Every time I go back through my memories, darkness is the first thing that comes to mind. It wasn't a place, not even a space—just absence. An absolute silence that devoured all form of thought or sensation. I floated in it without direction, without awareness of myself, not knowing whether I had a body or if I had ever had one. In that void, time didn't exist. The notion of waiting was as absurd as the notion of being.
Sometimes I think the tremors were the first thing I perceived; other times, I believe it was the sound. Perhaps they were the same thing. Something in that blackness broke, and through the crack filtered a spark of sensation. Then another. Then one more. Between each of them, seconds or centuries could have passed—but over time, those sparks became light. And with light came form.
I remember the weight of a body that didn't feel like mine. The contact with space, the certainty of movement, the presence of something I could call "myself." Sensations so simple they became unbearable. Shortly after came a voice. Not a thought, nor an echo, but a presence that filled the void entirely. Its tone was calm, devoid of emotion, but impossible to ignore.
Grow stronger.
There were no further explanations. No destiny, no promises. Only that order. And I obeyed. Since then, I moved forward. I learned, accumulated knowledge, mastered whatever I could—not out of desire, but because that voice had said so. Because to stop was to disappear. Every decision, every step, every study was my way of continuing to exist. To think, to calculate, to act. That was all I knew how to do. That was all I was.
Until today.
The ground around me remains cracked and cold. The air is heavy with remnants of magic and fading smoke; only minutes have passed since the end. In front of me lies the body of the woman who wounded me. I don't know her name or her story, only that she died convinced of something I will never understand. Her sword still holds the dim glow of sacred magic.
I feel no victory, no relief. Only an unease I cannot define, a mute pang that doesn't belong to the false body I wear, but to something deeper. The flow of power no longer responds. My regeneration has stopped. My mana does not rise. Inside, there is only silence. My energy does not drain, but it does not renew either. It's a dead equilibrium, like a heart that no longer beats.
Akon said it before vanishing: I did something more.
And she did. She didn't wound the body—she sealed what I am.
I can no longer return to my true form, nor access my resources, nor feel the constant pulse of mana running through my being. My magic and my life are now nothing more than a torch destined to go out.
I'm trapped inside flesh that isn't mine, disconnected from the power that defined me. My strength was all I had—my proof of existence, my purpose. Now there's nothing.
The world is still here, intact, but I… I don't know if I still exist. I have no past to remember, no future to await. Only this hollow present, suspended, where not even silence belongs to me.
I once believed that power was the same as living—that as long as I kept growing, learning, destroying, I was proving that I was still here. But now I see how fragile that certainty was. Breathing is not living. The air goes in and out, but fills nothing.
The human body I wear trembles, an alien gesture, an automatic reaction born not of fear or pain, but of confusion I cannot name. It isn't the first time I've felt weak, but it is the first time I don't know what to do with that weakness.
The voice is gone. And without it, I don't know what to do with the silence it left behind.
The world is still.
And within that stillness, I hear a sound.
Sobs.
My name—no, my title—spoken through tears.
Master.
The voice trembles, close, almost pleading. I don't raise my head immediately. It takes effort to process it. I don't understand why she cries, or why she keeps calling me that. I don't know if I should respond or stay silent, but her sobs pull me back to the present, tearing me from the darkness my mind had begun to sink into.
I lift my head slowly. Liza stands before me. Her breathing is uneven, and tears run freely down her face. Her hands tremble, yet she remains upright, as if afraid that a single sudden movement might shatter her. She doesn't look away. She doesn't step back.
I don't understand why she cries. I don't understand why she calls me. I don't understand why she stays.
Her voice reaches me again, broken and afraid. "Master…" she says, and the word sounds more like a plea than respect. "Please… say something."
I don't answer. Not because I don't want to, but because I don't know what I could say. Speaking requires a clear emotion, and I have none. Only the exhaustion of having lost something I don't know if I can recover.
She takes a step, hesitates, then another. The distance between us shortens until I can see the reflection of dead fire trembling in her eyes. There's no bravery in that approach, only the desperation of someone afraid of losing something important.
