Twilight fell upon Border Town like a heavy velvet shroud, painting the sky with violent shades of burnt orange and metallic gray. From the window of his room in the west wing of the castle, Arthur watched the light dissipate on the horizon. Dressed in his dark gray wool tunic — a garment that increasingly felt like a second skin — he felt immersed in a living, pulsating work of art. However, the austere beauty of the medieval landscape could not dispel the cold, tight knot forming in his stomach.
His mind was a whirlwind of echoes, especially from the heated argument he had had with William in the corridor just an hour before. The words "coward" and "pragmatic" still reverberated in his mind. Arthur didn't want the witches of the Association to die; he wasn't a monster. But the logical and analytical part of his brain — the part that had survived university and years of gaming — screamed that the risk of interference was simply too high.
Sitting heavily on the edge of the bed, Arthur stared at his own hands. He reflected on the strange dissonance of the situation. Back home, watching characters fighting and dying through a bright computer screen was a safe and cathartic experience. You could pause the video, grab a snack, and rationalize a character's death as a "crucial plot point" necessary for the hero's development. But here? Here, the air smelled of wood smoke and manure. The cold bit his skin with physical teeth, and what was at stake wasn't measured in "likes" or "views," but in the silence of a grave.
He tried to rationalize his position once more, erecting a mental barrier against the guilt. Roland is the protagonist, he thought. With his engineering knowledge and the witches he already possesses — and heavyweights like Wendy and Lightning, who are destined to join him — he will find a way. He has to. Arthur's knowledge of the original "script" only went up to the appearance of the ancient Taquila Witches. To him, the tragic fate of the Association in the mountains was merely a dramatic device by the author, created to set the stage for the first appearance of the demons. It was a predetermined event. Why should he risk his own life against a fanatic like Cara if the "main story" would eventually sort itself out?
Arthur let out a long, ragged sigh, feeling the crushing weight of the "cowardice" William had attributed to him.
— "It's not cowardice," he whispered in the darkening room, his voice faint and hesitant. — "It's basic survival. It's resource management. We can't save everyone."
Suddenly, a firm and urgent knock on the heavy oak door interrupted his thoughts. Arthur stood up, his heart racing. He opened the door and found Chief Knight Carter Lannis standing there. The man's face, usually a mask of stoic discipline, was marked by severe tension, and his hand rested firmly on the pommel of his longsword.
— "Lord Arthur, we need you immediately," Carter announced, his voice tense. — "There has been a rebellion among the patrol guards. Traitors within the ranks."
Arthur felt a sudden and disturbing shock of recognition. Memories of the Light Novel surfaced — the sabotage. Duke Ryan's influence reaching the heart of Border Town. He vaguely remembered the event, but the book had never mentioned a specific date, or perhaps he had simply ignored such a "minor" detail in favor of technical data about steam engines and crop rotation. The "meta-knowledge" he relied on so heavily had just failed in the most critical way.
— "His Highness is waiting for you in the great hall to discuss the aftermath," Carter continued, gesturing for Arthur to follow him down the torchlit corridor. — "And I must add that, thanks to Lord William's extraordinary intervention, the rebels were stopped before the worst could happen."
Arthur stopped abruptly in the middle of the corridor, frowning in confusion. — "William? What exactly did he do?"
Carter slowed his pace, a tone of reluctant, almost perplexed respect emerging in his voice — a tone he rarely directed at the "scholars" from that distant land.
— "He defeated the traitors single-handedly, Lord Arthur. He acted with a speed and brute force that defies any logic I know. He moved like a blur, securing the safety of young Brian and Captain Greyhound before the rebels could even draw their weapons. Most importantly, he prevented them from setting fire to the main supply granary. Without his intervention, we would be facing the total loss of our grain reserves. We would be facing starvation before winter even truly began."
Arthur felt a shiver run down his spine, colder than the mountain wind. He realized in an instant how much the timeline had changed. In the original plot, Captain Greyhound was supposed to die in that ambush. It would be a tragic loss that fueled Roland's determination, and Nightingale was supposed to be the hero who emerged from the shadows to save the day. But William had destroyed the script. He had used the +7 in Strength that Arthur had so often criticized as a "waste" or "suboptimal."
When they reached the great hall, the scene was one of controlled chaos. Several guards were on their knees, scrubbing dark blood from the stone floor. The smell of copper and sweat was unbearable. Near the fireplace, Roland spoke in a low, urgent tone with an exhausted-looking Nana. The girl's face was pale, her hands stained by the green light of her magic as she worked.
On a makeshift bed nearby lay Brian, the young guard. He was shirtless, his torso wrapped in bandages that were rapidly beginning to turn red. He was severely wounded, but thanks to Nana's intervention, his breathing was stable. Roland noticed Arthur's presence and approached him, his face marked by exhaustion.
— "Arthur, Duke Ryan tried to destroy us from the inside," Roland said, his voice hard. — "He bought the loyalty of men I considered my own. Brian almost gave his life to warn us. Once the Months of Demons pass, if he survives, he will be the first of my elite knights. We owe him everything."
Arthur's gaze wandered to the farthest corner of the room, away from the firelight. William was there, leaning heavily against a stone pillar. He was wiping thick, dark blood from his knuckles with a torn piece of cloth. He didn't sport his usual smug "harem protagonist" smile. There were no jokes about system points or leveling up. For the first time since they had arrived in this world, William looked truly sober. He looked like a man who had finally realized that the lives he had saved were not pixels on a screen or NPCs in a simulation; they were flesh and blood, and their survival had depended entirely on his willingness to use his "suboptimal" brute force.
William looked up and met Arthur's gaze. His eyes shifted from Arthur to Brian — who still whimpered in his sleep under Nana's care — and, finally, to his own hands. Hands that now possessed a Strength of 16, capable of crushing steel and taking lives.
The silence between the two friends was heavy, laden with everything that had been shouted in the corridor and everything that had remained unsaid. Arthur looked at the blood on the floor and then at the young guard who was only alive because William had chosen to act, while Arthur had chosen to "rationalize."
Arthur let out a long, shaky sigh. His analytical mind tried to find a way around the situation, to turn it into a statistical victory, but the words wouldn't come. His voice, when it finally emerged, was low and somber.
— "I understand..." he whispered.
The industrial revolution was still to come, but that night, the world had reminded them both that before building a future, one had to be strong enough to protect the present.