kulase

#782

Added 2025-02-28 11:21:49 +0000 UTC

Epilogue - The Retired Old Man (1)

Beep-beep-beep-beep-!

Beep-beep-beep- click!

“Ughhhhh…”

Awoken by the alarm, the old man groaned as he slowly opened his eyes.

The world, like his eyelids, was shifting from pitch-black darkness to a faint bluish-gray.

“Hmmmm…”

The old man, just waking up, let out a groggy murmur and checked the clock, which read…

[05:30]

5:30 AM.

A time that was quite early to be awake.

Especially for an old man with plenty of money and plenty of time, it was even more unnecessary to be up at this hour.

The old man considered staying in bed a little longer, but unable to fall back asleep, he eventually gave up and got up.

Partly because his age had shortened his sleeping hours, but there was an even bigger reason.

If he had truly wanted to sleep in, he wouldn’t have set an alarm for this time in the first place. The reason the old man woke up at this hour was…

“Habits are a terrifying thing…”

Habit.

The old man confirmed once again how powerful habits could be as he dragged his heavy body out of bed.

This habit dated back to his younger days when he survived on potatoes for every meal during hard times.

Back then, whether as a restaurant worker or later as a broker, the old man had instilled the practice of waking up early to escape such a life, a habit he maintained to this day.

Even though he no longer wanted to.

What could he say? Turning off the alarm and sleeping in made him uneasy, restless, even.

For reasons too complex to pinpoint, he simply couldn’t turn off the alarm or sleep late.

Thus, the old man almost involuntarily set his alarm and woke up at 5:30 AM every day.

365 days a year.

“Hoo…”

The old man, whose days were numbered, mused on such trivial thoughts as he got out of bed.

Then, to refresh himself, he went to the window and drew back the curtains.

Swishhh-!

With a brisk sound, the curtains parted.

Beyond the curtains, he could see the city’s workers commuting to their jobs.

“Hmm…”

Perhaps because he had aged poorly, the old man felt a sense of satisfaction as he watched the staggering workers trudging to work early in the morning.

Though he too woke up early, unlike the workers who were forced to commute, he could leisurely look out the window, appreciating his own situation and feeling superior.

Drip-drip-drip.

To elevate this feeling, the old man poured a bit of expensive liquor from a crystal decanter into a crystal glass, toasted the air, and sipped.

Indeed, even after becoming one of the wealthiest people in Landa, he felt glad he hadn’t moved out of T District.

“Ahem…”

The old man dismissed thoughts of divine retribution with a light cough and stepped away from the window, heading downstairs from his bedroom.

Thanks to not moving out, his house wasn’t one of the large, grandiose mansions symbolizing Landa’s wealthy elite, but a cozy and familiar one-story home filled with his personal touch.

In that home, as he did every morning, the old man brewed coffee and prepared a simple breakfast.

Ssssssss!

Though he had plenty of money to hire a maid, perhaps due to his habits from working as a restaurant employee, he preferred to prepare his breakfast himself.

Not that it was anything elaborate—fried eggs, grilled sausages, toast, and cooked beans at most.

As time passed, the house filled with a delicious aroma. The old man placed his finished meal on the dining table, fetched the newspaper from the doorstep, and read it while eating.

Although radio news was more popular these days, the old man insisted on newspapers in the mornings for the peace and quiet.

“Ha…”

The old man let out an exclamation as soon as he saw the headline on the front page of the newspaper.

[Pinkman vs. Fighter Crew War Ends! Fighter Crew Victorious!]

The article reported that the war between Fighter Crew and Pinkman, which had started a few months ago, ended with Fighter Crew’s victory.

Below the headline was a photo of Joe grabbing Pinkman’s chairman by the collar amid the ruins.

“The photo’s quite artistic.”

This conflict, often referred to as the "Underworld War," was officially said to be a battle for dominance over the underworld, but those in the know understood it wasn’t just that.

It was more akin to a proxy war between the royal family and the central council.

