’Finally done.’
I muttered to myself, wiping a faint sheen of sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist. It had taken the better part of an hour to neutralize all the threats without raising a general alarm.
A tedious process of using illusions, pinpoint strikes, sleeping agents, and a lot of dragging.
I looked at the fruits of my labor: a pile of unconscious, securely tied-up bodies stacked inside the large tent.
There were two other tents filled just like this one. I did a quick mental count. Yeah, about sixty. And these were just the able-bodied adults who had posed a direct threat. They also had that bloody aura clinging to them, proof of the violence they’d committed. They were killers too, though perhaps not all were as irredeemable as their boss.
’Speaking of which...’
I stared at my hands, recalling the scene.
...The dagger’s weight in my grip, the resistance as it punched through flesh and cartilage, the wet, choking sound that had been the man’s last breath. The way his eyes had bulged in that final moment of horrified understanding...
This was the first time I had killed a human with my own hands.
And the strange part? I didn’t feel as terrible about it as I thought I would.
I was expecting... I don’t know, guilt? Panic? The urge to be sick? Well, that’s what always happens in the stories. But all I felt was this cold, quiet certainty that it needed to be done. The guy in that tent, the things he was doing and was about to do and had done... It’s hard to see someone like that as a person. He was more like a rabid animal that needed to be put down.
But I’m not stupid. I know that’s just me trying to make it easier on myself. The real, uncomfortable truth is simpler: I crossed that line.
Maybe... it was because I’d always known, on some level, that this day would come.
This wasn’t a modern world with laws, police, and the illusion of civilization. It was a fantasy land brimming with countless dangers and mysteries, where monsters attacked people and bandits raided villages, and things far worse lurked in the dark places of the world, like the Architect.
Survival here wasn’t clean or easy. You can’t survive by playing nice all the time. You have to get your hands dirty.
So, perhaps I had been mentally preparing myself all along. Accepting the reality of what this world demanded.
Or maybe...
I exhaled slowly, a white mist in the cool cavern air.
Or maybe... I just wasn’t as kind as those protagonists in stories, the ones who would hesitate and agonize over taking a life, even when it was necessary.
The ones who would weep and swear never to kill again, only to be forced into the same situation a Chapter later, repeating the cycle of guilt and justification endlessly.
I’d almost always found those characters frustrating. They were noble, perhaps, morally pure in a way that was almost admirable.
But ultimately naive.
They operated on the assumption that every life held equal value, that killing was always wrong, and that there was always another way if you just tried hard enough. They clung to their ideals even as bodies piled up around them, even as their hesitation got innocent people hurt.
And readers praised them for it. Called them ’good protagonists.’ Held them up as moral paragons.
But what good was that type of morality if it meant letting monsters continue their rampage? What value did those types of principles hold when weighed against the suffering they allowed to continue?
I thought of that woman. The terror in her eyes, the torn clothes, the way she’d fainted from sheer traumatic overload. If I’d hesitated even a few seconds longer...
No.
I made the right call. The only call I could live with.
And if that means I’m not a "good protagonist" by some storybook standard... well, that’s just fine by me.
<You are really calm about this.>
I heard my voice in my head and glanced over to my Phantom Twin, who lent a helping hand in the ’cleaning’.
<But you could have knocked him out too, you know,> he continued, his translucent form turning to look at me. <Like the rest of them.>
I was quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I know."
The admission hung in the air between us — or rather, between me and myself.
"But the chances were slim," I continued, my voice low. "And if I’d made a mistake, if he’d gotten even a single shout out, everything would have gone to hell. The whole camp would’ve been alerted, and then..." I trailed off, but the implication was clear.
He tilted his head, and then understanding flickered across his features after reading my thoughts.
Although my anger and impulsiveness had also played a role, I hadn’t been exactly irrational. Before taking action, I had used Character Insight on the man and found out that he was a mid Tier 4 Resonator with a pretty tricky gift called Iron Skin, along with the list of his crimes.
My phantom twin, knowing this info as our thoughts were shared, nodded in understanding and muttered, <Yeah, if you hadn’t launched a surprise attack, things would probably go south...>
I nodded. "Exactly. More blood would have spilled, and I don’t know if I could have come out unscathed, given almost half of them were Tier 2 or 3 Resonators."
The thought of a drawn-out battle against dozens of armed, aura-wielding bandits was not a pleasant one. Speed and precision had been the only viable strategy.
"Besides," I added, the thought solidifying as I spoke it aloud, "if I just killed on a whim, I’d be going against my own principles after all."
While I wasn’t far from the protagonists or characters I’d mentally criticized - willing to cross a line they wouldn’t - there was a fundamental difference between their ideals and mine.
They clung to a code that often seemed to value the life of the monster over the safety of the victim.
I didn’t. Not fully.
My principle was simpler, clearer: protect the innocent first. Always. The strong have a responsibility to shield the weak, not to philosophize while they suffer. Justice isn’t about treating everyone equally — it’s about recognizing that the oppressor and the oppressed are not on equal footing, and acting accordingly.
I also believe everyone deserves a chance at redemption. Everyone. Even killers, even thieves, even those who’d made terrible choices born of desperation or ignorance. People can change. They can recognize their wrongs, seek forgiveness, and walk a better path.
But, and this was crucial, that chance at redemption didn’t supersede the immediate safety of their victims.
You don’t get to continue your crime while I wait to see if you’ll have a change of heart. You don’t get to hurt people while I give you space to "find your way."
Redemption is for after you’ve been stopped, after the innocent are safe, after you’ve faced the consequences of your actions.
That man in the tent? He was in the middle of destroying someone. In that moment, her right to safety, to dignity, to not be violated — that took absolute priority over his theoretical chance at redemption.
Could he have changed? Maybe. In some other timeline, some other circumstance, perhaps he could have woken up one day and realized the monster he’d become.
But that possibility, that abstract potential for future redemption, didn’t outweigh her concrete, immediate suffering.
Mercy has its place. Forgiveness has its place. Second chances have their place.
But they come after justice, not instead of it. And they certainly don’t come at the expense of the innocent.