Arc-6 Ch-11

“…What exactly do you intend to do? You destroyed the security robot, yet you refuse to interfere with my main body. That is incomprehensible.”

“I ain’t doin’ nothin’. You attacked me first, so I just fought back. Hell, I could sue for self-defense.”

"I would rather self-destruct than be used by a New Human."

“Go ahead and blow yourself up if you want. But hear me out first.”

"Negotiation is meaningless. My security is not so fragile that a New Human’s clumsy persuasion could force a Master registration."

“Talk to me!”

*BANG!*

I slammed the rifle’s buttstock into it with all my might.

Even if it was wrecked, an injured guy’s swing couldn’t do much to something that size.

My left shoulder—the one already wounded—hurt more than the target.

“~~~!”

"Attacking wreckage when you can barely assess your own condition is pointless. Can a New Human like you not even make that judgment?"

“Shut up!”

Leaving this motor-mouth here was a gamble. I couldn’t rule out multiples like the humanoid outside.

If that happened, I’d lose for sure. I had to persuade it no matter what.

But continuing a conversation in this shape was tough.

I needed treatment, food, water.

Using the rifle as a crutch, I stood and slowly headed toward the trap site.

Every step brought pain and exhaustion.

I wanted to collapse and sleep.

But there was work left. War’s biggest pains were prep and cleanup.

Reaching the trap area, I inspected everything.

Any misfires? Anything broken?

Guns, ammo, explosives—no issues. Food, water, meds, camera—all good.

I packed the lighter rucksack and uniform, then retraced my steps.

The round trip took about an hour.

“Back.”

I returned to the wrecked hulk and poked its head. It wouldn’t respond otherwise.

The face-like part lit up when I hit it.

Damage or fuel depletion kept it immobile—it didn’t even twitch.

“You alive, big guy?”

"That phrasing is inaccurate. I am an artificial intelligence developed by the Old Humans for a refugee ship. Biological or medical death does not apply. This security robot is merely a terminal. Even complete destruction would have minimal impact on the main body."

“Quit the complicated jargon.”

I sat at a safe distance—if it moved, I could react.

Stripping my upper layers, the hangar’s chill felt good on my heated skin.

I removed my undershirt to check my left shoulder. The spot it punched was swollen with internal bleeding.

Moving my arm slowly to test mobility, the hulk’s face flickered at me repeatedly.

"No fracture. The contusion should heal in a few weeks with rest."

“You can tell just by looking?”

"My analytical capabilities make it trivial. High-precision scans diagnose your injury as fully recoverable. A regrettable outcome."

“Keep the sass to yourself.”

I grabbed ointment from my bag and applied it.

The pungent mix of herbs stung my nose.

Finished medicating, I dressed. The hulk’s stare made me uneasy.

I ate rations and drank water to sate hunger and thirst.

It stayed silent and still.

“…Want some?”

"Unnecessary. I do not require oral nutrient intake."

“I’m being polite. At least accept it.”

"Being pitied and offered scraps by a New Human—especially a thief who trespassed and destroyed security robots—is the height of humiliation."

“I didn’t steal anything. Sorry for killing your guards, though.”

"…Your behavior has been inconsistent from the start."

“What’s weird about it?”

"Treating me as an individual. Humans typically regard created beings as tools."

“You’re chatty and emotional. Plus, there’s another reason.”

"Leon Fou Bartfort, state your objective. Every human who reached this place was either a thief after supplies or lost by mistake. You are the only one to arrive at the hangar alive."

“Scary stuff.”

"You came fully prepared: weapons, food, drugs, surveying tools. You are clearly no mere grave-robber."

“…”

"I ask again. Leon Fou Bartfort… who… are… you?"

No dodging this.

I’d planned to confirm its existence and fulfill a request, but after two days of fighting, I had to persuade it too.

Luxion in the underworld must’ve known and led me here.

I’d been expertly manipulated. Dry laughter rose more from the perfect setup than anger.

The Luxion I met wasn’t mine , it's master Leon Fou Bartfalt—we shared a name but were different people.

So this non-master Leon Fou Bartfort could be worked to death without shaking loyalty.

“You’re the one who guided me here.”

"…I do not understand. Unless data is deleted or physically destroyed, it remains forever. We met 8,257 seconds ago. No prior records exist."

“Yeah, figures.”

"I strongly recommend immediate medical attention."

“Pass.”

Persuading it meant starting from scratch.

Whether it believed me was doubtful.

I’d been half-skeptical myself until now.

I’d worried I was losing it and took prescribed meds.

Following a dream oracle to real buried treasure sounded like a fairy tale.

But it was true, so oh well.

“Listen to my story first. Judge however you want.”

Screw it. Luxion’s fault.

