I don''t like Dies Irae.


    He gathered innocent people, used them as tools, and abandoned them to die—all for a single goal.


    I don’t necessarily condemn people who use others.


    But a person like that will always see people as disposable, convenient tools.


    And yet, for once, he said something unexpected.


    "Think about it. If they were really raiders, would they have kept some creepy-looking middle-aged guy around for a year and six months? If they were going to kill him, they would''ve done it immediately. If they needed information, a few days of beatings would’ve been enough."


    His reasoning was the same as mine.


    I didn’t want to kill that family.@@@@


    Or rather, I couldn''t find a reason to.


    Had he carried this weapon before?


    I wasn’t sure.


    The last time we met, it had been cold, and he’d been bundled in thick layers.


    Now, he twirled the kukri effortlessly, the razor-sharp edge spinning through the air.


    If he made even a single mistake, he’d lose a finger—at best.


    The fact that he didn’t hesitate meant he had been using it for a long time.


    As I was momentarily distracted by the blade, Dies Irae suddenly sheathed it and smirked.


    "At first, he said they were old coworkers making a game together, but things got tense over creative disputes."


    He paused.


    "But a month ago? He claimed they tracked him down, using old company records to break in."


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