This decision was reached after three days and three nights of deep thought while I lay in bed, and there were three reasons for it.
First, and also the most presentable reason: I, a clumsy rookie, simply have no ability to handle such a complex and powerful engine of war.
The previous battle already proved it. Without the assistance of those three skull-headed helpers, I could barely even walk properly. And reality also proved that this kind of external assistance was not reliable.
I also couldn't figure out why those little drones—supposedly built from the skulls of the dead—could start hallucinating like living people and believing in daemons and witchcraft. Have the feudal superstitions of these people in the far future already seeped into their bones so deeply that even AI can't escape it?
This piece of equipment that looked like a god descending from the heavens in other people's eyes was completely wasted on me, like a pearl cast before swine. With me piloting it, my combat effectiveness might not even match that of a properly trained ordinary soldier.
Then came the second reason, and the most important one: wearing that thing, I couldn't communicate normally with people.
In the chaotic melee in Donigaton's hive district, when our own troops started going insane, I had absolutely no way to "shout" them back from delirium and hallucination like I did at the crossroads last time.
I guessed it was because my face was hidden behind the helmet, my voice was distorted by the amplifier, and I also couldn't, like Arbitrator Kairen, "force-sync reality" through direct physical contact.
Inside that shell of metal, I was no longer a living person. I became a cold symbol, a killing machine. My "halo of lucidity" seemed to require a foundational recognition that I was a human being. Once that recognition was cut off, my ability failed along with it.
I was sealed inside a two-meter-tall metal can, turned into a powerless bystander, forced to watch as my comrades slaughtered each other in madness. That helplessness was ten thousand times more terrifying than facing danger myself, because at least I had some self-awareness: I was just an ordinary shut-in with the combat power of less than a goose. In a real fight, I was basically carried by allied forces.
So I couldn't wear it again. My ability seemed to doom me to only one path: fighting in the flesh.
Finally, there was a third reason that I would never admit in front of anyone else.
The urinary catheter and the rectal drain you had to hook up while wearing power armour.
I hated that thing.
To be honest, back when I read novels and played games online and saw those power armour settings that looked cool enough to make you faint, I never once thought about how the "pilot" handled bodily functions. I never imagined that people in this world would solve it in such a hardcore manner.
That feeling… was impossible to describe. All I could say was that the trauma it inflicted on my soul was far worse than anything the battlefield's gunfire ever did.
I heard that this kind of power armour could even provide continuous combat capability for days or even weeks, but only if you also plugged in terrifying-sounding add-ons like an oxygen line, a feeding tube, an IV line, dialysis drainage tubes, and other attachments that made my skin crawl just hearing about them.
This deployment happened to be a short-range assignment, so Brother Zebrun didn't put all that equipment on me… for which, in between the relief of narrowly escaping death, I was moved to tears with gratitude toward him.
So, in summary, this mecha can be driven by whoever wants to drive it. I'm not driving it. Not a chance.
Just as I made up my mind and rehearsed what I was going to say—planning to lay it all out once Lady Inquisitor returned—she came to me first.
That afternoon, I'd just finished a bowl of oddly flavored nutrient paste and was leaning against the bed reading the Outline of Modern Grandtale History that Director Merpus had downloaded for me, when the infirmary door snapped open with a sharp whoosh.
Lady Inquisitor entered in a white fitted uniform, travel-worn and dust-streaked. Her platinum-blonde hair bun looked slightly loosened, which made her feel less distant and untouchable than usual. Fatigue tugged at her face in a way she couldn't fully hide, but those sapphire eyes of hers were still sharp enough to pierce a soul.
"Looks like you're recovering well," she said bluntly, her voice cool and clear.
She'd come in a bit suddenly, without even knocking. I didn't have time to get up and put on proper clothes, and I certainly didn't dare criticize her lack of basic manners. I could only straighten my spine awkwardly on the bed, trying to look serious and composed, disguising the embarrassment of being dressed in nothing but a patient's gown.
