Chapter 331: Sorry, Thank You (5K First Update)

Cyril had a dream.

He dreamed he had returned to his childhood.

That period of time when he was poorest, when life was hardest, but also when he was happiest.

Relying on his mature mind, he helped his father and brother escape the oppression of the nobles, and made those filthy fellows pay a heavy price!

It really was that simple.

All he had to do was run out of the territory, find any temple of a righteous god, and have them contact the Holy Knight organization.

The Holy Knight organization might arrive late because they were stretched thin, but they would never ignore such a request.

They would rush over, destroy the evil, and settle them.

Really, it was just that simple.

Even a child who wasn't very old could do it.

And after successfully doing all this, Cyril came before his father and brother, who were joyful yet somewhat bewildered.

They were free.

But the young man, who as a hero had successfully resolved their plight, gazed at the two before him, yet could not smile with genuine joy as they did.

Because he... had already woken up.

Cyril knew he was dreaming.

He had had this dream countless times, countless times.

Again and again he saved his long-dead father and brother in the dream, only to feel endless emptiness upon waking.

He was clear-headed — his father and brother could never come back.

Even though he understood this fact completely in his heart, understood it better than anyone!

What was gone could never return.

But Cyril simply could not let go.

He could not bring himself to move on.

He could not walk out of it.

Again and again, again and again, again and again!

He wandered through this dream like a ghost, killing those nobles countless times, but unable to lessen the anger in his heart.

And what followed the anger was deep self-reproach.

If, at that time, I had truly done what I did in the dream, could they have survived?

The more he thought this way, the more Cyril suffered.

He had also thought of forgetting everything, of letting himself off the hook.

But that was simply impossible.

The moment he closed his eyes, he could see his father's pale, rotting face flashing before him, and his brother's charred arm, burned by the furnace fire, falling onto his shoulder.

He could not forget.

Later, Cyril figured it out.

He could not let go, and must not let go.

Could not, absolutely could not!

Each time, once the dream reached this point, it was about to end.

Afterward, he would fully wake, return to reality, and jot down a line in "The Book of Cyril's Hatred."

Then he would wait for the next time he fell asleep, to meet them again in a dream.

But, for some unknown reason, this time the dream was a little different from the past.

The two people, who should originally have had no self-awareness, actually reacted to Cyril's abnormality!

His brother teased with a smile: "Why are you spacing out again? Are you tired?"

His father, with a look of heartache, said: "My foolish child, don't push yourself so hard! Once you've escaped them, your future will surely become better."

"Come here, let me give you a proper hug."

!!!

Cyril shuddered all over and his eyes went wide.

They... had spoken?!

"Father, you... wait, this isn't right!" Cyril instinctively wanted to rush over and embrace them, but quickly caught himself.

"No, you're not them!"

He stopped in his tracks, glared at the two before him, and said through gritted teeth: "They died long ago! Who are you?"

Cyril was furious.

He didn't know what had interfered with his dream, but such a change must have involved some external force.

Who is desecrating my dream!!?

Being glared at like this, the two were somewhat bewildered, exchanged a glance, and then smiled at Cyril.

"What are you talking about? Who we are — surely you still know that, don't you?"

His father shook his head, looked at his foolish son with gentle eyes, and smiled: "We aren't anyone else; we're nothing more than the reflection of you in your heart."

Cyril frowned tightly, unwilling to accept such an explanation so easily.

"Since when did you, boy, become such a suspicious child?"

His brother, seeing through his doubt, curled his lip and said: "If you don't believe it, let me think how to prove it to you... Oh, right!"

He looked at Cyril with amusement, a teasing, suggestive expression on his face, and chuckled lowly:

"Do you still remember that lady's undergarment you picked up by the river? You thought it belonged to some young girl in the village, but it actually belonged to Mrs. Bilka's... yes, the sixty-year-old one at the time."

"You actually guessed it later, but you just weren't willing to come clean and admit it to me."

