Dusk settled over Border Town like a heavy, velvet shroud, painting the sky in violent shades of burnt orange and metallic gray. From his bedroom window in the castle's west wing, Arthur watched the light fade over the horizon. Dressed in his dark gray wool tunic—a garment that felt increasingly like a second skin—he felt as though he were immersed in a piece of living, breathing art. Yet, the stark beauty of the medieval scenery could not dispel the cold, tight knot twisting in his stomach.
His mind was a storm of echoes, specifically the bitter, shouted argument he'd had with William in the corridor only an hour before. The words "coward" and "pragmatist" were still bouncing off the walls of his skull. Arthur didn't want the witches of the Association to die; he wasn't a monster. But the logical, 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 his bed, Arthur stared at his hands. He reflected on the strange dissonance of their situation. Back home, watching characters fight and die through a glowing computer screen was a safe, cathartic experience. You could pause the video, grab a snack, and rationalize a character's death as a necessary "plot point" for the hero's growth. But here? Here, the air smelled of woodsmoke and manure. The cold bit at his skin with physical teeth, and the stakes weren't measured in "likes" or "views," but in the silence of a grave.
He tried to rationalize his position again, building a mental wall against the guilt. Roland is the protagonist, he thought. With his engineering knowledge and the witches he already has—and the heavy hitters like Wendy and Lightning who are destined to join him—he'll manage. He has to. Arthur's knowledge of the original "script" only went as far as the appearance of the ancient Witches of Taquila. To him, the tragic fate of the Association in the mountains was just a bit of authorial drama designed to set the stage for the first appearance of the demons. It was a fixed event. Why should he put his own neck on the line against a fanatic like Cara when the "main story" would eventually fix itself?
Arthur let out a long, jagged sigh, feeling the crushing weight of the "cowardice" William had attributed to him.
— "It's not cowardice," he whispered into the darkening room, his voice sounding thin and unconvinced. — "It's basic survival. It's resource management. We can't save everyone."
Suddenly, a firm and urgent knock on the heavy oak door shattered his thoughts. Arthur stood up, his heart skipping a beat. He opened the door to find 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 hilt of his longsword.
— "Lord Arthur, you are needed immediately," Carter announced, his voice tight. — "There has been a rebellion among the patrol guards. Traitors within the ranks."
Arthur felt a sudden, jarring jolt of recognition. The memories of the Light Novel surged forward—the sabotage. Duke Ryan's influence reaching into the heart of Border Town. He vaguely remembered the event, but the book had never mentioned a specific date, or perhaps he had simply overlooked such a "minor" detail in favor of technical data about steam engines and crop rotations. The "meta-knowledge" he relied on so heavily had just failed him 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 torch-lit corridor. — "And I must add that, thanks to Lord William's... extraordinary intervention, the rebels were detained before the worst could happen."
Arthur stopped dead in the middle of the corridor, his brow furrowing in confusion. — "William? What exactly did he do?"
Carter slowed his pace, a tone of reluctant, almost bewildered respect entering his voice—a tone he rarely directed toward the "scholars" from the distant land.
— "He defeated the traitors single-handedly, Lord Arthur. He acted with a speed and raw strength that defy any logic I know. He moved like a blur, ensuring the safety of young Brian and Captain Greyhound before the rebels could even draw their steel. Most importantly, he prevented them from burning the primary supply barn. Without his intervention, we would be facing a total loss of our grain reserves. We would be facing starvation before the winter even truly began."
Arthur felt a physical chill run down his spine, colder than the mountain wind. He realized in an instant how much the timeline had shifted. In the original plot, Captain Greyhound was supposed to die in this ambush. It was meant to be a tragic loss that fueled Roland's resolve, and Nightingale was supposed to be the one to save the day from the shadows. But William had shattered the script. He had used the +7 Strength attributes that Arthur had so often criticized as "wasteful" or "sub-optimal."
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 overwhelming. Near the hearth, Roland was speaking in low, urgent tones to an exhausted-looking Nana. The girl's face was pale, her hands stained with the green light of her magic as she worked.
On a makeshift bed nearby lay Brian, the young guard. He was stripped to the waist, his torso wrapped in bandages that were quickly turning red. He was gravely wounded, but thanks to Nana's intervention, his breathing was stable. Roland noticed Arthur's presence and approached him, his face etched with weariness.
— "Arthur, Duke Ryan tried to cripple us from within," Roland said, his voice hard. "He bought the loyalty of men I thought were mine. Brian nearly gave his life to warn us. As soon as the Months of Demons pass, if he survives, he will be the first of my elite knights. We owe him everything."
Arthur's gaze drifted toward the far corner of the room, away from the light of the fire. 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 wasn't wearing his usual smug, "harem protagonist" grin. There were no jokes about system points or level-ups. 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 saved weren't pixels on a screen or NPCs in a simulation; they were flesh and bone, and their survival had depended entirely on his willingness to use his "sub-optimal" brute force.
William looked up and met Arthur's eyes. He looked from Arthur to Brian—who was still whimpering in his sleep under Nana's care—and then finally down at his own hands. Hands that now possessed a Strength of 16, capable of crushing steel and ending lives.
The silence between the two friends was heavy, laden with everything that had been shouted in the corridor and everything that 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 to pivot, to turn this into a statistical victory, but the words wouldn't come. His voice, when it finally emerged, was low and somber.
— "I see..." he whispered.
The industrial revolution was still coming, but tonight, the world had reminded them both that before you can build a future, you have to be strong enough to protect the present.