"Uh, yes, my lady. Much better," I answered, stumbling over my words.
She didn't care about my awkwardness. She walked straight to my bedside, pulled over a chair, sat down, and then stared at me—directly, unblinking—so hard my scalp started to prickle.
"I've reviewed the battle records from Donigaton and interrogated every survivor," she said slowly, every word sounding as if it had been precisely measured. "Including Arbitrator Kairen, and the three servo-skulls on your power armour."
My heart sank.
She even interrogated the three skulls? Can those things even speak?
"And… what did they say?" I asked carefully.
"They described a battle… we cannot understand." Lady Inquisitor's gaze grew complicated, as if she were weighing her words. "In their perception… and in mine, what we faced at the time was a daemon host led by a champion of the Blood God, along with sorcerous flames and psychic storms sufficient to swallow an entire city block. But in your power armour's records, aside from conventional gunfire and explosions, there were no abnormal energy readings whatsoever."
"Doesn't that settle it?" I slapped my thigh in excitement (and then remembered I was still under a blanket). "That's exactly what I'm saying. There were no monsters, no daemons, no anything. It was that horn-helmeted shaman putting on a show. He had to be using some black-tech I don't understand—like infrasound, or some kind of brainwave interference device—something that made you and everyone else fall into a… uh, some kind of mass hallucination."
Lady Inquisitor listened quietly without agreeing or disagreeing. She only folded her arms—pale hands, prominent knuckles, the kind of hands that looked strong—and regarded me again with a look that made my skin crawl.
"So you believe that in the battle… we, hm, fell into madness, into what you call 'hysteria' and 'hallucinations'…" She paused, seeming to work hard to understand and use my vocabulary. "Primarily because… we did not believe you?"
"Yes." I nodded immediately, feeling like I'd finally identified the core issue, finally found a channel to communicate with people in this world. "At the end of the day, your superstition is too deeply rooted. You haven't built a materialist worldview. That shout I gave back at the fortress was basically me yanking you back into reality for a moment. But this time on the battlefield, once things got urgent, your old habits flared up again. And with me wrapped in a suit of metal, I couldn't 're-educate' you back into reality even if I wanted to. There's an old saying, isn't there? You can't teach people by lecturing them, but life will teach them in one go. You've been taught twice already and you still haven't learned the lesson."
The more I spoke, the more heated I became, with a kind of furious disappointment at their stubbornness.
Lady Inquisitor watched me in silence, her face expressionless. But those deep blue eyes—blue as a cold sea—looked so dark in the dim infirmary that they felt like polar waters at midnight.
After a long moment, she finally spoke.
"Then we must employ certain methods, so that you become more… convincing."
Her words made me freeze.
"Huh?"
"If your 'power' is based on others' 'trust' in you, or rather, their recognition of the 'reality' you perceive…" The sharp corner of her mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. It wasn't a smile. It was the edge of a hunter who had spotted prey. "Then we must ensure that you, or the 'reality' you represent, becomes more authoritative, more incontestable."
I was completely lost. More convincing? More authoritative? What, was she going to have me write books and go on a lecture tour promoting atheism?
"I know some people," Lady Inquisitor rose, looking down at me. "They are experts in this field. Their entire lives are spent dealing with 'faith' and 'truth.' They can help you with this problem."
She paused, and her tone carried a cold hint of mockery that was hard to miss.
"Or… the reverse."
I didn't understand what she meant by "the reverse."
But before I could ask, she issued her order.
"You've recovered enough. Get up. Pack your things. We're going to Spirepeak City."
Spirepeak City?
What kind of place was that?
I stared at Lady Inquisitor's back as she turned to leave, my mind full of questions and a quiet, growing unease.
The smoke of Donigaton had only just dispersed, and a new journey—one I couldn't possibly foresee—seemed to be unfolding right in front of me.
And I, an ordinary man with no weapons in hand now (and without even the mecha), had no choice but to follow.
(End of Chapter)
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