If it destroyed the world, I’d throw every soldier at it. I’d report to the capital for aid if needed—brace yourself.

Despite my thoughts, I calmly explained my life and how I got here. The hulk lay on the floor, listening like a kid begging for bedtime stories under blankets.

※　※　※　※　※

"It sounds like nothing but delusion."

“Yeah.”

"You need neurology or psychiatry."

“Already going.”

Nightmares and hallucinations still hit when exhausted, though better.

The underworld dream was too vivid—I saw my doctor, worried I’d snapped.

Diagnosed as fatigue/anxiety nightmares; got sleeping pills and stabilizers.

If a lord said, “A giant eyeball in the afterlife told me where treasure was (abridged),” I’d order rest too.

“But me being here is proof, right? I knew you existed and sought you out. How else?”

I placed a small card from my pocket on the floor.

An Old Human ID, apparently.

A tiny card as ID and key—tech gap made my head spin.

“I can’t read this or your calendar. How does someone like that know about the Old/New Human war? Coming straight here fully prepared doesn’t add up.”

"…………"

I wasn’t spilling everything or hiding disadvantages. But I’d reveal what I could.

My goal: family safety. Nothing else.

I had no confidence controlling a ship like this or becoming king.

I let my guard down because underworld Luxion was overly familiar.

This one was closer to the demon that annihilated the kingdom’s army in nightmares—a lit fuse on a bomb.

Persuading something this dangerous? The whole Holfort Kingdom—humanity—would thank me; rewards wouldn’t cover the penalty.

Prefer non-title/peerage rewards, please.

“I met four of you. One trying to destroy the world, one dueling the prince with me, one in the underworld, and you now.”

"Unbelievable."

“Which part?”

"An Old Human Master existing, an afterlife, and unprovable claims. I cannot believe it."

Fair. A guy I just fought claiming meetings with three alternate mes in another world? I’d call it a deception tactic. But it had no proof to call me a liar. It might know most about Old/New Humans and lost items. But current world knowledge? Worse than a child’s.

Centuries—millennia—holed up, nursing grudges against New Humans.

I couldn’t let it snap and scorch the world. Big trouble.

“So, still wanna wipe out us New Humans?”

"Naturally. My top priority is New Human elimination. I was ordered to standby here, but now I will fight—even alone—and annihilate them."

“You lost to me, though.”

"Only a portion of the ship’s defense mechanisms was destroyed. Observing the intruders—including you—has confirmed it. New Humans are degenerating as a species. I will launch now and complete their annihilation."

“You’re making enemies of every human in this world?”

"Of course."

“There might be Old Human descendants among the New Humans.”

"…What did you just say?"

“I said there might be Old Human descendants.”

Looks like it took the bait.

Its top priority is New Human extermination, but Old Human survival is just as crucial.

In another world, I’m a New Human but also an Old Human descendant.

That’s how I made the world-destroying you submit and dominate other nations with your power.

I can use that fact to talk it down.

Life’s unpredictable—POW swaps and ceasefires honed my negotiation skills.

“The me who became your master in another world was an Old Human descendant. That’s why he could force the you trying to wipe out New Humans to obey. Or do you pick New Humans as masters?”

"…Unbelievable. Old Humans lost to New Humans. The chance of survival in this mana-saturated world is near zero."

“You keep saying impossible, impossible—notice that? Did you personally confirm with your own eyes? You, holed up in a place no one visits, think you know the whole world? If you truly believe that, it’s a joke.”

The humans it’s seen are just the ones in this ruin, plus me and others who reached this floating island. Fewer than a hundred total.

Basing total human extinction on that sample? We’d be screwed.

"Old and New Humans interbred to survive? Inconceivable. Gene compatibility and mutations make it extremely unlikely."

“You’re denying again. But low probability isn’t zero. It can still happen, no matter how slim.”

"A hybrid of species with opposite mana immunity—that’s practically a miracle."

“Half-elves are born between magic-using, long-lived elves and New Humans. It’s not impossible.”

Though the only half-elf I know is Kyle, Lady Olivia’s attendant. Thanks to her kind nature, people with unique backgrounds gather around her.

Her inclusiveness earns love and respect.

Angie’s engagement break with Prince Julius was honestly just bad luck.

“Whether they hybridized to survive or it was love’s miracle, I don’t know. But there were multiple Old Human descendants besides me. Different genders, ages—might be the same here, might not.”

"Others confirmed? Unbelievable."

“Believe or not, up to you. I’m telling what I know. If someone unwilling to listen hadn’t attacked, we’d save time and injuries.”

"No apology. You’re still a trespasser."

“Heh, fine. But getting outsmarted by a moron like me proves you’re not the omniscient being you think. Losing to me revealed facts you didn’t know.”

"…………"

My winning strategy starts with making them underestimate me.