Cyril:!!?

This utterly embarrassing thing—he really only ever told his elder brother, and that was at the very beginning, as a boast.

No one else could possibly know about something like this!

Father stroked his chin, thought for a moment, and said: "Me too? Well, let's see—the last time you secretly washed your sheets because you wet the bed was when you were eight, and the first time…"

"Enough! You two stop talking!" Cyril cut off his father's exposé of his dark history.

He let out a deep breath, feeling utterly exhausted in body and mind.

Father and elder brother had long been dead, and these secrets were known only to the three of them, so… they really were figments of his own mind.

"Why?"

Head lowered, he sighed weakly: "Why do you still appear before me? If you do this, doesn't it mean I can't forget you even more…"

*Pat pat. *

Lost in thought, he felt his shoulder being patted.

That familiar gesture, separated by so many years, made Cyril freeze completely.

"Haha! My foolish little brother, why do you still not understand?"

His elder brother pressed his shoulder, gave him a wink, and laughed: "Blaming yourself like this—doesn't it just make the two of us look incompetent?"

"The two of us never wanted you to carry a burden like this for the rest of your life!"

On the other side, Father laughed heartily and nodded, voicing his own wish: "I hope you grow up healthy, become a real man—a blacksmith even better than me!"

Cyril stood there in a daze. He had thought he had completely forgotten his father's words long ago.

But hearing them again, they felt incomparably familiar.

Beside his ear, his elder brother whispered softly:

"Unlike Father, I hope you don't have to become a blacksmith, don't have to spend all day by the furnace like I did—go do whatever you want to do."

"Like that thing, the one you kept clamoring about becoming… right, a Holy Knight?"

"And looking at it now, it seems both our wishes came true halfway? Hahaha!"

Father nodded vigorously too, very satisfied with his younger son: "Mm, you're now both a Holy Knight and a real man!"

"Of course, if you get tired later and don't want to be a Holy Knight anymore, you can find some place and be a good blacksmith! You have to be a better blacksmith than me! Carry on our family's craft!"

His elder brother cut in with a quip at this moment: "Wait, that last part isn't really necessary, is it? Our family's craft isn't actually that great, is it?"

Father flew into a rage on the spot, bellowing: "Nonsense! The craft of the Anvil family was learned from the finest dwarven blacksmith masters back in the day—your great-grandfather, my grandfather, said so with his own mouth…"

Cyril watched his father and elder brother playing off each other, and at first his lip trembled traitorously; his eyes gradually reddened.

Was what he couldn't let go of really that hatred?

No.

After so many years, the enemy had also been slain by his own hand, and that hatred had long since faded.

What he truly couldn't let go of was the memory of this scene in his heart.

Every time he fled into a dream, it was this warmth of family he was trying to find.

Cyril clenched his teeth, refusing to let his tears fall, and asked hoarsely: "…Brother, do you blame me for not listening to you, for not running away obediently in the end?"

"Father, am I your pride? Did I really not disappoint you?"

Even if the people before him weren't truly his family.

Even if they were only his imagination.

He still wanted to ask, hoping to get an answer from their lips.

At this moment, Father and elder brother stopped arguing and turned their heads together to look back at the weeping youth.

"…Pfft, hahaha!"

The two burst into laughter almost simultaneously, and hoisting Cyril up between them, one on each side.

"Need you even ask? You've done far better than I ever imagined!"

"My sons, you've both always been my pride."

Ahhh…

Cyril felt their warmth, and the expression he'd barely managed to hold together finally crumbled as he burst into loud, wailing sobs.

Like a child, crying freely and loudly, pouring out his longing for his family.

Father and elder brother said nothing more, simply listening quietly as he rambled on incoherently.

The loneliness after leaving home, the hardship of training, the loneliness of the nights… one trivial little matter after another, one unremarkable little secret.

After talking for who knows how long, Cyril's emotions finally settled down.

