan to betray my secrets. However, that outcome will not manifest.”

“What gives you such certainty?”

“I presumed you had reviewed the correspondence I forwarded to senior Rihaim, but it appears you abstained.”

“I merely caught a glimpse of the introductory lines while you were secretly drafting it.”

The revelation that he had been monitoring my private writing was startling, yet I delivered the explanation without betraying any emotion.

“In order to establish contact with Decullan, they would be required to return to Hazen or the Second Black-White Slums to utilize the backup communication crystal stored within the safehouse. And I explicitly revealed the coordinates of that safehouse to senior Rihaim.”

“Which implies…”

“I cannot predict precisely how senior Rihaim will react, but they certainly will not receive a hospitable reception should they arrive. He possesses a gentle countenance, but his combat methods are utterly ruthless.”

“Hah.”

Shine regarded me with an expression bordering on admiration.

He clearly had not anticipated that I would implement such comprehensive precautions.

Yet it was merely logical.

They possess the absolute freedom to denounce me to Decullan, but liberty is invariably accompanied by accountability.

“Furthermore, if they choose to perpetrate crimes… let me turn the question back to you. Is it justifiable to execute sentient beings solely based on the assumption that they might err in the future?”

“That is…”

“Mind your tongue. If those Troubleshooters engage in criminal acts, the fault lies not with my decision to liberate them—it stems entirely from their own corrupt morality. That does not fall within my jurisdiction.”

“…Your point is valid.”

Shine gave a nod, appearing mollified by the reasoning.

I caught a glimpse of his profile before returning my focus to the clouds.

Naturally, I was not entirely devoid of apprehension.

It was simply…

Wyvern, you evaluated them correctly, yes?

[I observed them flawlessly. No corrupted intentions detected.]

Throughout the days I held them captive, I had utilized Wyvern’s perception to inspect their fundamental natures with meticulous care.

They were not exceptionally malicious, nor could they be classified as virtuous.

Entirely average individuals, to put it plainly.

Therefore, what choice remained?

To place faith in Wyvern’s assessment.

For that exact reason, I actively suppressed my anxieties.

In any event.

Deciding it was time to move on, I brushed the dirt from my clothes and rose to my feet.

Yet, what was the cause?

Rustle—

The distinct sound of footsteps drawing near through the open grass.

“…?”

“My, a Troubleshooter, it seems.”

The individual approaching was none other than one of the Troubleshooters I had released moments prior—the very first person to accept the gift of autonomy, No. 17.