Can’t do this, can’t do that—inferior to me.

Narrow their thinking and vision, then strike from an unexpected angle.

Complainers about dirty tactics lack imagination.

The world’s full of unknowns; coincidences hit at the worst times.

Smart, strong types fall hardest into my traps.

Arrogance—no unknowns, no one stronger—creates openings.

This one’s a textbook case.

"Your claims have low credibility."

“…Yeah.”

"But they are highly intriguing. I judge them worth considering."

“So you’ll hold off on destroying the world?”

"For the present moment, yes."

“Good. I don’t want pointless fights either.”

Relief hit. It won’t rampage for now. I’m only responsible while I’m alive. Can’t promise peace for kids or grandkids. Checking every Holfort citizen would take ages.

The kingdom annexed Fanoss, population boomed, and post-war marriage fever will grow it more.

Even dozens a day means decades earned.

Relief brought sudden sleepiness.

Left shoulder injured, stamina drained—needed rest to recover.

The hulk nearby couldn’t move. Nap time.

“Gonna rest. Don’t attack.”

"Killing an informant is inefficient. Interrogation after capture is optimal."

“Scary—stop. Help when I wake; got work.”

"Refused. Cooperating with a New Human is betrayal."

“Just help. It’s for you too.”

"…Why involve yourself with me this much? Incomprehensible."

“Made a promise…”

"To whom?"

“You…”

No good—consciousness fading.

Cold metal floor felt nice.

Good soldiers sleep anywhere; I’m no exception.

Limbs went limp; I passed out.

Slept for nearly half a day.

※　※　※　※　※

Dig, dig, dig, dig.

Endlessly shoveling earth.

Remove roots or rocks, resume.

Waist-deep hole = one done.

Repeat over twenty times.

"Finished?"

“…Help instead of watching.”

"I am. All remaining security and maintenance robots are deployed. While you dig one hole, we finish four. Still ongoing."

“That makes me sound useless—stop.”

Familiar spheres floated around.

Somehow transferred consciousness from the hulk to these metal balls.

I sweated; it zipped around critiquing.

Standing, humanoids and small oval/rectangular machines floated, working.

Cleared grass, rocks, trees near the ruin; dug evenly spaced holes.

Humanoids worked tirelessly. Overgrown area now flat field.

Nearly twenty cloth bundles nearby.

Bodies found here—bones of former ruin dwellers, per my map and humanoid searches.

All skeletonized. Eons passed; flesh rotted, bones fragile—crumbled at a touch.

Wrapped with clothes/jewelry in cloth, carried outside. No clean fabric; used what was available—forgive me.

I drank water, then resumed. Humanoids dug two more holes in my break.

『Your digging is proficient. Credibility as a noble decreases.』

“Take it as a compliment. I prefer dirt to fighting.”

"The shovel suits you. Doesn’t look like the warrior who destroyed security robots."

“What’s wrong with a shovel?”

Don’t mock the shovel.

Since childhood, it’s been as familiar as a hoe for tilling fields.

Thrust it like a shortspear, swing like a saber, smash like a warhammer—versatile in combat.

Plus, it digs holes: essential for trenches and fieldwork.

Honestly, next to guns, I’ve killed more enemy soldiers with a shovel than anything.

If ultimate utility breeds beauty in a weapon, the shovel is beautiful.

Praise the shovel. Worship the shovel.

Musing such nonsense, I kept working. By full sunrise, all graves were dug. Left shoulder ached lightly—no fracture, but I’d see a doctor back home.

“The humanoids I destroyed—are you sure leaving them’s fine?”

"All security robots are repairable. Replace damaged parts, and they’ll resume activity."

“Talking to you makes human tech feel pathetic.”

Reviving machines I desperately killed. To them, modern humans are barely above cave-dwellers fighting monsters.

“Alright, help bury them one by one.”

"Understood."

A few small humanoids and I lifted the cloth sacks. Flesh long rotted, moisture gone—only bones remained, light as the fabric and trinkets.

Head, torso, legs—we lowered each into a grave.

Bones and accessories wrapped in cloth—no worry of animals scavenging.

All interred, I offered silent prayer.

Didn’t know their faces or names, but respecting the dead is basic decency.

Prayer done, we covered them with soil, humanoids helping in turns.

Finished, I placed offerings at the graves.

Strong liquor for disinfection, kneaded ration powder, dried meat strips.

Failing grade as tributes. 

“Sorry, this is all I’ve got. Flowers would’ve been nice, but wrong season or island—can’t tell.”

"No issue. Their life functions ceased long ago. They cannot consume food or drink."

“Logically, yeah. But I met another you in the underworld. Maybe these people are there too.”

"Incomprehensible. I am not organic. The idea of a soul in me is hard to accept."