He wiped his tears and pressed his lips together.

Before Father and elder brother, he had shown his most shameful side.

But he felt no embarrassment at all—instead, he felt his whole body relax.

Even if they weren't real, they had given him strength and courage.

Cyril looked at the two of them, his eyes full of reluctance; he could feel the dream was about to shatter completely.

"…"

At the very last moment, he spoke the words he had long wanted to say.

"Father, Brother… thank you."

No longer an apology, no longer self-reproach, but gratitude expressed with release.

Thank you for letting me have this warm memory.

"I will never forget you."

And in response to Cyril's heartfelt outpouring, the two answered very casually:

"It doesn't matter whether you remember or not, just stop resenting yourself—I can't even bear to watch anymore."

"Haha! Go on being your holy knight, love those weak ones just as you love us, and even more as you love yourself."

Then, just as the dream was about to shatter completely, his elder brother suddenly spoke: "Oh right, next time don't go eating mushrooms you don't recognize."

His father also nodded, saying rather helplessly: "Use your head a little, don't just stuff anything into your mouth just because you've got a tough body."

Cyril:?

"... What are you two talking about?"

Just as he was thinking, he saw the father and elder brother before him suddenly change appearance—becoming two red-capped, stalk-bodied mushroom people.

The mushroom father and son combined their strength and simultaneously punched him hard in the gut!

Thud—

……

"Urgh!"

Cyril opened his eyes. Before he could make out his surroundings, he sat up clutching his stomach, turned his head, and violently spat out the foreign object in his throat.

Plop.

A large mushroom, four or five bites already taken out of it, shot out of his mouth and landed heavily on the ground.

"Bleugh... cough, cough!"

The bright red color on its cap seemed to silently interrogate him—I've already grown to look like THIS, and you still dare to eat me!!?

Cyril's face was blank with confusion too, and he gazed at the mushroom in bewilderment: "I ate this?"

When did I eat it?

Herbert, standing off to the side, nodded and chimed in: "Yeah, I can't figure it out either. Why on earth would you do that?"

Truly very strange.

"There are forty-two kinds of mushrooms here, and only this one is poisonous. You've got quite the knack for picking."

What a little greedy-guts.

"Hm?"

Cyril only now noticed someone beside him, and after getting a clear look he exclaimed in shock: "Why is it you!!?"

Anyone would do, why did it have to be him!

"Of course it's because I'm the team leader assigned to lead you. You think I wanted this?"

Herbert spread his hands helplessly, then casually tossed *Cyril's Book of Hatred* back to him.

Cyril had originally had plenty of other questions he wanted to ask, but after instinctively catching the Book of Hatred he forgot them all, and asked in a panic: "You! Did you read inside it?"

How did it end up in his hands!!?

"I read it." Herbert smiled and nodded, making no attempt to hide what he had done.

"You—!"

Cyril flew into a rage, sprang straight up from the ground in one bound, and was about to charge over and grab him by the collar.

But halfway there he realized he was overreacting, stopped with an ugly expression, and glared at Herbert.

Cyril pulled his hand back, clenched it in front of him, and said irritably: "How could you just go rifling through other people's stuff!!?"

Herbert's smile remained, and he counted off very calmly:

"Well, that's because you were unconscious on the ground, and I had no idea whether you were alive or dead. I needed to investigate every clue to figure out exactly what had happened to you."

"For example, any last words you might have left behind."

Cyril had by now calmed down, and clearly understood that Herbert's actions were perfectly fine—if anything, it was his own overemotional reaction that had been rude.

He hesitated, bowed deeply to Herbert, and said in a low voice: "... Sorry, my attitude just now was bad. Thank you for saving me."

Herbert looked at this unusually frank, short and stocky young man, smiled, and shook his head:

"You don't need to thank me. I actually didn't do anything. It was a kindly mushroom person who found and treated you; I only came to pick you up after being notified."