The Fighter Crew, supporting King Albert, versus Pinkman, backed by the central council.

A story filled with secretive and provocative elements that would make many thrill-seekers drool.

Slurp.

But the old man, after a brief moment of admiration, returned to sipping his coffee and enjoying his peaceful morning.

Perhaps because of his past encounters and shared experiences with "him," even such articles failed to stir much emotion in him anymore.

While enjoying the tranquility and spending a leisurely morning.

Beep-beep-!

The doorbell rang.

“Ah.”

The sound of the doorbell broke the morning silence.

Rather than getting annoyed by the noise, the old man rose from his seat, as though expecting this, and opened the door.

“You’re a bit late today, Al.”

“Apologies, sir. I went to pick up some groceries…”

Standing at the now-open door was a man with red skin, apologizing.

The middle-aged man held a brown paper bag filled with groceries in his arms.

The old man—or rather, Forrest—welcomed him in as he opened the door.

“Well then, go ahead and put them away.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sound of the refrigerator door opening was soon followed by the rustling of groceries being unpacked.

Al, responding to Forrest's request, began organizing the groceries he had bought.

Despite the sizable amount he brought, Al finished sorting them in no time.

Having done this countless times from his youth to middle age, he had become exceedingly skilled at the task.

In some ways, it could be considered a pitiful situation.

Even though they were once restaurant owner and employee, Al was still helping in this manner. Even now, despite having gained his independence, Al remained.

Yet, for some reason, Al’s face showed no sign of irritation—only a smile.

Slurp.

Forrest sipped his coffee as he watched Al.

“You really are peculiar.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

Time must have passed, as Al, who used to tense up at Forrest’s every word, now replied with a sly grin.

“I’ve been retired for years, yet here you are, happily doing menial chores.”

“Haha, it’s no big deal considering the kindness I’ve received.”

Al laughed as he finished packing away the brown paper bag and slipped it into his pocket before sitting down across from Forrest.

Forrest stared at Al intently.

The kindness Al referred to was how Forrest had taken him and his fellow red-skinned children, who had nowhere to go, under his wing.

During the redevelopment boom, Forrest, preparing for a possible future where he could no longer work as a broker, opened a restaurant to erase the inferiority complex he had from his days as an employee.

At the time, he hired a large number of red-skinned workers, including Al, providing them with daily wages and a place to sleep.

Though his initial intent was to hire them at a low cost, looking back, it was one of the reasons Forrest, even as an aging broker, managed to survive in the field.

Competition among brokers was fierce, with frequent instances of stealing client information, job requests, and deal mediators. Thanks to his loyal employees, Forrest was relatively protected from such threats.

This allowed him to continue as a broker until the day he met “that one.”

Still, Forrest couldn’t help but feel concerned about Al’s behavior.

A broker is a mediator between light and shadow, standing in the gray zone but leaning closer to the shadows.

And in the shadows, virtues like honesty could sometimes become shackles.

He didn’t mean Al should lie, scam, or erode his credibility, but knowing how to navigate, anticipate, and utilize such methods was essential.

In short, being too straightforward wasn’t well-suited for this line of work.

“In truth, there’s another reason I come here to do these chores.”

Perhaps reading Forrest’s thoughts, Al leaned forward and whispered as if sharing a secret.

“What?”

“Spending every morning here alone with you makes people think we’re sharing some special information.”

“…”

“As you know, such assumptions can be powerful weapons.”

“Hah…”

Forrest snorted at Al, who was clearly scheming.

“Looks like the brokers in Landa are really scared these days, afraid of an old retiree like me.”

“Well, saying you’re fully retired might not be entirely accurate.”

“You’ve grown bold enough to talk back, huh? Then again, after more than 20 years as a broker, I suppose you’ve earned the right.”

“Consider it honest advice, sir. Normally, retired old men don’t get visits from Landa city council members, the Parter Church, or even… the Tracto Church.”

Tap. Tap.