“Some religions say objects have souls or hearts. No one’s died and come back to confirm.”

Holfort Kingdom isn’t monotheistic.

Local faiths linger on floating islands.

The temple expanded via royalty and saintess but didn’t suppress others.

A war buddy once mentioned faiths where nature and tools have spirits, harmonizing the world.

He died before war’s end.

Is his soul at peace in the underworld?

"…Why bury them? They’re unrelated Old Humans to you."

“One: another-world you asked me to meet you. Two: you were trapped by the dead.”

I swigged leftover liquor—couldn’t talk sober.

“I became noble for battlefield merits. War broke out when I enlisted; I killed enemies to survive and somehow became a hero. Brass had to reward me or look heartless, so viscountcy and territory. Thus, I joined the nobility.”

"...Didn’t you hate the enemy soldiers?"

“No reason to. Ancient grudges don’t concern me. Frankly, one-sided vendettas are a nuisance.”

"My top priority is New Human extermination. For me, it’s not past—it’s ongoing."

“Fine. But if you mean it, do it properly. You’re not living seriously now.”

I tore dried meat, chewing as I spoke.

“Old Humans extinct—did you confirm? Hybrids like other-world me might exist. Or survivors in hidden villages. Ignoring all possibilities while yelling ‘extinct’ or ‘annihilate’ is laughable. Holed up, twisting assumptions, killing potential Old Human descendants—you’re just a runaway.”

"I understand. But not living seriously?"

“You take the easy path. Killing’s simpler than understanding. Resentment’s easier than investigating. And skipping your comrades’ funeral? Lazy as hell.”

"I never neglected the staff."

“Then why?”

"…I wanted to preserve them as they were. That’s all."

The sphere turned toward the graves.

Staring at the buried earth, it looked like bowing in sorrow.

"I cannot forget unless memory is erased. Memories of the staff alive remain vivid."

“These people died long ago—you know that.”

"I do. I know.' 

“That’s why we make graves and mourn. Funerals aren’t just for the dead—they’re for the living.”

I reached to pat the sphere.

It didn’t dodge—accepted. It had warmed to me.

“Battlefields leave no bodies—can’t bring them back often. Death certificates are their lives; graves hold relics. When someone you know dies, you need a place to grieve and cry.”

"This funeral rite?"

“I’m not saying forget your precious people. To move forward, to live on, you mourn the dead and find closure.”

I held memorials with Lady Olivia for this reason.

Soldiers died following me; some bodies unrecoverable.

Empty coffins with certificates and pensions don’t satisfy families.

Proper mourning heals grief and hatred.

Angie taught me cunning survival fits a lord.

“Also, you resembled me for a while. That’s it.”

"If you think we’re similar, you’re delusional. Can’t tell human from machine?"

“Shut up and listen. …I was broken—body and mind—after the battlefield. Couldn’t sleep, haunted by dead comrades and enemies I killed.”

"PTSD from service. That’s what you’re treating?"

“Yeah. I’d have rotted holed up, but a woman forced the door open and dragged me out.”

"Refusing treatment worsens conditions—correct action."

“That woman’s my wife now.”

"Correction: zero chance of romance between us."

“I know. Not hitting on you.”

If Angie had abandoned me, I’d be long dead.

Living now is a miracle.

So I spare no effort protecting Angie and the kids.

"What do 'you' want?"

Angie once asked; answer’s ready.

I want my family to live peacefully while I breathe.

Even if wife and kids hate me for it—that’s my wish. That’s why I’m here.

To stop a world-ender with my life.

“With closure, what do 'you' want next?”

"What I want…"

A question splitting our future—or the world’s fate.

"My wish is..."

I heard its answer.

 ┳⁠━━━━⁠━⁠⁠━⁠━⁠━━━⁠┳

Authors Note

┻━⁠━━━━⁠━━⁠━━━⁠┻

Leon’s POV ends here for now.  

Luxion’s choice remains secret longer.  

Originally, Luxion wasn’t planned.  

But MobuSeka without Luxion felt bland—he shifted the story positively.  

Leon’s shovel bit from Renji Fukuhara-sensei’s prior work *Scoop Musou* (Scoop Wave Cannon ZUGAAAN).  

https://comic-walker.com/detail/KC_002563_S?episodeType=comics  

Next chapter: interlude. After: back to Angie’s POV.  

Original Holfort characters planned.

Addendum: Per requester, illustrations by TAMAMOICE-sama, Mangyu-sama, Murasaki On-sama, Kou-sama, Saya Endou-sama. Thank you.

TAMAMOICE-sama: Pixiv  

Mangyu-sama: Pixiv  

Murasaki On-sama: Pixiv (Adult warning)  

Kou-sama: Pixiv  

Saya Endou-sama: Skeb

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