The rain had stopped only a few hours earlier, yet the air still carried a strange heaviness, as if a silent pressure clung to the ground. From the window on the inn's second floor, Satoru watched the gray sky stretching over Noukii. Dense clouds—too many for the usual climate—moved together without breaking apart. It was an irregular sight for a noon that should have been brighter.
"It's been raining a lot lately," Satoru murmured.
Behind him, Liza entered the room carrying one of the travel bags. Tama and Pochi followed, holding blankets and utensils in their hands as they finished arranging what had already been taken from the carriage.
"Master," Liza said, "we're almost done organizing our belongings. Shall we bring up the rest?"
Satoru didn't reply immediately. His eyes stayed fixed on the clouds, on the way the wind pushed them without dispersing them.
"No," he ordered at last. "Leave what's still in the carriage."
Liza blinked, puzzled.
"We won't be staying here?"
"I'm not sure yet," he replied calmly. "There's something I need to check first. Depending on what I find, we might leave today."
Tama and Pochi exchanged a quiet look. They didn't understand the reason, but they caught the seriousness in their master's tone.
At that moment, Hans materialized beside Satoru without making a sound, kneeling in a simple gesture.
"My lord."
Satoru closed his eyes briefly, calculating what was necessary.
"Search for the forest hidden beyond the barrier. Examine it carefully and return once you've determined if there's intelligent life there."
"Understood."
Hans bowed once more and vanished through the window frame, crossing the rooftops before disappearing toward the forest.
Satoru exhaled softly, tensionless.
"Liza," he said, "put away what's already here and rest. I want all three of you ready to depart if needed."
She nodded without hesitation.
"Yes, Master."
Tama and Pochi also nodded with quiet obedience.
The wind shifted. A cold current swept through the room for a moment, sharper than one would expect for midday. Satoru looked back toward the horizon.
The clouds continued to gather.
And then, without warning, a single drop struck the window frame.
Then another.
***
Outside, a shadow moved.
Hans advanced across the rooftops until he reached the last house of the commercial district. From there, he dropped soundlessly onto the path leading toward the forest.
The air was thick with moisture, still heavy from the earlier rain. Among the leaves along the road, he found faint traces: splinters of wood, half-buried wheel marks, and scraps of canvas scattered by the wind. They were remnants of a carriage from several days ago—no signs of life nearby, nothing worth more than a passing glance.
He continued forward without slowing.
The forest loomed ahead, unnaturally calm. The mist between the trunks wasn't natural; the density of the air itself held a subtle resistance that instantly revealed the presence of an illusion.
Hans didn't reduce his pace.
He took a single step forward, and the barrier yielded like damp fabric, bending around his body. For others, it would have been imperceptible—or impenetrable—but for him, the weak point was as clear as a crack in a poorly sealed wall.
With his abilities, finding the safest entry while keeping his concealment active was as effortless as a stroll through a park.
Inside, the forest was wrapped in absolute silence. At first glance, there were no insects, no birds, no traces of small animals—only the wind. The earth, slightly sunken in some places, marked a winding path between old roots.
Several footprints—similar to those of a group of knights—were scattered around, but Hans noticed the inconsistencies: no weight in the impressions, soles too uniform to be human. Animated armor. Nothing organic.
As he moved deeper, traces of wildlife began to appear. No creature reacted to his presence; his steps made no sound, left no marks, and his scent and body were hidden entirely by his skill.
He observed carefully. Every animal carried traces of magic; every plant, every root, seemed woven into an illusory pattern. The entire forest was a labyrinth designed to mislead anyone without supernatural perception.
Even he almost strayed once, but his senses were more than enough to correct his course.
At the end of the path, a structure rose between the trees—a tower.
Tall and narrow, covered in vines, with runes so faded they barely held their shape. The door, old yet intact, had resisted the passage of time.
Seeing the door obviously sealed, Hans looked up. The open window at the top was the most obvious entrance. A few agile steps were enough for him to reach it.
