I Am The Game's Villain Chapter 765: [The Rewritten Lost Past] [5]

Months merged endlessly with the unyielding drag of a war determined never to end.

The Second Holy War pitting the Kingdom of Celesta against the Arvatra Empire devoured the continent like flames eagerly seeking fresh fuel to ignite. Victories alternated with defeats. Cities switched allegiance. Lives vanished in counts that lost all impact after time, since the human spirit couldn't contain mourning on such vast proportions.

No hint of conclusion appeared. No weariness afflicted either faction. Merely the unending, futile engine of conflict persisted.

Amael felt profound unease about it all, remarkable considering he'd long grown accustomed to discomfort. He lingered far from the raging fronts, distant enough that echoes of battle evaded him, distant enough that haze appeared merely as a faint streak on the skyline during grim days. Yet he harbored no illusions regarding that separation. Savagery tended to expand, seeping from its core like dye dispersing in liquid. The woodland serving as his present refuge lay in the frontier zone dividing the realms, and frontiers notoriously gained prominence once combat exhausted more evident targets.

He ought to have selected a wiser spot.

Yet this location appealed to him. Ancient trees crowded thickly and kept to themselves, game abounded, and up until lately, no one knew of his presence.

He remained.

True to habit amid the world's self-destruction, Amael sat by his campfire engaged in a vital pursuit: preparing a meal.

He bent ahead on his timber seat, rotating a slender branch deliberately in his grip, overseeing the marinated flesh fixed over the blaze with the intent focus of one who treated this chore with gravity. Aromas wafting from the roast proved enticing already, blending spices, grease, and fumes into a scent elevating the site's appeal.

Years of solitary cooking honed his skills to true excellence. Not mere competence or passability, but mastery. His routine life, undisturbed by Nihil’s regimens and sacred duties, adhered to a satisfying cycle: forage, prepare, consume, relax, reiterate.

Straightforward, yet sufficient for Amael.

However, solitude had lately turned conditional.

Amael cast a quick look toward the encircling woods.

This shift began roughly since clashing with Metatron, the Guardian Spirit of the Kingdom of Celesta.

He triumphed over Metatron, indeed. More crucially, he rescued the pair of women battling it too that day, yanking them from peril.

Looking back, aiding others brought repercussions no one mentioned.

For those women proved utterly resolved to render his isolation purely nominal.

"I have had damn enough of that bald chancellor of yours, Syl, I am telling you!" Lisandra griped. "I am absolutely going to kill him the next time he opens his mouth in my direction!"

"Please don’t do that," Alphonse responded, stepping from the foliage right after her. "That particular chancellor holds high esteem in my court. Slaying him would spark grave issues requiring years to resolve."

"As if diplomacy achieves anything worthwhile now," Lisandra snorted, entering the glade by Amael’s campfire as though it awaited her arrival. "Both our Kingdoms will loathe each other eternally, Syl. I don’t foresee alteration. Truly, I don’t."

"We must trust change is possible, and strive for it," Alphonse countered. "We need to persuade our subjects."

"Persuade them how, precisely?" Lisandra queried, settling on the bench opposite Amael across the fire.

"Via discourse," Alphonse stated, seating herself calmly next to Lisandra. "Via debates, via endurance, via—"

"I’m not skilled with words," Lisandra cut in, extending toward the roasting meat. She seized a ready skewer, inspected its load with quick expert scrutiny, and bit in. Her face lit up agreeably at once. "Hmm. Good."

"They ignore me regardless," she went on, mouth somewhat occupied. "When I urge ending the war, they claim the swiftest fix is me slaying you, Syl, and then it concludes."

"They urge the identical in reverse upon me," Alphonse noted, gracefully taking her own skewer. "Nothing shifted since our ascensions. They lack true regard for us. They endure us owing to our usable might, but esteem differs wholly."

"..."

Amael perched opposite, skewer grasped, eyeing the duo who invaded his site, claimed his seats, and devoured his meticulously readied provisions like longtime companions rather than recent intruders.

This repeated once more.

It persisted relentlessly.