Forrest tapped the dining table twice and shook his head.

“Let me correct you. The ones making these choices aren’t religious groups. That ridiculous name, Tracto Church, isn’t even their official designation.”

“Not officially, no, but you know as well as I do that it’s practically a foregone conclusion. The tide has already turned.”

Al gestured an apology but still directly opposed Forrest’s opinion.

Forrest found himself unable to refute.

As Al pointed out, it was clear that the "Chosen Ones" would inevitably transform into a religious group.

Even in this United Kingdom, faith in him was taking root and gradually spreading.

After all, he was the savior who stopped the demon descending upon the capital and prevented the apocalypse. It was surprising that it hadn’t already officially turned into a religion.

This was likely thanks to Marie’s persistent efforts to uphold his wishes.

However, despite her efforts, she could not completely prevent the birth of the Tracto Church, which worshiped him.

It was similar to how a salmon could swim against the current but couldn’t change the flow itself.

This was further evident in how even the Parter Church was beginning to refer to him as a Messiah sent by God, or even the Son of God.

“That event was a major factor.”

Al cautiously mentioned “that event.”

The event, known as the “Second Miracle,” took place in the central region of the continent.

It happened when a Paladin, who had lost their Holy Law, tried to stop a warlock who was pillaging a village.

A Paladin without Holy Law was no more than a thoroughly trained soldier, and such a knight could not stand a chance against a warlock.

Nevertheless, the paladin kept standing in the warlock’s way and, during the confrontation, prayed in his name, gaining new power to stop the warlock.

This new power didn’t nullify black magic like Holy Law, but it granted far greater physical enhancements.

The Parter Church called this new power “Divine Law” and planned to establish it as a new foundation for their faith.

As a result, the Parter Church inevitably began the process of elevating him to a status just below God—or equivalent to it.

“Hoo…”

Forrest sighed deeply as he drank his coffee.

Whenever he thought about that event, his mind became tangled.

Though it wasn’t his place to pass judgment on things that had actually happened, it felt entirely uncharacteristic of him.

For someone who rejected worship even while bearing the weight of his duties, for him to act that way… It left a lingering unease.

What could a mere human like himself truly know…?

As if sensing Forrest’s unease, Al apologized.

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, sir.”

Forrest looked at Al as he apologized.

Al, who had been elected as a representative of Landa’s red-skinned community, established himself as a broker, ran a restaurant, became a husband, and a father to a boy.

In the apologetic Al, Forrest could still see a glimpse of the boy from years ago.

“Heh… Getting rid of ‘Master’ and having you call me ‘Sir’ instead was a good move.”

“Pardon?”

“You’ve grown up now. You know how to use me and even argue back. You’re an adult.”

“Haha, you’re too kind.”

“I don’t think there’s any need for you to come to greet me every morning anymore.”

“No, sir! Please, no!”

Al pleaded sincerely, proving that his claim of using their morning meetings as a weapon wasn’t entirely a joke.

The aging Forrest became even more mischievous.

“Don’t you think you don’t need my help anymore?”

“No, sir! In fact, I have something I’d like to consult you about.”

Having dealt with Forrest’s quirks for years, Al smoothly pulled out documents from his bag, presenting a matter that required Forrest’s help, skillfully appeasing the stubborn old man.

Even knowing this, Forrest used the opportunity to give unhelpful advice, reasserting his presence and indulging his mischief.

It seemed true that people became more childlike with age.

“So, that’s my opinion. What do you think?”

“It’s a brilliant idea, sir! Bravo, bravo, three cheers for you!”

“Cut it out after one cheer. Any more and it gets annoying.”

“Understood… Ha. Ha.”

“Why are you suddenly laughing?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. It just seems like you’re more energetic than usual today.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, you cleaned your plate completely and seem to be in a good mood… It’s a relief.”

At Al’s words, Forrest realized he had finished his breakfast entirely.

Until recently, he had always left some food behind due to discomfort in his stomach.