Inside, the first chamber greeted him with a clutter of materials. A large iron cauldron occupied the center, with burnt marks around it suggesting recent, though not immediate, use. On a narrow table nearby lay open notebooks and scattered pages. Hans didn't touch anything closed—he only examined what was visible.
He recognized basic alchemical symbols, quick notes about catalyst refinement, fragments of incomplete formulas, and diagrams meant to stabilize low-level energy matrices. There were no rushed ink stains or signs of panic. The witch had left, but not in a desperate flight.
It was faint, but the air still smelled of herbs, tinged with a trace of sweetness.
Continuing his inspection, he checked other rooms—everything looked the same: orderly, silent, no recent presence. The only trace of activity was the lingering magical residue around the large cauldron, but nothing more.
Once Hans determined he had seen enough, he descended with the same precision he had used to enter, exited the tower, and crossed the barrier again without slowing.
Upon returning to the inn, he didn't delay in delivering his report.
From his place by the window, Satoru listened without turning his gaze.
There was something strange about this rain, something that demanded his attention.
Satoru's eyes slid toward the sword wrapped in black cloth, leaning against the wall beside him. The fabric trembled slightly, as if something stirred within it. For an instant, a faint white light escaped between the folds of the wrappings.
Narrowing his eyes, a suspicion took shape in his mind.
"We're leaving," he declared finally. "We won't stay here."
Everyone made their preparations as the rain intensified over Noukii. The sound filled the room—steady and suffocating—while the dim glow beneath the sword's wrappings pulsed again, faint yet rhythmic.
***
The oil lamp cast a faint glow across the private office of Count Roswal Seiryuu. It was a room designed for discreet meetings—heavy curtains, a solid desk, a muted carpet, and the lingering scent of incense burned earlier during a conference with local knights. Even so, that night the chamber felt smaller, as though the air itself, thick with tension, pressed inward from all sides.
Across from Roswal, the High Priestess of Parion sat motionless, the reports spread before her. Her hands rested clasped together, yet the slight pressure she exerted on the parchment betrayed the weight of her thoughts.
"At this very moment," she said at last, without looking up, "Satoru must be reaching Kuhanou."
Her tone wasn't speculative. It was the firm assertion of someone accustomed to reading signs, not guessing.
Roswal, standing beside the window, didn't answer right away. The priestess mistook his silence for hesitation, but he was simply taking a slow breath, as if choosing the least painful way to begin a conversation neither of them wished to have.
"Roswal," she continued, pausing briefly between words, "do you regret what we did?"
He turned slightly—enough to face her.
"No."
The priestess closed her eyes for a heartbeat—not in resignation, but in preparation. She knew he wasn't entirely convinced, but she needed to hear that word. Even so, she didn't wait for him to elaborate.
"There was no alternative," she went on. "After what we saw… no one could ignore it. Not you, not I, not the city."
She picked up one of the reports and slid it slightly toward Roswal, though she had already read it countless times.
"The soldiers described a forest without life," she said. "Not destroyed. Not burned. Without life. The ground drained… as if something had absorbed every trace of vitality from the land. And the cuts—" her voice lowered, "where sacred energy still lingers. That kind of phenomenon doesn't occur by accident."
Roswal didn't interrupt. He knew better.
"The priest who accompanied them sensed that same energy in Satoru's wounds," she added. "Not faint traces—clear, undeniable marks. He carried injuries touched by divine power."
The silence that followed carried a distinct edge.
It wasn't doubt.
It was fear.
"You don't need to see a holy sword to understand what happened there," the priestess said softly. "Those marks could only come from a hero."
For the first time in their exchange, her gaze faltered. Only for a second—but it was enough to show that even she, steadfast in her faith, grasped the magnitude of what they were discussing.
"And if a hero was part of that battle," she continued, "then the other combatant…" She drew in a breath. "Could only be someone who could face him as an equal."
She hadn't yet spoken the precise word.
Not because she didn't believe it, but because its weight was too great—even for her.
"Besides," she added, "the heavens warned us before his arrival. The night before he appeared, when the meteor shower crossed the sky, the faithful didn't celebrate it. It wasn't a beautiful omen—it was a sign. A warning. And the very next day, Satoru entered through Seiryuu's gates."
