Chapter 7: The Lotus in the Mud

Ilya closed the door cautiously and stepped out into the hallway. Ian had managed to eat a bit of lunch and had just fallen back asleep.

“Whew…”

A week had passed since Ian regained consciousness, but his condition remained precarious. He would groan in pain at the slightest brush of the duvet against his skin; he frequently gasped for air as if his lungs were failing him; and his body remained deathly cold, refusing to retain any warmth.

To the others, Ian’s body was a ticking time bomb. According to Felix—the only one capable of perceiving the flow of energy within Ian—demonic power had melted into his blood, wandering through his veins and wreaking havoc on his internal organs.

It seemed Ian was barely holding his collapsing body together by layering mana like a foundation and stitching the gaps with divine power.

When the demonic energy surged without warning, Ian’s body would begin to attack itself, almost as if in a desperate attempt at self-defense. Every time that happened, Ian would suffer a seizure and vomit blood.

The seizures usually lasted about ten minutes, but they were so violent that no one could find peace of mind. Ian appeared to be in such agony that it seemed he would be better off unconscious. He didn’t even have the strength to push the blood out; he simply moaned in pain as the crimson fluid spilled from his lips.

Ultimately, Felix, who stayed by his side, had to lift Ian up to prevent the blood from entering his airway. Cradling him like a child, Felix would gently pat his back with hands imbued with the power of the Dragon to help him spit out the blood.

Leaning against Felix, Ian would clutch at his collar, though his strength was so meager that “resting his hand on Felix’s chest” would be a more accurate description. Ian’s fingertips would turn purple as the circulation failed, trembling intermittently.

With Ian’s head resting on his shoulder, Felix would stroke him from the back of his head down to his waist, coaxing the “dead blood” out.

By the time the ordeal ended, Felix’s back would be soaked in blood. His rich blonde hair—bright as spun gold—was often matted with gore, turning the same dark russet shade as Claire’s hair.

Ian had suffered seizures before, but never anything this draining, leaving him completely unable to support his own weight.

After the bouts of vomiting, Ian would fall into a deep, death-like sleep. He spent the vast majority of his time sleeping, as if trying to make up for all the rest he had been denied throughout his life. At first, the group panicked, thinking he had lost consciousness again, but they eventually learned to sigh in relief at the realization that he was merely resting.

Ilya thought of the sleeping Ian. The face settled with a sickly pallor, the eyes closed as if in death, the brow furrowed in pain, the chapped lips, and the chest rising and falling ever so slightly…

Walking toward the conference hall, Ilya let out a quiet, bitter curse. His stomach turned at the thought of the “gluttons” waiting for him—those masses of greed. He thought he had weeded them all out a year ago. Politics truly did not suit his temperament.

At the mere news that the Hero had returned alive, their chilling desire to exploit him—while pretending otherwise—made Ilya’s chest tighten. He loosened his neatly tied cravat as if it were strangling him, but the feeling of suffocation remained.

Ilya vowed that today, no matter what, he would protect Ian. A flicker of fear crossed his mind, but compared to what Ian had endured, it was a pathetic emotion.

Ilya took a deep breath and stepped forward. The doors to the conference hall did not open again until late into the night.

Before Ian joined the war, the salary he received from the Imperial Family under the guise of “dignity maintenance” for four years was absurdly small compared to that of a typical imperial official. Even so, it was enough to cover a month’s worth of food for a small orphanage with forty children. The children didn’t eat much, and being an orphanage in the slums, they always used the cheapest ingredients.

Despite the low pay, Ian was granted only a single day off per month. For the rest of the month, he was dragged to various imperial events under the title of the “Hero chosen by the Goddess.”

As an orphan from the lower class, there was nothing Ian could do in such places. A commoner with no education, dragged into the palace alone, he had to stand still and absorb all the stinging hostility and mockery poured upon him.

After the events, Ian was often “invited” to the banquets. However, it was an invitation in name only; no seat was ever prepared for him. Ian would stand in a dark corner, watching the nobles dine while they insulted him under the guise of sophistication.

“How could we possibly share a table with such a lowly thing?”

“Indeed. And that ominous black hair…”

Their sarcastic remarks, spoken loudly enough for Ian to hear, failed to wound him. He was the Hero. His own social standing didn’t matter. What mattered to Ian was saving the world.

By the time he returned from such exhausting days, it was already dark. It was the hour when the training grounds and the library had long since closed. Ian would reach for the door handle and give it a slight shake, his expression indifferent. As expected, the firmly locked doors never opened.

Without a change in expression, Ian would turn back toward his room, retracing the long path he had taken just to check the facilities.

Contrary to public belief, Ian received no actual support from the Imperial Family. This was because the former Emperor was terrified that the people’s loyalty would shift toward the Hero who was destined to end the war.