Every few days, occasionally sooner, they materialized. They located his camp no matter his relocation, took seats sans formality or regret, and launched into debates, vented woes, and consumed his fare.

He'd protested initially. Vocally, with irritation he deemed fully warranted. Yet between week one and present, objections faded. Not full embrace, but reluctant realization he'd begun heeding their words. These rulers of hostile realms, despising each other's regimes yet sharing seats, voiced grievances mirroring his lifelong grudges.

Obligations and demands.

He identified and comprehended them.

Nevertheless, today he addressed the provisions issue.

"Have you finished griping," he inquired, "while pilfering my meal?"

Both halted chewing, faces turning toward him.

"What?" Lisandra uttered.

"I’m inquiring," Amael clarified, aiming his skewer their way, "seeing this is my site. My blaze. My hunted, spiced, crafted food. Yet you've seated and served yourselves sans recognition of my ownership."

"You owe me," Lisandra shot back instantly. "Recall that."

Amael’s eyebrow arched gradually. "Owe you. For what precisely?"

Shouldn't they owe him instead?

"You viewed me bare," Lisandra declared shamelessly, deploying her ace. "That debt lasts lifelong, frankly."

Amael regarded her extendedly.

"I doubt," he concluded, "there was much noteworthy to observe. Hardly sufficient for lifelong recompense."

Silence endured one second.

Lisandra froze utterly. Then crimson surged across her features at startling velocity, a profound wrathful hue racing neck to scalp in unprecedented haste, caught off-guard without riposte prepared.

"Y—You—!"

She leaped upright, scowling downward at Amael.

"Moreover," Amael pressed on, unaffected by the scowl, "you glimpsed me partially unclad too, correct? Thus we're square."

"Y—You’re male," Lisandra stammered, jabbing a finger. "That differs entirely!"

"Does it?" Amael cocked his head faintly, silver gaze sharpening. "Regardless of sex, it's identical. Yet you lament dismissal and neglect due to womanhood, now eagerly wielding that womanhood for distinction when suiting you."

Lisandra parted her lips.

Then sealed them.

The flush transformed from rage to intricate, indefinable tint. She lingered mouth agape, hunting rebuttal futilely, ultimately vacant.

He silenced her completely.

Amael refocused on the blaze, tweaking the roast's position.

Yet glancing up soon after, something halted him.

Lisandra remained erect. Fury ebbed from her stance, supplanted by novelty.

Fists clenched rigidly at sides, quivering faintly. Cheeks stayed heated, but vulnerably now. Her exposed right eye, left shrouded since Metatron's clash claimed it, gleamed unrelated to fury.

"W—We just... wanted to be here," she murmured, bereft of typical fervor and force, scarcely bridging the fire.

Amael blinked. "What?"

"Can we not?!" She demanded as if it extracted toll, glowering via indisputably, mortifyingly tear-glazed eyes. "Such a issue? Is it?"

Amael stood speechless momentarily. He observed her quaking, fists tight, eye damp.

Why tears? What transpired? He truly lacked guidance.

Prudence emerged unbidden. He shook head pre-thought. "I mean... I never stated that."

"Then why ignore us?!"

"Am I ignoring?" Amael queried, baffled. "You arrive unbidden. Constantly. Seat sans permission. Eat sans query. How am I—"

"S—Since then, we thanked your aid and you just..." Lisandra nipped her lip, persisting. "Acted indifferent. As if trivial. As if we were trivial."

"I acknowledged thanks?" Amael said, brow perplexed.

"Merely that?" Lisandra pressed.

Amael eyed her briefly. "What else sought? Pampering?"

"I seek no pampering!" She ignited anew. "But Syl claimed you fought Hero-like then, perhaps you could—"

"Lisandra!"

Alphonse bellowed sharply enough for Amael’s wince and glare, but ignored as she gripped Lisandra’s arm, yanking her benchward forcefully, her visage aflame crimson engulfing ears. "T—That suffices."

Amael’s eyes shifted to Alphonse.

"A Hero," he echoed tonelessly. "Intriguing."

"I—I didn’t phrase it thus," Alphonse stammered, fixating clenched lap hands. "I merely conveyed...your Metatron handling was...not...I didn’t intend implying—"

She ceased. Lips compressed, hands scrutinized fiercer.