This time she looked directly at the count.
"We can't call such events coincidence. Not when every ancient scripture speaks of signs heralding the rise of great threats. First the omen, then the stranger. And now this—" she tapped lightly on the report of the forest, "the pattern is too clear."
Roswal clenched his jaw, but she pressed on.
"The oracles have always warned of entities that can match or surpass heroes. And every time such a sign appeared, the church acted. You know they won't hesitate now."
At last, the High Priestess placed her hands on her lap, a small gesture weighted with tension.
"Sending that message wasn't impulsive. It was duty. He needed to be informed. Only a hero can handle something that leaves a trace like this. And if Satoru is what we believe him to be… then it was our obligation to act before it's too late."
Roswal didn't respond immediately. He remained by the desk, one hand braced against the edge, as if the solid wood anchored him amid the torrent of thoughts running through his mind. He wasn't easily rattled—nobles, knights, political squabbles, and economics were his daily arena—but this… this was different. The priestess spoke from faith; he from experience. And that put them on entirely different ground.
"I don't regret it," he said at last, his tone measured. "But that doesn't mean I share your certainty."
The priestess frowned, more wounded by the ambiguity than the denial itself.
Roswal continued before she could speak.
"We tried to reach out to Satoru," he said, recalling every detail. "To speak with him. To offer a bridge. It seemed reasonable—not out of naivety, but opportunity. A man capable of defeating a high-ranking demon without losing composure is… someone any city would wish as an ally. Even I thought Seiryuu might benefit if he chose to settle here, or at least maintain relations."
He closed his eyes briefly, as though admitting it aloud was uncomfortable.
"And yet," he went on, "after seeing what happened in that forest, I can't shake the feeling that I extended my hand to someone I never understood. Someone who may have always been far beyond anything we could measure. Like a common man shaking hands with a general—unsure if he's facing a protector… or someone who could level a city by mistake."
The priestess parted her lips, but Roswal raised a hand gently to stop her.
"Don't misunderstand," he said gravely. "I'm not saying Satoru is innocent. Nor that he's guilty. I'm saying we don't know what he is. And that's what troubles me. The church reads divine signs and acts upon them; nobles have to read people, not prophecies. And I can't tell whether that man acted like a monster—or simply survived something worse."
The priestess tensed her jaw, but stayed silent. Roswal picked up one of the reports, holding it between his fingers.
"What they found in that forest is terrifying," he admitted. "Yes, the sacred energy saturating the soil points to a hero's presence. Yes, the drained vitality is unprecedented. And yes, the fact that Satoru walked away carrying wounds imbued with holy power ties him directly to that confrontation. But even with all of that, I still can't tell if he stands on the side of good or evil."
His words hung heavy in the air.
"History has seen heroes who were moral disasters," he added with restrained bitterness, "and I've seen criminals who did more good than priests. If my position has taught me anything, it's that faith doesn't always align with reality. What's terrifying about Satoru isn't his strength—it's that we can't fit him into any category. The church can. We can't."
The priestess pressed her lips together, but Roswal's voice softened, lower now, almost confessional.
"There's something else I fear," he said quietly. "Not only that Satoru might be a threat. I fear that, out of fear itself, we may have branded the wrong man as a Demon King. That possibility exists—though the church would deny it outright. And if a hero arrives with orders to kill first and ask nothing…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
The priestess lowered her eyes, unable to deny that the same thought haunted her too.
"But even knowing that," Roswal went on, "I couldn't stay idle. Neither could you. The moment Satoru left the city, we sent the message. It was the only way to protect Seiryuu from accusations of complicity. You, out of religious duty; I, out of political necessity. Both of us forced by powers greater than our own will."
He leaned back, exhaling a restrained sigh.
"We did it because we had to. Whether it pains us or not. Because if Satoru truly is a Demon King, we would have been the fools who offered him aid. And if he isn't… then we may have helped set in motion a tragedy still waiting to unfold."
