Verandez sat on a worn bench behind the church, his eyes fixed on the rows of graves that stretched out before him. Each grave marked the final resting place of villagers and mercenaries alike, roughly forty in all. "Oh, goddess," he mumbled, rubbing his face with both hands.
"You have to stop blaming yourself," a voice suddenly broke the silence, making Verandez jump. He turned quickly to see Zalathor standing there, still in the form of Levarick. The crimson eyes of the false visage bore into Verandez, sending a shiver down his spine.
"Could you please not sneak up on me? Especially with that face?" Verandez begged, letting out a shaky sigh. Zalathor tilted his head slightly, then his form began to shift, the edges blurring as he started to return to his true form. Verandez's eyes widened in alarm. "Oh dear goddess! Don't turn back into your real form; you'll give me a damn heart attack!" he exclaimed.
Zalathor paused mid-transformation, then reverted fully to Levarick's form, his expression as calm as ever. "What form would you prefer, then?" Zalathor asked, his tone neutral.
Verandez shook his head, trying to steady his nerves. "This one, I guess. I just don't want you sneaking up on me, that's all," he replied, his voice still a little shaky. Zalathor nodded in understanding and turned his gaze to the graves, his expression unreadable.
"None of this is your fault," Zalathor said quietly. "Several people have already told you this."
Verandez sighed again, rubbing the back of his head as if trying to massage away the guilt that weighed so heavily on him. "I know," he said, looking back at the graves. "I know that. You all keep saying it, and I understand, but... I just feel so damn guilty. So many people dead, so many families lost their mothers, fathers, grandparents..."
His voice trailed off as he sat back down, his knees trembling under the weight of his grief. Zalathor moved closer and sat down beside him, the proximity offering a silent, strange comfort.
"At least, at the very least, one of these mercenaries became a mercenary to provide for their family. And now there's a wife or husband out there waiting for their lover to come back. There's a child waiting by the door for their parent to come home and spend time with them, not knowing that they're now an orphan or motherless or fatherless," Verandez continued, his voice thick with emotion. He turned to face Zalathor, his eyes brimming with a mix of sorrow and frustration. "And here I am, getting a second chance because I ordered them—because I didn't have any choice. It just feels wrong."
Zalathor nodded, his gaze still fixed on the graves before them. "Do you know why these graves are here?" he asked, his voice low and deliberate.
Verandez furrowed his brow, puzzled by the question. "Because it's the graveyard?" he replied, unsure of where Zalathor was going with this.
Zalathor shook his head slowly. "Other than that, do you know why they are here?" he repeated, his tone more insistent.
Verandez shook his head in response, his confusion growing. "No," he admitted.
"Because I killed them all," Zalathor said calmly, as if stating a simple fact.
Verandez stared at him, even more confused than before. "What are you trying to say?" he asked, a nagging thought in the back of his mind. *Is he talking about the mercenaries?*
Zalathor continued, his voice steady and unflinching. "The mercenaries were all killed directly by me. By my hands, they perished. As for the villagers here, they also died because of me—because of my inaction when I first entered the material world, confused and lost. I had failed to uphold my contract with Levarick almost immediately."
Verandez raised a hand, trying to grasp the point Zalathor was making. "Where are you going with this?" he asked, still not fully understanding.
Zalathor took an unnaturally deep breath, still adjusting to the human body. "I am saying that, despite having the ability to simply subdue the mercenaries, I killed them without hesitation. Instead of taking action when my contract was broken, I stood by idly, protecting Wolfdale, telling myself that I would uphold this broken contract. Pride, I suppose, had taken hold of me," he explained.
Verandez stood up abruptly, a mix of astonishment and frustration in his voice. "Are you trying to say that it's your fault?" he asked, his voice trembling with disbelief.
Zalathor nodded, his expression unchanged. "If I had taken action and gone to stop you after my contract was broken, instead of clinging to my pride, the invasion would have never occurred. Instead, I lied, telling myself—and others—that I couldn't intervene because of my contract. It was Pride that led me to inaction, and that nearly cost Xain and the others their lives. When the invasion began, it shattered whatever illusion I had held about my contract. That was the first time I felt true anger—mostly directed at myself," he continued, his voice flat and unemotional.
Verandez looked down at him, his mind reeling from the confession. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Zalathor stood up and placed a hand on Verandez's shoulder, his grip firm but not forceful. "So that you may blame me, blame Eriza, blame us demons for both our inactions and actions," he said, his voice carrying a weight of truth. Verandez looked down at the ground, his thoughts in turmoil, unable to find words in response.
"Levarick would not want you to live on like this," Zalathor added, giving Verandez's shoulder a final reassuring pat before walking away, leaving Verandez alone with his thoughts.
As Zalathor's footsteps faded, Verandez reached into his suit pocket and pulled out his stopwatch. Tears began to well in his eyes, and droplets fell onto the cover, where the initials L.D. were etched. His voice trembled as he whispered, "You're going to take care of me even after dying, aren't you, you bastard?"