There Is No World For ■■

Today's American Humor.

Bicorn – A grotesque, two-horned murder horse.

Has killed twelve Americans in the past three years, but was not classified as a dangerous beast because it kills fewer people than bison.

Unicorn – A kind, honest, single-horned horse.

Was classified as a dangerous beast for exposing the lies of the White House, Congress, and countless celebrities.

— Main editorial from The Wall Street Journal, the day after Bill Clinton signed the Dangerous Beasts Act

_____________________

The Commander opened his eyes in the dark.

Maybe it was because of his age—it took him a while to adjust to the darkness.

After blinking roughly ten times, the contours of a quiet room began to emerge in his vision.

A hospital bed. A vase of flowers. The faint scent of medicine. Strange machines that beeped softly while displaying numbers and waveforms. Countless tubes connected to his skin.

The Commander realized two things at once: he was in a VIP hospital room—and he couldn’t move his body.

He quietly tried to stir his mana, and found that not a single part of his blood vessels or muscles was intact.

To put it bluntly, he was just barely clinging to life.

It was a wonder he was even alive at all—

“You’re awake.”

Just then, someone familiar stood up from a sofa in the corner of the room.

Golden eyes that gleamed even in the dark. It was Yeomyeong.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, taking a seat next to the bed.

The Commander stared blankly at his face.

Not much time must’ve passed since the final battle—Yeomyeong’s face was still covered in layers of fatigue. Is this a dream?

A short silence.

The Commander finally spoke again just as Yeomyeong finished unfolding the collapsible tray table attached to the bed.

“...How did you do it?”

“Do what, sir?”

“I mean... how am I still alive? Not even the Saint could’ve healed those wounds.”

“Well, yeah. That’s about right. I pumped in blessings for nearly seven hours and... it still wasn’t enough. You’ll probably be in a wheelchair for at least three more months.”

“...?”

"That’s about right?" Not quite grasping the reply, the Commander blinked a few more times—then spotted a certain woman sprawled out asleep on the sofa where Yeomyeong had been sitting.

...No way.

He focused, staring intently at the woman’s face.

And in the next instant, the illusion covering her face—and the beautiful one beneath it—became clear to him.

“....”

He wanted to rub his eyes, but his arms wouldn’t move. So he blinked several more times and asked—

“...Saint?”

“...”

“This is... I mean—is this real? Am I dreaming right now?”

Yeomyeong offered nothing in reply but a bitter smile.

A silent confirmation.

The Commander, still baffled, looked back and forth between Yeomyeong and the Saint, who was snoring with her head buried in the couch.

His confusion hung thick in the air for a few moments—

—until Yeomyeong pulled out a revolver and placed it on the tray table.

A finely crafted, blackened revolver.

The Commander immediately recognized it. It belonged to a comrade.

“...That’s the Vice Commander’s gun.”

The man who gave up the Holy Sword for love.

The stain on the Holy Knights.

A spy for Australia.

A disgrace to Asha.

And—

The father of the current Saint.

As the Commander recalled the man’s face, words caught in his throat. But Yeomyeong calmly cocked the hammer of the revolver and said:

“Sorry, sir. We couldn’t fix the dementia.”

“....”

“The Saint said unless you drink an Elixir, the best we can do is delay it for a few years.”

The Commander laughed the moment he heard that.

“...A damn shame.”

He thought of the previous Saint—whom he had met beyond death.

Was that just a dream? A dying hallucination?

Whichever it was, the one thing he didn’t want... was to lose himself again and go berserk.

A quiet sigh. A heavy resolve.

Just as the words “Do it.” were about to leave his lips—

Yeomyeong pulled out another item from his pocket and placed it on the table.

Something very different from the revolver.

A blood pack, containing lightly diluted crimson fluid.

It was so unexpected that the Commander instinctively frowned.

“...And what’s that?”

“It’s the blood of a girl who recently drank an Elixir. Mixed with holy water and healing potions.”

“....”

“It’s not guaranteed, but if we inject it into your veins... it might be equal to about one drop of an Elixir.”

Having said that, Yeomyeong laid the revolver and the blood pack side-by-side for him to see.

“If you take the transfusion, you’ll still lose some memories... but you won’t have another dementia episode. That’s just a projection, of course...”

His voice trailed off.

The Commander turned to him and asked—

“...Yeomyeong.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Why are you doing all this for me?”

Yeomyeong scratched his nose awkwardly, then pulled out a familiar notebook.

“You asked me to.”

“...Asked, huh.”

The Commander laughed, remembering the moment in the hotel suite when he was eating ice cream.

“This... isn’t quite what I meant when I asked.”

“I just... wanted to give you a choice, sir. That’s all.”

There was no need to ask what choice he meant.

A short, empty chuckle. A flicker of emotion.

The Commander didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

So he quietly closed his eyes and thought of old comrades, the previous Saint, and the Vice Commander.

As the memories of the past became vivid...

As the present Saint’s snoring grew familiar...

The Commander opened his mouth once more.

“...There are no coincidences. Everything is fate.”

“...”

“Does the current Saint... say that often, too?”

Yeomyeong shook his head.

“No. Not once.”

“That so?”

“Yes.”

“So this must be a coincidence, then.”

That Sancho had pulled him back.

That he regained consciousness and happened to meet him again.

That he survived at all—so disgracefully, no less.

All of it.

