Chương 411: For Your Own Good

Ch. 411 - For Your Own Good Even after he noted the presence of the guards and the missing armor, Simon wasn't sure his instincts were correct. It wasn't until the stone silence he shared with his squire was interrupted by the sound of rough wood scraping against the door they'd just come in through that he was certain. The door was being barred, and he was as much a prisoner as a white cloak now. That changed things quite a bit.

He wasn't quite at their mercy, of course, since he kept a bazooka in his back pocket, even if he was loath to use it. Still, as he sat down, his gaze drifted to his left arm, lying there half dead. He could still bend it at the elbow, but in a few more nights, well, he wasn't entirely sure about that. Would cutting it off even matter? Would it change anything? He wondered. My soul should be my soul regardless. It might just accelerate the process.

In that moment, he regretted not cutting off the tainted fingers the day it had happened with a meat cleaver. He'd been in denial. Really, what had happened to him shouldn't have even been possible. The soul reflected the experiences of the owner, normally. Their head or their heart might contain different colors, and those with the blackest deeds might have blood on their hands in a nearly literal sense, but on the whole, you were either good, bad, or somewhere in between.

If Simon's soul hadn't glowed so brightly, it might have been hard to tell what was happening, but it was glowing at over a third of a million experience now, according to the mirror, which really showed how much good he'd done over the last few years. Only the darkness of his left arm stained that, which meant it needed to go. He made up his mind. Fortunately, there was still one sword available to him. It was just a matter of convincing Varten that he wasn't crazy. Do you really need to traumatize the poor kid?

He asked himself. Surely if I just wait until morning, they'll send a proper man with an axe to do it themselves. He wanted to believe that, but deep down, Simon worried they might choose another road, and neither was particularly comforting. They might lock him up in a padded cell and pray for his soul until whatever this was ate him completely, or they might execute him, sending whatever this was into all his future lives with him. That was the outcome he most wanted to avoid.

It was ironic that he'd come here to learn ways to protect his soul only to find new ways to damage it. Still, at least he'd learned something valuable and avoided being trapped in hell. Damnation is a very thin line, he told himself as he finally turned to his squire.

"What do you think they'll do to you, I mean us?" Varten asked, trying to fill the silence as he withered underneath Simon's gaze.

"I think that the white must never be allowed to be stained like this," Simon answered. The boy obviously didn't know what to say to that, so after a moment he asked, "What does it look like?" Simon explained it, perhaps more dramatically than he needed to.

"It was like these fingers had been dipped in ink the first day," he told the boy, "Then, night by night, it's spread. The color is now a deep gray, but it's nearly reached my elbow." That conversation continued for a while. Simon let the pressure build like a horror story, slowly revealing that he was losing control of the limb, and observing Varten's horrified expression. He waited until the boy's desperation was palpable before he finally revealed his hand.

"After everything we heard today, I think we will probably need to cut it off," Simon said, watching the boy go as white as his former cloak. He was no longer squeamish about monster corpses, but the idea of seeing Simon maimed clearly disturbed him, and he hadn't even grasped the full meaning of the word we. At first, Simon didn't force that point. He just let the child worry aloud about "finding another way."

It was only when he reluctantly agreed after much back and forth that it was better to lose an arm than a soul that Simon said, "And you're going to have to be the one to do it." He put his good hand on the boy's shoulder as he said the words, but that didn't stop him from slowly backing away.

"I'm going to have to what?" he gasped.

"Your arm? No… no, no, I couldn't do that. I…" In that moment, Simon decided he'd been doing a better job with the boy than he'd thought. Any other version of Varten would have delighted in doing something so sadistic, but this one, at least where Simon was concerned, had become soft. He appreciated that, but now was not the time for softness. Even as his squire insisted that they had to wait for the Masters to decide what to do next, Simon insisted, "You heard them.

If it worked for Saint Korrel, then it will work for me. If we wait a few days or a few weeks for them to make up their mind, then who knows what will happen." The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. The boy was reluctant, but by this point, Simon was sure it was the right answer. Convincing him was harder, though. Fortunately, as he removed his belt and started to wind it awkwardly around his, something happened that pushed both of them over the edge.

In that moment, his hand rebelled and reached for Varten's slender throat. The boy froze, and only Simon's quick reflexes saved him. He swung his entire shoulder back, putting his squire just out of reach.

"I… What are you doing, S-sir Enis?" the boy stammered.

"Did I upset you… I'm-I didn't mean to. I just can't…"

"It's not me," Simon growled, struggling to control his limb.