Amael observed momentarily.

It struck him, clearer now though not novel, the male-attired one exuded greater femininity than the other.

"Fine," he concluded. "Cease weeping."

"I’m not weeping!" Lisandra yelped, head jerking.

"Naturally not," Amael concurred smoothly, avoiding escalation. He proffered another skewer.

Her glare might scour surfaces. Yet post-deliberate pause, she snatched it grudgingly, gaze dropping earthward shamefully.

"...Thanks," she mumbled, nibbling timidly, fixating dirt nearby.

Amael sighed witnessing.

Queens they were, yet youthful females ultimately.

"I understand," he stated. "You’re drained. You both. War unselected, birth powers unchosen, outlets dwindling." He eyed them alternately. "Youth hinders not strangeness in struggle. Strangeness lies in plunged circumstances."

"We didn’t request it," Alphonse whispered.

"Nor I," Amael replied. "Not born Nihil’s son, Holy Guardian. Not Samael’s Vessel. Yet—" he indicated self, remote fire, life's odd contour— "here I dwell. Forest sole breathspace sans exploitation."

Lisandra gasped-choked midway, eyes saucering on ill-timed breath. "Wh—What?!"

Ensuing coughs dazzled. She folded ahead, hand chest-bound, skewer precariously held, stunned mid-strangle.

Alphonse’s poise evaporated. Jaw dangled.

Amael awaited turmoil's ebb.

Calm restored, Amael unexpectedly elaborated.

On father, lofty true woes, birth-mandated conscription. On Samael. On vanishing into wilds as alternative to unwanted molding.

Uncertain why sharing. No alliance. No kin. Objectively, rival sovereigns invading for meals and quarrels fireside.

Yet perhaps simplicity eased it. Their juvenile loads echoed his mirrored reflections.

He observed reactions: shock, incredulity, eventual hush.

Done speaking, fire snapped amid stares.

"Well," he resumed, reclaiming skewer, twirling flameside. "Others suffer worse, evidently. Invalidates not your trials. But noteworthy."

"I..." Lisandra shook head languidly, tone subdued. "I truly can’t credit you Nihil’s son, Holy Guardian."

"Credit it," Amael urged. "Trust: nothing holy in him save title. Title bears burden."

"You seem little fond," Alphonse observed, gaze newfound.

Metatron's fall signaled abnormality. This transcended.

"Father he is," Amael expressed complexly. "Some facet resists total dismissal therefor. Conceivably, beneath tangle, I value traits." Paused. "Yet mother eclipses in affection. Never shaped me for others’ aims." Eyes fireward. "He seeks my full Samael transformation. Undesired."

"You fear," Alphonse stated.

Amael met gaze, nodded subtly, sincerely. "Samael’s Vessel I am. Sins gathered... unknown self remnant post. Chance I dissolve into Samael’s legacy and intent looms large." Flicker non-fear, candid admission. "I reject vanishing. Not thus but..."

"But?" Lisandra inclined, prior shame erased, body rapt, elbows knee-propped, lone eye locked.

Amael glanced, casually wiped lip-clung morsel, consumed.

Lisandra crimsoned fiercely.

"But," he proceeded indifferently, "if required, my Samael shift sole barrier twixt loved ones and apocalypse, then gamble accepted." Silver eyes flared flame-mirrored. "Guarding beloved demands beyond desire oft. Demands all. Cherished self facets included."

He regarded Alphonse uttering, extended skewer.

"That defines true love."

Both froze rigidly. Words pierced profoundly.

Lisandra ground-stared, masticated leisurely, snuck Amael peeks, averted repeatedly.

Alphonse took skewer soundlessly, hands encircling, item-focused over him.

Silence enveloped cozily.

Then Amael eyed both.

Perhaps allowing processing time.

"I may hold solution," he mentioned offhand, "for your kingdoms’ foolish war."

Both alerted swiftly.

"What solution?!" Lisandra queried, forward-leaning.

"Will you mediate?" Alphonse followed. "Step forth, halt personally?"

Amael grimaced at Alphonse.