As that small realization settled in, the Commander smiled faintly.

“If I still have time left to keep my vow... then I’ll gladly accept it.”

“...”

“Yeomyeong? I’ll take the blood pack. Please—would you administer the transfusion now?”

Yeomyeong fulfilled the request without a word. As if he’d prepared for this in advance, he smoothly connected the blood pack to the hospital machinery wired into the Commander’s body.

Blood began to flow through the tube.

And the Commander’s ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) eyes, slowly drifting, turned toward the Saint.

Meanwhile, Yeomyeong quietly gathered up his notebook and returned the revolver to its place.

Which, in this case, meant sliding it back into the leather thigh holster strapped to the Saint.

The Commander caught the action and gave him a curious look.

“Yeomyeong... didn’t you once introduce yourself as Seti’s lover?”

“...Huh? Oh, yes. I did.”

It was a bit of an embarrassing confession, so Yeomyeong kept it brief.

“The current Saint’s name is pretty bizarre too, but... I don’t think it was Seti. So I’m guessing the girl who gave me that blood is this Seti person. Am I wrong?”

Where’d this detective act come from? Yeomyeong, a bit confused, gave a slow nod.

The Commander burst out into a wheezing laugh.

“...Young people these days.”

“...?”

What the hell’s that supposed to mean? Yeomyeong frowned, but the Commander simply nodded toward the decorative vase by the bedside.

“Yeomyeong, would you deliver a flower to that Seti girl and the Saint, on my behalf? I think... I’ll sleep a little longer.”

Maybe it was the blood pack, but the Commander’s vision had begun to blur. Yeomyeong silently plucked two flowers from the vase and gently hoisted the Saint onto his back.

As he left the room, feeling her heavy weight settle against him, the Commander’s quiet voice followed him out.

“...The vow...”

That was the last thing Yeomyeong heard before softly closing the hospital room door.

****

“What choice did he make?”

That was the first thing Sancho asked as Yeomyeong stepped into the hallway outside the hospital room.

A ceremonial question, really. There hadn’t been a gunshot—so it was obvious which answer the Commander had chosen.

Yeomyeong listened to the Saint’s breathing on his back as he replied.

“He chose the transfusion.”

Hearing it confirmed, Sancho let out a deep sigh of relief.

“...Thank goodness.”

Until now, the Vice Commander had secretly feared that maybe they’d forced the Commander to live when he hadn’t wanted to. But now his tense shoulders eased as he leaned back into his chair.

“Really... I’m relieved.”

But before his words could linger, a soft voice cut in:

“Save the relief until the bill’s been paid.”

The speaker was Seti.

She looked between the Saint—still asleep on Yeomyeong’s back—and Sancho as she continued:

“There’s the cost of my blood, the cost of the Saint casting miracles until she collapsed, and the cost of Yeomyeong almost dying.”

Her icy blue eyes were so piercing, Sancho instinctively flinched.

“So... how much do you think all of that’s worth?”

Sancho answered without hesitation.

“Name your price. Whatever it is, I’ll pay it.”

There was an unshakable resolve in his voice.

As if to prove it, he took the sword at his hip—still in its scabbard—and set it down on the chair beside him.

The treasured blade of the Order, said to be priceless.

Just selling that alone could probably keep someone retired for years, Yeomyeong thought absently, just as Seti pulled out a piece of paper from her coat.

A list. Neatly filled out, from major requests like hotel revenue shares... to minor things like fake IDs.

Yeomyeong blinked in mild surprise, but Sancho read it with a serious expression.

After all, Seti had played no small part in saving the Commander.

Where else in the world could you even find blood from someone who’d recently drunk an Elixir?

In any case—

As Yeomyeong adjusted the Saint on his back, her body slumping slightly with exhaustion, Seti watched silently with her usual aloof glare.

Then Sancho set the list down and said:

“All right. I accept every item on this list.”

Seti looked genuinely surprised.

“...Wait, seriously? No negotiation?”

“With what shame could I bargain? And besides...”

His eyes turned toward Yeomyeong.

“...I’ve got a rather interesting business idea.”

That subtle glint in Sancho’s eye made Yeomyeong realize what he meant—and he let out a small laugh.

“...A movie?”

Sancho nodded, smiling faintly.

“I’m thinking of making a film about the Knights.”

“...So it’ll be the Commander’s story.”

Yeomyeong recalled the vow Sancho once made—not to let the world see the Commander as a butcher.

Sancho must’ve been thinking the same thing. His voice grew serious.

“It’s been decades since I held a megaphone, so I don’t know how good it’ll be. But heroes should be remembered as heroes—whether it’s in a film, or a history book.”

A brief silence. Heavy thoughts.

In that slightly solemn moment, Yeomyeong and Sancho exchanged knowing smiles—until Seti suddenly shattered the mood.

“...Time out. Stop pretending to sleep and get down already.”

She spoke like a strict mom scolding a kid who’d faked sleep to skip homework.

At her words, the Saint cracked open one eye and peeked around. She slid off Yeomyeong’s back, mumbling in her usual chirpy tone.

“I just... felt weird interrupting while you were talking to the Commander, so I pretended to sleep and... y’know?”

“...Know what, exactly?”

Yeomyeong, still feeling the lingering weight of her against his back and hands, picked up the flower he’d taken from the hospital room—and bopped her on the forehead with it.