The Emperor knew he would have to hand the throne to Felix once the war ended. He wasn’t a good ruler, but he wasn’t stupid. Therefore, as long as the capital was safe, the Emperor didn’t actually want the war to end. Probably.

In the end, Ian gave up on the evenings and visited the training grounds and library at dawn instead. At that hour, no one bothered him.

Ian would wake in the early hours while everyone else was sleeping to sweep the training ground floors and swing his sword. The sword granted by the temple, Phidiam, was not a weapon suited for containing mana, but Ian made it work anyway.

One spring morning, as the sky turned a twilight purple, Ian shook the faint mana from his blade as if it were nothing. There was no one to show off to, no one to be proud of him.

It was Zeimer who had tossed a basic magic book to Ian as he lingered near the library late one evening. That small kindness from the Archmage was what finally allowed Ian to stand tall again.

Ian knew the “Demon King” was a lie. However, because of that, he had to fight against the thing the Goddess had created. To do that, he needed power. In this broken world, the distinction between good and evil had long since lost its meaning.

Relying on moonlight, Ian would slowly trace the words in books whose edges had softened from constant handling. He wasn’t very literate, but this was his only way to gain knowledge of magic. Though Zeimer helped occasionally, he was a major pillar of the war effort and rarely stayed in the palace for long.

For four years, Ian swung his sword alone at dawn and read magic books by moonlight at night.

Even on his days off, Ian didn’t rest. Unfortunately, the concept of a “bank” was foreign to commoners who weren’t merchants. Being from the slums, Ian naturally had no idea what a bank was. Unaware that he could deposit money and withdraw it elsewhere, Ian would place his monthly salary envelopes under his mattress. On his day off, he would clutch those envelopes to his chest and head to the orphanage.

Of course, Director Janet always refused the envelopes at first. To her, that money was no different from Ian’s “blood money.” Despite the ongoing financial crisis caused by the war, she refused to touch it. The price of her child’s life was not something she could easily spend.

Only when Ian’s face hardened, insisting she use it as payment for raising him and teaching him not to stray into a bad life, would she take it—her hands trembling as she withdrew only a tiny, tiny amount at a time.

This was likely why the first thing Ian said to Felix after regaining his voice was a question about the orphanage.

“Your Majesty… while I was gone… the Rose Orphanage—”

Ian was desperate, fearing that support for the orphanage might have been cut off during the past year—or perhaps even the two years since he left for the battlefield.

The four companions were shocked to hear Ian’s story, delivered in a slow, cracked voice. They realized Ian had spent almost nothing on himself during all those years. Even Zeimer, who knew a bit of the situation, crossed his arms and his face hardened. He hadn’t realized it was this bad.

Everyone was horrified to learn that Ian had sent his entire pittance of a salary to the orphanage without fail. Furthermore, they were shocked to find that although records showed a significant monthly budget had been allocated for the Rose Orphanage since Ian first arrived at the palace, Ian knew nothing about it. It seemed the Ministry of Finance, which lacked oversight at the time, had intercepted every cent.

Ilya ground his teeth. Among the central departments he had audited after returning from the war, the Ministry of Finance was the most corrupt. Afraid of the consequences, they hadn’t touched funds with clear trails, but they had divided up the money meant for the young, ignorant Ian—who had no background and no supporters—among themselves.

He had thought something was strange. He recalled the pale, overwhelmed face of Madame Janet whenever the Imperial Family sent support through official channels after Felix’s coronation. The thought that she must have accepted that money thinking it was the price of the dying Hero’s life made Ilya’s blood boil.

Fingertips always stained red and cracked. Combat boots with worn-out soles. Looking back, everything surrounding Ian was poverty. During the war. And likely long before it.

The group had first met Ian when he arrived at the battlefield. The Emperor, anxious that the Hero might end the war too quickly, had delayed Ian’s deployment as long as possible until he finally decided he could no longer stall the end of the conflict.

Felix, Claire, and Ilya—who had all graduated early from the academy to join the fight—and Mitchell, who was drafted from the temple, had their first meeting in the heart of the war zone.

The camp, smelling of acrid smoke and dust, fell into a profound silence the moment the Hero appeared. Though the young Hero looked exhausted after riding for a week without rest, his eyes shone with a resolve that would yield to no one.

He spoke with a steady, upright gaze.

“Hello. I am the Hero.”

In the midst of the desolate plains, where even the wind and the chirping of insects seemed to stop, only that youthful yet clear voice echoed.

Salvation had descended upon this ruined, crumbling, and defiled world. A lotus is a flower that blooms elegantly in the mud. In a time of chaos, the Hero bloomed just like that lotus.