The priestess slowly lifted her gaze, as if searching for something within him.
"Roswal… what do you fear most?"
He answered without hesitation.
"That we're wrong," he said gravely. "Whether he's a demon… or not."
The silence that followed was unlike the previous ones.
It wasn't tense.
It was the bitter understanding that both of them—idealist and realist alike—had become unwilling participants in the same possible mistake.
The High Priestess of Parion and Count Roswal Seiryuu had never been close for most of their lives. Their relationship was the typical one between two authorities forced to coexist in the same city—cordial, respectful, but distant. It was only thanks to the count's daughter, Ohna, that this distance began to narrow.
Ohna was a problem in every sense of noble convention—stubborn, independent, and far more devoted to her calling than to the position she had been born into. From the moment her talent for sacred magic awakened, she decided her duty to the church came first. She did not hesitate to reject the comforts of the Seiryuu name, nor to distance herself from the political responsibilities of her family. For her, faith was enough.
Yet what made her truly exceptional wasn't her character—it was her gift. The divine blessing that manifested in her placed her among the chosen few: Ohna became the only active oracle in all of Seiryuu, a spiritual luxury that few cities could boast.
From that day onward, things changed. Roswal began meeting with the High Priestess more often, worried for his daughter's safety and for the church's influence over her. The priestess, for her part, had to coordinate with him to maintain stability in the region. And over time, though their worldviews never fully aligned, they developed a mutual understanding few outsiders could perceive.
That understanding was the only reason Roswal Seiryuu hadn't yet been branded a heretic for voicing doubts about how the church interpreted certain omens. Anywhere else, in any other era, such words would have sealed his fate. But the priestess knew him—and his daughter served as an unintentional bridge between them.
Even so, not even that bond was enough to resolve what they faced now.
Satoru.
The possibility that he was a Demon King explained his power and knowledge. It was tempting—almost convenient—to fit all the pieces together under that label. Yet Satoru's actions remained too contradictory. If he meant to deceive them, why help with the labyrinth? If he was a threat, why not allow the high-class demon to wreak havoc? If he feared discovery, why not erase Seiryuu entirely to remove witnesses?
If his goal had truly been to act from the shadows, destroying the city would have been the most logical first step. But he hadn't done it. And that contradiction unsettled both Roswal and the priestess, though she would never admit it aloud.
There was another element that weighed even heavier: the hero.
Though no one said it directly, it was clear enough—the hero had lost. The marks left on the ground were not mere traces; they were the aftermath of a decisive clash whose conclusion had vanished without explanation. The more they thought about it, the more disturbing it became.
Too many pieces didn't fit.
Too many questions without answers.
And the most important one was the question neither dared to speak:
Ohna had never received a divine message warning of an imminent threat.
If the meteor shower truly had been a sign sent by the gods, the oracle would have resonated. The church would have felt the call. There would have been something—anything—a vision, a whisper, a dream. But there had been nothing. Not even silence carrying meaning.
So what was that rain of stars?
A natural phenomenon?
A signal created by mortal hands?
A power that imitated the divine?
A coincidence far too precise?
It was that absence—the void of divine confirmation—that made their decision weigh so heavily.
If Satoru truly was a Demon King, they had acted rightly.
But if he wasn't…
Then they might have pushed away an ally.
Or worse, marked as an enemy someone capable of destroying both heroes and demons without them ever understanding his true nature.
Both of them knew it.
Both felt that same pressure in their chests.
Both shared the same fear—having committed an error their positions would never allow them to undo.
*****
Author's Note:
Bit by bit, we're approaching the end of the events that correspond to Volume 3 of Death March.
But this time, things are quite different.
Of all the volumes I've adapted so far, this one probably carries the most changes from the original story.
Then again… perhaps it was inevitable.
As for the characters who appeared near the end—I'll admit I took quite a few liberties with them, but I hope you still enjoyed how they turned out.
Thank you for reading, as always.
See you next time.
If you'd like to read chapters in advance, you can check out my Patreon: patreon.com/GreenHistories