"Since you're fine now, I'll be on my way."

Herbert didn't explain further, gave a wave, and turned to leave.

"..."

Cyril didn't try to stop him either, silently watching the young man leave, and narrowed his eyes.

The gap between the two of them had never been small to begin with, but now, without either of them noticing, it seemed to have grown even larger.

He himself had been through life and death in the darklands, fought through several battles, his face a mess, his body covered in blood and grime, and had even eaten a lethally poisonous mushroom while half-unconscious...

And the other party?

A suit of silver-white armor unstained by any filth, not a single hair out of place, walking lightly through this fungal colony, looking utterly out of place.

Cyril had always been a very confident person, believing himself exceptionally talented, a genius destined to become a powerhouse.

But at this moment, seeing others at their most dashing when he himself was at his most wretched, he still couldn't help feeling a sense of falling short.

Perhaps he really was no match for him...

And just as Herbert was about to leave completely, he suddenly turned back, smiled at the dejected Cyril, and said: "Oh! Almost forgot to mention, your signatures are pretty nice—you've got quite a few different styles."

"Once you become a legendary holy knight someday, you can give those signatures as gifts to the ladies who admire you."

?

Cyril was stunned for a moment, and asked in confusion: "... What did you say?"

What signatures?

And faced with Cyril's bewilderment, Herbert immediately offered his "apology."

"Oh? You think the ones who'll admire you won't be ladies? Ah, that really was rude of me—allow me to rephrase: you can give the signatures to those gentlemen who yearn for you."

Herbert nodded, smiling with great playfulness.

If you don't want to give it to a woman, then give it to a man instead.

Cyril:???

"That's not what I meant!!!"

At this moment, all thoughts of feeling inferior, of being ashamed of himself, were thrown to the back of his mind.

"I! I… I'm not!"

"Hahaha, don't explain, I understand, you have your difficulties, I get it all." Herbert laughed and waved his hand, nodding repeatedly with a face that said "I understand everything."

Cyril looked at that smiling face and grew even angrier, wanting to rush over and have a proper word with him.

But after hurrying a few more steps, he realized the problem.

The other wasn't really mocking him, but rather adjusting the atmosphere, disrupting his emotions…

"Herbert!"

Cyril took a deep breath, lowered his head, and said loudly: "I'm sorry! I said those hurtful words back then, I… I'm truly sorry for it!"

Apologize.

Since it was his own mistake, he should have admitted it sooner, and not kept using his pride as a tedious excuse to delay any longer.

"Cyril, please raise your head."

Cyril slowly raised his head and found Herbert quietly looking at him.

That white-haired, handsome youth like an angel descended to the mortal world, said with an easy smile: "What exactly are you referring to? I don't recall you doing anything that would require you to bow your head to me."

"Mm? It's what I said back then…"

Cyril instinctively wanted to explain, but the moment he opened his mouth he saw the smile in Herbert's eyes, and closed it.

Really doesn't remember?

Of course not.

But since he had chosen to be magnanimous and turn the page lightly on this matter, if he himself kept insisting, it would only make things look ugly.

"…Thank you for your magnanimity, Lord Herbert."

Cyril dropped to one knee, deeply bowed his head, and said in a low voice: "You truly are, just as Faor described, a merciful lord."

Herbert lowered his gaze to look at Cyril, chuckled and shook his head, not deliberately avoiding his kneeling bow.

Humans are social animals, needing to integrate into society.

And in this complicated society, there are many kinds of relationships with others, numerous in variety, which can confuse people.

But in the end, there are only two kinds.

Becoming an enemy, or… becoming a friend.

In many situations, Herbert was accustomed to leaving the choice to the other party, letting them decide for themselves which path to walk.

Of course, if he could choose, Herbert still hoped to have many friends around him and few enemies.

After all, in such an interesting world, if one insisted on making enemies everywhere — that would simply be too dull.

(End of chapter)