"It's the arm." He should have been able to hold it at bay just by moving the elbow, but its grip had apparently crawled further up his arm than he knew. While it had no control of his upper arm whatsoever, it did seem to have a small grip on the elbow now, and it fought him spasmodically. It knew he'd made his decision, and whatever it was that had crawled inside him didn't want to be removed.

"You arm?" the boy asked.

"It's… Is it alive?" That was the wrong world, of course, but it didn't matter. Simon nodded as he tightened the strap, and then he knelt next to a stone bench and said, "If you don't help me, Varten, it might take me over. This arm is an infected limb, and it needs to come off right now. Do you understand?" The boy nodded, but it took several seconds for him to realize that meant he'd have to pull out his shortsword, and even more time looking at Simon with eyes that begged not to be made to do this.

In that moment, Simon felt like the boy would do anything for him, except for maybe this. So, he turned away, bit down on the free end of his belt, and waited while his arm twitched and jerked spasmodically. That gesture of trust would be more persuasive than anything he could say to Varten. When the blow came, it took him by surprise, but that wasn't enough to stop Simon from crying out a little.

It was more of a grunt than a scream, but it was enough to echo through the dark chapel as Simon experienced the cold pain of a real injury. One of the guards yelled something in response to the scream, but Simon didn't really hear it. He was fighting off the sharp, cold pain.

"Again!" Simon growled through the leather gag when he heard the sound of the door being unbarred. It hurt like the devil, but there was nothing for it, and all he wanted was for the deed to be done. Varten didn't hesitate and brought the sword down again in the same position, cracking the bone. Simon screamed into the leather strap he was biting down on. It was impossible not to. He'd died a lot of different ways, but he hadn't felt a blow to his bones in many, many lifetimes, and it was a terrible, electric pain.

His arm didn't like it either, and the part that he didn't have control of flailed wildly. He did his best to ignore the uncomfortable feeling, though, and after a moment of hesitation, Varten did too. When he brought his blade down for the third time, he finally succeeded in severing Simon's arm. Despite his leather tourniquet, the bench they'd used to conduct their impromptu surgery was a bloody mess. His squire dropped his sword with trembling hands and looked at Simon with traumatized eyes.

"A-are you okay?" he gasped. Simon understood that more than anything, the boy needed to hear yes, then. He couldn't trust his voice yet, though, so instead he offered him a weary nod, and what might have been a weak smile as he kept his belt clamped firmly in his teeth. The pain hadn't gone away just because the flesh was gone, and he felt like he might pass out. When was the last time I lost a limb? He wondered.

By that point, the guards had wrestled the bar off the door and were making their way to the bloody mess.

"I'm fine," Simon gasped. He looked at his limb and saw that the aura ended perfectly white just below his stump. By contrast, his bloody left arm that lay on the floor had a much darker aura, and it was fading rapidly.

"I'm doing just fine, now," he repeated, willing it to be true. He was in great pain, and despite his tourniquet, he was bleeding like a pig, but if he died now, it would still be better than dying with whatever that was burrowing deeper inside of him. They didn't rush him to a healer, though. Even as Varten tried to explain to them that the arm had taken on a life of its own and tried to strangle him, they sent for healers to do what they could.

Simon could see on the faces of everyone that they didn't expect him to survive. Maybe they just aren't sure if I'm sane, he corrected himself. Still, he aimed to prove them wrong, for Varten's sake at least. The day that followed was miserable. He was questioned a couple of different times, but between the pain, the exhaustion, and the drunkenness that he needed to endure all the rest he wasn't always as helpful as he could be.

Fortunately, the masters who spoke to him thought he was even more out of it than he was, and he was finally able to learn a bit about the prophecy he was supposed to have fulfilled. It was a bit of a letdown, honestly. Apparently, 'he who twists the loom of fate will slay monsters we've never known and shall alone bring about the renewal of the Unspoken Order,' was quite profound, but he thought it could have used a better rhyme scheme.

Without two arms, his monster-slaying days were obviously behind him, at least for this life. Still, he found it interesting. It was so nonspecific that it might have meant anyone, but the way his aura twisted as it tried to connect to distant versions of himself certainly made him the most likely candidate.

"How can a one-armed cripple ever thread the needle of destiny to purify the Unspoken?" Master Harrin asked another day, one he'd finished questioning Simon and inspecting his severed arm. Strangely, the Grandmaster seemed pleased by this turn of events, though he said nothing to that effect. It was just the way his aura rippled. He's probably just happy I won't be taking his job, Simon said to himself. He knew that wasn't true, of course.

There was something else going on there, but halfway bled out wasn't the right time to ponder such complexities. If he survived this, he'd have plenty of time to figure that out. For now, he focused on getting better, and thanked Helades that his soul didn't seem to be permanently stained by what he'd just been through.