"Why do you call me?" I ask at last. The voice comes out low, but steady.
Liza blinks, startled by the question. The answer takes time to leave her lips. "Because… you don't cry."
I remain silent.
"Seeing you like this… it scares me," she continues, her words breaking one after another, yet she keeps speaking. "I don't know what to do when you're like this."
The wind carries the scent of scorched metal and split earth. I close my eyes for a moment. I can hear her breathing. I can feel the tremor in her voice. I can hear my own thoughts whispering that none of this makes sense.
I don't understand. I don't understand why someone like her stays, why she suffers for me.
My strength was all I had. My proof of existence. My purpose.
And now that I have none of it… what's left for someone like me?
"You shouldn't stay," I say finally—not harshly, but with the simplicity of a truth I find logical. "There's no reason to."
Liza flinches, as if the words hurt. "That's not true."
I look up. She meets my gaze, and her voice no longer shakes. "If you don't have strength, then… let us be your strength."
I say nothing. I can't. It's not an offer I know how to understand.
In my head, the usual reasoning begins to turn: power isn't shared, it's exercised; duty isn't delegated, it's fulfilled. And yet, that logic brings no comfort.
She takes another step. The ground cracks underfoot. "You've always protected us," she says. "You gave us food, a place to stay… you taught us. You treated us like people. You are... everything for us."
The words hang in the air, heavier than any spell.
For a moment, I look past her—at the body of the woman I fought, lying motionless on the ground. The scene shouldn't mean anything, and yet something inside me stirs.
"With such meager strength… what do you hope to achieve?"
That phrase echoes in my memory, like a taunt thrown into the void. I had said it. To others.
Zen's servants.
This warrior.
To those who, despite being weaker, chose to fight.
And now I understand what I never did before.
My strength was my existence, but theirs was will.
That difference was what I failed to see.
My eyes settle on the lifeless body before me, on the dim edge of her sword.
Then, a thought crosses my mind. I extend my hand toward it, not thinking too much. The air trembles faintly, and [Dark Wisdom] answers—a movement of energy that still belongs to me.
I feel the connection.
It's still there.
My abilities remain.
Immediately, I search through the available options, and fragments of information begin to flood my mind—foreign memories, spells, divine arts, sacred magic.
They bring with them a different kind of feeling.
Hope.
I exhale, not as a sigh of relief, but of certainty.
There's still something I can do.
I look at Liza again. She says nothing, but her gaze carries a quiet light, as if she senses a change in the air.
Maybe not everything is lost yet.
"Liza," I say, and her name sounds strange in my voice. She flinches slightly but listens. "Continue the treatment. We don't have much time."
She nods without hesitation, steps closer, and opens the small vial of ointment, soaking the cloth with care. The smell of bitter herbs mingles with the still air. She runs the damp cloth across my wounds, trying to stop the bleeding.
I feel a faint sting. My body reacts on instinct; I pull my arm back.
The movement is automatic. The pain is so light it doesn't even trigger my defenses. The deep wounds that pierced my body had been so intense that my mental immunity suppressed them easily.
But this sting…
Liza freezes, motionless, as if afraid she's made a mistake.
"It only surprised me," I say calmly.
She blinks. "…I'll be more careful."
I nod, and silence returns—but it's no longer the same. It feels lighter, almost human.
While she continues, I let my mind settle. I think about what remains, what can still be rebuilt.
I have no past.
I don't know what the future holds.
But I still have the present.
And as long as they—Liza, Hans, Tama, Pochi—still need me, that will be enough.
My eyes lift once more toward the warrior's body. I don't fully understand what drove her to face me, but for the first time, I feel neither contempt nor confusion. Only a vague sense of respect.
Maybe that willpower is what I must learn now that my strength has been taken away.
The wind stirs lightly among the shattered trees, carrying the lingering ash through the air.
Liza finishes bandaging my wounds, and for a moment she stays still, not looking at me, breathing slowly.
"There's only one thing I don't understand," I say at last, my voice lower than ever.
