The first time I killed a man, I soothed the shock of it with drink.
He was a villain who deserved to die, but for me, who'd been an ordinary person, killing a man meant I could never go back to who I'd been.
And now that memory had faded.
Aaagh!
There was only a monster, dulled to the act of killing, bringing his blade down on the back of a fleeing infantryman. That was the destiny and the karma of the me who'd adapted to this era. But I had no regrets.
I'd walked too long a road to regret it.
And in a world where I'd die if I didn't kill, that had been the last time I was weak. That incident was what made me conscious of being a noble, and I no longer hesitated to kill an enemy.
The battle was already over.
The enemy's forces weren't intact enough to face our elite soldiers. Had it been the duke's army, it might have taken several battles, but once they began to crumble, they started fleeing in a rush.
