"I didn't ask for your help," the mage said, her voice shaking, her red staff right in his face.
"Well, it sure did look like you needed it," our hero said, his voice as soothing as the sea.
She replied, "What would you know about it, rich boy?"
He paused for a second, caught at a loss for words.
His brain was in shambles. His thought process was, Wtf does she mean? Was she always so random?!
He said, "Ummm… rich? What do you mean by that?!" His voice was slightly more uneven.
The mage said, "Your clothes, the way you fight, the way you talk… even how you use your sword—
it's all screaming 'I had a privileged upbringing.'"
His face wrinkled. He started clenching his jaw.
His voice suddenly exploded with, "Yeah, I was liked by many and lived in a sanctuary—
that doesn't invalidate what I have done here!"
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, it shows in your lack of care for your life."
There was the smallest of pauses before
her voice suddenly spiked with, "Some of us don't get to see our 20s, and you're out here throwing your life
like you're some sort of hero who will save a damsel in distress.
Wake up. This is the real world—"
He interrupted with, "So you want me to believe you had all this under control?
That you were fine?
Oh, come on—who are you kidding?"
The mage said, "Yeah, I actually did.
You know, we didn't have the right to be babysat by mommy and daddy out here.
Surviving is all I know, and I didn't need a naïve child like you to show me how it's done.
And also, interrupt me again and I swear I will slice that pretty neck of yours open."
Meruem responded with, "Why are you like this?!
I literally just saved you,
But your voice... It sounds like you dispise me.
What have I ever done to you?"
"I don't know—maybe live safely in a literal sanctuary utopia
while letting us rot and die away outside.
We saw our loved ones die one by one.
But of course, how can I even blame you?
We are subhuman scum anyway, so why let us inside?" the pyromancer responded.
Meruem wanted to speak, but all that came out was silence.
He wanted to say words, but they were all stuck in his throat,
suffocating him.
He believed that if you don't like the hand that fate's dealt you, fight for a new one.
Yet he realized the hand he was dealt was a royal rush.
So what would he know about suffering or changing fate?
The silence was loud.
He thought to himself, This silence is so bad. What should I do? What do I even say in times like this? Fuck it—I'm just gonna say anything. It's better than staying any longer in this silence.
The only words able to come out of his mouth after all that trying were, "I'm sorry."
And the silence still elongated after, uncomfortable quietness.
His posture curled into itself; he was staring into the sand, his legs unconsciously fiddling with it, all while his hands sweated a river.
Her expression wasn't only anger.
She looked sad, looked pained.
He waited as her red face slowly turned back to pale white,
as her hyperventilation slowly disappeared.
Then he whispered, with a broken voice, "Do I still pack my things up and leave?"
The pyromancer turned her entire body away from him.
Her voice seemed slightly shaky,
yet her words were as firm as a newly forged sword: "No need anymore.
Sadly, we are short on swordsmen after that attack—
letting you go would be a waste."
He tried to thank her,
only to keep stuttering.
So he decided to use body language instead, extending his arms.
But it was too late—she had already turned her back on him.
He gave up, lying on the ground,
Tired, broken, done with all of this.
seeing her silhouette shrink more and more in the distance.
His eyes started closing.
His mind drifting asleep.
Yet not very long after— he was awaken by a loud voice.