Surviving without God

— These are my spoils.

Along with Seril’s casual remark, Gunther slowly opened his eyes. The festive noise rushed into his clogged ears like a dam breaking. Laughter, the clinking of glasses, the shouts of playing children, the smiles of their parents, people humming under their breath as they walked shoulder to shoulder.

And living comrades.

Images from the previous iteration involuntarily surfaced before his eyes: streets swallowed by darkness, stains of blood, and their frozen, cooling faces. But Gunther’s heart was calm. The comfort and support of the three gods firmly braced his back.

“So my mental state is fully restored.”

[The three gods have collapsed from exhaustion due to overexertion...]

[The King of Ninety-Nine Defeats adds that he has no regrets.]

[The Drug-Addicted Saint says she was very glad to meet you and looks at you warmly.]

[Alphonse of Red Street smirks: if you want to end up in their arms again, offer Karma diligently.]

It seemed there would be no help from them for a while. But that was fine. “Stellar Ally.” Gazing at the shining night sky, the campfire, and the dark sea, he had already decided how he would carve his path in this life.

...First, there was something he had to do.

— Alright, come here.

Before the bewildered fighters could even gather, Gunther spread his arms wide and pulled his comrades toward him. He squeezed them tightly. In simple terms—he hugged them.

— U-waaah!

— What the—?!

— I-yee-ha!

— You bastard, how dare you do this to your instructor!

— Oh... maybe a little tighter...

— A-aah! Ryan’s beard! His beard! It’s prickly!

Of course, given the number of people, it looked less like a hug and more like a chaotic pile of bodies with arms slung over shoulders. At such an uncharacteristic act from Gunther, some simply froze. He had always been a reliable leader and a loyal comrade—but never the type to initiate a hug. Still, he didn’t care.

The warmth passing through open arms. Their breathing, their pulses—he simply savored the proof that they were alive. The will filling his chest surged, breaking past all limits.

Yes. I will keep them alive. And I will save the people on this street.

In my own way.

— Gunther, what’s gotten into you?

Levain Bernecker patted his shoulder and laughed.

— Miss Seril, did you mix alcohol into the cookies or something? I’ve never seen him like this.

While Seril, swearing on her knightly honor, denied it, Blanc Ibel tried to wriggle free, giggling:

— I can’t... breathe!

Parco Draven... simply smiled quietly and deeply. Seeing that, Gunther reflexively loosened his grip.

— Damn, didn’t think my first hug this year would be like this, — Ryan Parker made a face, but didn’t pull away. Cheonmae also seemed about to push him away to preserve her commander’s dignity, but after seeing Rietta and Yuria lean against him with calm expressions, she merely let out a short sigh and stayed silent.

In truth, the sight wasn’t that strange. Across the entire festival-filled capital, similar scenes were unfolding.

— Phew, alright, that’s enough, — Gunther released them. Ryan grumbled, scratching his messy hair:

— Seriously... what bit you?

“What bit me,” huh? Gunther only shrugged. He had simply acknowledged the fact that for a long time, he had been crushed under the weight called “mission.” The responsibility of saving the world, the need to fight Luthien... things like that.

Of course, his future tasks hadn’t changed. He would still have to fight, still have to save people. But now Gunther accepted it not as a “sacred duty,” but as his own choice. The difference seemed small, but now he had room to maneuver.

— ...I don’t know what happened, but you look calmer, so fine. Lately, it was painful to watch you acting all serious like that.

So, the time for sentiment was over. Gunther addressed the gathered fighters before him, adopting a solemn expression:

— I have just received a prophecy.

The atmosphere changed instantly. These people had personally witnessed the phantom of the prophet Ellen Beyra, so their intense reaction was expected. Blanc, who loved the occult, gasped and straightened up, even switching to formal speech:

— W-what kind of prophecy?!

Good. A prophet always needs someone like that.

— It is a prophecy about a terrible danger looming over the capital, Zeros.

Watching Seril and Servan’s expressions change, Gunther concluded grandly:

— And this great catastrophe can be stopped by no one but us... the ten people gathered here.

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.

.

28th iteration. Gunther completely revised his strategy to prevent the tragedy in the capital.

First. Under no circumstances should the unit be sent to District 7. The moment that happens, Luthien’s sabotage—fearing exposure of the “zombies”—will intensify. Due to the flaws in their plan, they will also suffer losses, but the result will be mutual destruction. In other words, a repeat of the 27th iteration.

He had already confirmed that even with a healer as powerful as Parco Draven, reversing the disease was practically impossible. The infected had to be saved not through conventional healing, but through an entirely different method.