She looks up, puzzled. "What do you mean, Master?"
"I don't understand why you were crying."
I don't say it seeking an answer—it's a sincere doubt, so human I barely recognize it as my own.
Liza smiles faintly, exhausted. She doesn't reply.
And for the first time since the night began, the silence doesn't weigh on me.
It just feels… alive.
***
Dawn had barely begun to show when the Seiryuu detachment started the final stretch of their march. Morning mist covered the road, thick and gray, muffling the sound of hooves. No one spoke. The silence wasn't disciplined—it was the uneasy kind, the one that comes when everyone thinks the same thing but no one dares say it.
Captain Jin rode at the front, his gaze fixed on the horizon. With every step, the air seemed to grow heavier. There were no birds, no wind through the trees. Only a stillness that felt wrong, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
"We should be close," murmured one of the men beside him, breaking the tension. His voice came out lower than he'd intended.
Jin nodded without looking back. They had departed as soon as the reports reached the city: flashes of light, tremors, a roar that had shaken the walls. No one could clearly describe what they'd seen—only that the night had shone as if a god had descended.
The terrain began to change. The grass vanished first, replaced by dry, cracked soil covered in a dark sheen. Farther ahead, the ground became smooth, like melted glass. The metallic scent grew stronger.
The men slowed their pace. One of them, the youngest, swallowed hard.
"Captain…" he said, pointing with his spear.
Jin followed his gesture. In the distance, where the forest should have been, stretched a wasteland. The trunks had been reduced to charcoal, and the few trees that still stood were twisted, as if something had bent them from within. The morning light reflected off fragments of polished stone warped by heat.
"By the gods…" whispered another soldier.
Jin didn't answer. He knew he shouldn't. Any word would shatter the fragile composure of his men.
They kept moving, and as they did, the silence changed its texture. It wasn't mere stillness anymore. It was presence. Something was watching them—or at least, that's what it felt like. No one spoke of it, but everyone knew.
The ground was marked by impossible traces: circular imprints, deep scars of energy, patches where the stone had melted as if a sun had fallen there. Each step made the surface crack beneath them—too fragile, too new.
"Was this… a demon?" someone asked, his voice trembling.
"No," another answered before Jin could. "No demon does this. Not even a high-class one."
The oldest among them, a gray-bearded veteran, lowered his gaze.
"Then it was a dragon," he said, and the words hung heavy in the air, carrying an almost religious respect.
No one contradicted him.
The road led them to the heart of the devastation. The ground still radiated faint heat, weak but persistent. Jin raised a hand to signal silence, though none of them had spoken for a long time.
That was when they saw it.
Amid the ruins and mist, a figure awaited them. Tall, unmistakable in presence, draped in a dark cloth that fell over his shoulders, covering his torso and part of his body. White bandages coiled around his abdomen, arms, and neck, contrasting almost spectrally with his pale skin. The morning light brushed his profile, bathing his silhouette in a faint, cold glow.
For a moment, no one breathed.
It wasn't just fear. It was something deeper.
Men and women alike stood frozen, unable to look away. There was something about him—his bearing, the stillness with which he stood—that defied all sense. It wasn't simple beauty; it was an attraction bordering on the divine, like staring at a work of art too perfect to exist.
Only Jin managed to avert his eyes first. His gaze moved to the surroundings, recognizing the slaves he'd seen before. The scaled woman, Liza, stood beside him, steady and alert. The two demi-human girls rested on the ground, covered by a blanket.
Then Jin looked back at the center and recognized him.
The man before him was the same one who, weeks ago, had slain a high-class demon—the same being who had faced what everyone considered a living catastrophe and destroyed it without breaking a sweat. He remembered the feeling from that day: awe, fear, the certainty of standing before something that did not belong to the human world.
And now he saw him like this. Bandaged, wounded, covered by a cloak that hid more than it revealed.
The thought struck him with the force of revelation. Something impossible had happened.
It was like witnessing a god bleed.
"There he is," murmured the youngest soldier, unaware that he'd spoken aloud.
