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Weak.
That's the only thought that echoes through Ryomen's mind as he gazes down at you, lying in the mud, your clothes soaked and torn, caked in the earth beneath you.
Pathetic. The sight stirs nothing in him but disdain. Getting rid of you would be better for everyone—for him, for the world. What use were you, anyway? A mere village boy pretending to be something more, dressing yourself in noble garments that didn't belong to you.
It's almost laughable.
Pitiful.
The urge to end you right then and there pulses in his chest. The thought of cutting your head off flashes through his mind, and for a brief second, his fingers twitch as if preparing to do it. It would be so easy.
But the old hag—Tengen—his teacher, would be displeased. He could almost hear her voice scolding him, reminding him of restraint, of some greater purpose.
Ryomen grits his teeth. He's never understood it—this need to save the weak. The foolish sorcerers who devote their lives to protecting people like you. He sees no purpose in it. Why protect something so fragile, so worthless? A village boy, a peck of insects—humans, who only bring trouble and suffering into the world.
What was there to save?
He cannot grasp the idea of preserving life that clings so desperately to existence, refusing to yield to the natural order of suffering. Weakness, in his eyes, is an invitation to death, a reminder that you have no right to complain about the pain life inflicts. And yet, the weak cling on, stubborn in their misery, defying what should be inevitable.
He looks down at you again, disgust twisting his features. Perhaps he should just get rid of you. No one would know, and no one would care.
If he discarded your body, tossed it to the curses or left it for the wolves, it would be as though you never existed. Nothing more than a fleeting memory, erased from the world without trace.
Ryomen's fingers twitch, his cursed energy rippling through the air as he slowly raises his hand. His pupils shrink to pinpricks of malice, and his mind sharpens with deadly intent.
It would be so easy, so satisfying to use his cursed technique—something he had mastered recently. He could slice you into three—no, five pieces. It would be more gratifying that way. Each cut precise, each strike final.
But just as the thought crystallizes, ready to be acted upon, a voice breaks through the bloodlust clouding his mind.
