“Were you nervous?” 

The grandmaster was taciturn. After talking about how he failed to save humanity and received the stigma of the seven malignant saints, he had never brought up a private story. Such a being bringing it up first was luck. It was the precursor to a full-fledged quest. 

Zibal calmed his excitement and responded politely, “I am fine. I waited and believed that Master would give instructions at a good time.” 

The reason for Zibal’s attitude wasn’t just because he was conscious about affinity. It was respect for the forgotten old hero who fought against the gods to protect humanity and was preparing to fight again. 

“In fact, I wanted to avoid futile killing. I felt like I would lose myself in the past the moment I hurt people completely unrelated to my purpose. I was afraid that the stigma of the ugly gods would really stigmatize me and make me wicked.” 

It was on the way back to the inn. Grandmaster Zikfrector walked against the backdrop of the sunset and quietly looked at his hands. His hands were dyed with the red light of the sunset and seemed blood-soaked. “Then I realized. There is already a lot of blood on my hands.”

 Saharan’s sword, which caused tens of thousands of deaths in the process of founding the empire, was...