And surprisingly, Gunther seemed to have found that method.

[I... can’t endure any more...]

It happened at the moment he tried to draw the Holy Sword at the Hill of Swords. Along with the voice in his head, he was able to see the correct description of the Holy Sword for the first time. It differed slightly from the game, but the essence was simple:

— Grants positive correction to all forms of corruption.

“All forms of corruption.” The moment Gunther saw that phrase, something sparked in his mind. He was a man from the modern world. That meant he was bound by certain assumptions. The idea that “zombies” were incurable, that a vaccine was required to solve the problem. And if there was no vaccine in this world? Then there was no solution.

But was that really true? Strictly speaking, zombies in this world... were not caused by a virus. They were merely the result of corruption by the divine entity Seren Mayra.

...Yes. Corruption. Which meant it fell precisely within the domain of the Holy Sword.

Thus, a second objective was immediately set. The Holy Sword must not be broken. In other words, the Knights of the Round Table must not choose a path that corrupts their chivalry.

“Otherwise, I’ll once again be left holding only the hilt.”

But this was an incredibly difficult mission. How could he overturn the foolish decision of knights whose faces he had never even seen?

The task seemed impossible. However, Gunther already had a clue. He clearly remembered the contents of the documents he had obtained from the Public Security Bureau. Until the moment his skull was nearly crushed by a heavy mace, he had desperately engraved every sentence into his memory.

By comparing that information with the words Edad Camaril had spoken before his death, Gunther was able to clearly reconstruct how the Knights of the Round Table had acted at the beginning and at the end of the zombie incident.

“They already knew.”

That an unknown disease was spreading.

“Of course, at first they thought it was just a normal epidemic...”

But someone told them they were wrong. Gunther recalled a name from the documents. An agent of the Public Security Bureau. This person had been the first to provide the Knights of the Round Table with concrete information about the nature of the disease—about “zombies.” And he had done so at the perfect moment... right after Gunther’s unit had been dispatched to District 7.

Gunther was certain:

“That bastard is a Luthien rat.”

That information hadn’t been a warning. It had been bait—designed to force the Knights of the Round Table into making the wrong decision.

“After taking the bait, the knights witnessed Edad’s daughter, Eva, die and come back to life. Then, by having her bite a condemned man, they confirmed that it was contagious.”

It must have been a shock. Resurrection of a corpse was understandable in a world where necromancy existed. But “a bite turns you into the ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) undead”? That was truly horrifying.

And in the capital, there just so happened to be the perfect person to amplify that fear. Archbishop Masiu. A master manipulator of the mind. He likely couldn’t completely break the magical power and resistance of the Knights of the Round Table—but amplifying their emotions and nudging them toward a certain decision? That, he could do easily.

In summary, two primary enemy strategies became clear:

Plan A: Spread zombies throughout the capital and destroy the city. Then, leading a zombie army, launch a surprise attack on the breadbasket—Laska Plain. Plunge Valloren and the Union of Kingdoms into ruin.

Plan B: A contingency in case Plan A is exposed. Instead, reveal the existence of zombies to the upper echelons of the capital. Push them toward the worst possible decision, triggering internal collapse, the destruction of chivalry, and the breaking of the Holy Sword. If the spirit of Valloren dies, that is effectively the end.

Plan C: ...Let’s hope there isn’t one. Please.

— That’s everything.

When Gunther finished explaining, all eyes turned to him. Everyone was here except Seril and Servan, who had gone to carry out the task he assigned. A brief silence followed. As usual, Levain spoke first:

— So, in short...

He took a deep breath.

— To cure this insane plague, we need the Holy Sword—but the moment those idiots from the Round Table mess things up, it breaks. However, if they learn about the disease, there’s a high chance they’ll choose a path that betrays their chivalry again... So we have to secretly stop the spread, draw the Holy Sword, and at the same time wipe out all Luthien enforcers.

Ryan summed it up even more simply:

— We’re screwed.

No, they weren’t. Gunther stepped forward. He looked each of them in the eye.

— From this moment on, — his low, firm voice shifted the atmosphere around them. — I will assign roles.

Audrey House. Masiu. The Hierarch of Justice. Luthien’s enforcers. And... Raymond. It was time to raise the curtain on the long night in which he would face them all.

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Shrrk...

A man crossed the mill district. He moved slowly, trying not to make noise in the darkness. His mind was in chaos. Worry for his daughter, who had collapsed from an unknown illness. Vanity and ambition—perhaps he could distinguish himself? And an inexplicable unease born from instincts ingrained over years of service as an agent.

All of it mixed together, pushing him forward.

— ...B-bastard.

Edad’s steps froze.