The captain didn't respond. The air itself seemed to weigh down on them.
With every step they took forward, the pressure grew. It wasn't magic, nor threat, nor open hostility. It was something else—the sense of being before something that should not exist.
Jin understood it without words.
What they were seeing wasn't the trace of a battle. It was the residue of will.
And at its center, seated with the calm of one who knows the world fears him, was that man.
He lifted his gaze and spoke in a quiet, almost courteous voice.
"It's good to see you. I was just in need of your presence."
His tone wasn't commanding or kind. It was simple, natural—as if receiving a company of soldiers amid charred ruins were the most ordinary thing in the world.
Jin swallowed.
"Lord Satoru…" he began, but the words caught in his throat.
The man before him inclined his head slightly—a small gesture, yet enough to silence any further question.
"My preparations for the journey have been compromised," he continued. "I would appreciate your help in resupplying."
He said it with the ease of someone making a household request. But every soldier understood—it wasn't a request. It was fact.
The captain nodded slowly, forcing his voice to sound steady.
"Of course. I'll see that supplies are sent at once."
Satoru gave a single nod. He said nothing more.
Jin gave the order to withdraw with a gesture, and his men moved quickly, almost relieved to step away. As they did, the captain cast one last glance at the landscape. He had never seen anything like it.
Before, Satoru's presence had felt like night—imposing but distant.
Now… it was different.
It was like standing before a wounded dragon.
And the wounds didn't make him weaker—they made him infinitely more dangerous.
The calm emanating from that man wasn't serenity but restraint; the kind of silence that comes before fury, or survival.
Jin knew it instantly: one mistake, one misplaced word, and none of them would leave that place alive.
So he withdrew without hesitation, feeling that each step away from that figure was a small victory.
It wasn't fear of what he had seen, but of the instinct whispering that it wasn't over yet.
The captain turned his eyes away and kept walking. No one spoke for the rest of the march. The silence followed them—heavy, reverent.
Satoru watched them go without moving from his spot. He spared them no thought, no word; his mind was elsewhere, beyond the mountains where the mist slowly lifted. The dawn spread its light over the scarred land, and the world, indifferent, continued.
He still didn't understand everything that had happened, nor the true scope of the forces that had brought him here. But he knew he couldn't stop. There were those who depended on him, who followed him, who awaited his guidance.
That was enough.
The doubt remained, as did the fatigue—but they no longer paralyzed him.
He had lost certainty, not will. And as the sun rose higher, he decided to keep moving. Not for glory, not for power, but because he must.
Perhaps someday he would understand the reason behind all of this.
Perhaps not.
For now, all that remained was to move forward.
The wind swept through the remnants of battle, carrying away the scent of fire and metal. The calm that lingered wasn't peace, but it was enough.
And so, without looking back, Satoru took the first step onto the path that, without knowing it, would lead him toward his true destiny.
****
Author's Note:
Chapter 20.
I've officially finished the first part of the Introductory Arc of this series.
It's really been quite a journey.
You know, I understand that many of you have probably been wondering when Satoru will finally begin the whole "conquest" part—since that's what the synopsis promises, after all.
And I get it. We haven't seen much of that yet. But every time I read stories like this—Kingdom Building stories—the reason behind that kingdom, the motivation for it, has always been one of my favorite things to explore.
So, when I created mine, I spent a long time planning why and how that motivation would be born.
What we've seen so far—the Death March arc—serves exactly that purpose: to build the foundation of Satoru's motivation to create his multiversal kingdom.
In this chapter, we've seen him rise from his lowest point. He hasn't fully recovered… but he's taken his first step toward that purpose.
The development of that mindset—the one that will define him as a ruler—is what we'll see through the second half of this introductory arc.
I hope it hasn't felt heavy, though I guess if you've made it this far, it means you've enjoyed the writing—and honestly, I couldn't be more grateful for that.
Please, keep following Satoru's path. Stories, conquests, encounters, and worlds await us for a long time to come.
I haven't even finished publishing the introductory arc yet… and I already have five full arcs planned ahead!
He he.