Dressed in tedious armor, a body painted with blood and mud returned. But I feel myself settling in the opposite direction.
Walk around the mountains, looking for fallen martial artists. From time to time I see what my people look like, but I don't see what the prey to hunt for. I try to use the technique to broaden my perception range, but I don't even feel any signs.
"Apparently...... he's not here anymore. Let's pull it up."
"Heh."
Tired of lowering his neck several times from his waist, he told his people. Dry, hardened blood and mud snap into the beautiful face that even the girl can see.
Tired was the deputy head of the group. While the swordsmanship arm is also grasped, there is no one to pinch the difference that the deputy chief is tired enough to handle the sorcery. It's just a crane in the sweep, as one blonde emerald-eyed Inhuman beautiful boy mixes among the poorly resembled, thin, filthy men.
Even though his body was dirty, his tired beauty stood out. Few of my companions were ever more affectionate, but none gave a hand or spoken out. Already tired was the property of the leader of the group, and even if not, he would be terrified and unable to do anything about it.
"I don't know."
The rest of my crew were waiting for me on my way out of the woods to hunt the fallers.
One of them - a tough looking young man advances toward the tired. I am not tall, but I have no waste of meat, and I am very muscular. The hair tied at the back of the head is full of habit hair and stretched to the back. There was a familiar, loving grin on his face.
"What are you going to do now, Mister?
One of my buddies asks. The battle here is over. A group without a name. The vast majority of them are originally civilians or fallen martyrs. There will be no settling, either waving a sword on the battlefield, and if you get paid, you will either search for the next battlefield again and move around, or you will attack travelers and villages as wild ambushes.
Kill, take, offend, eat, noise, wander, sleep. Such a life. But every day, when I tried tirelessly, I was enriched.
I walk to your side very naturally, tired, and snuggle myself out. Your head also turns its hand on its waist and holds it like a mistress. No, it's actually that kind of relationship.
"Right. We've worked hard here, and we'll get some villages to stay."
"I like that."
In the words of your head, your companions smile low. When I tell you to stay, I'm not turning you down or paying you to stay overnight. After ravaging the village itself, we'll just stay for a while.
Your head and tiredness, who is also a sorcerer, accumulate drills of art in that breathing time. The villagers will also be experimental benches for their new art production. Eat and use without excess. There's really no waste.
Tired was picked up by your head and trained as a sorcerer by many years in anticipation of an excellent inspiration prepared by birth.
I am not tired of your detailed qualities. I was interested, but I wasn't going to ask. Tired didn't speak of his birth, and nobody asked him.
When I was in the mood, Tired was raised in the famous Martial Family. Parents of the upbringing say that the survival of a wrecked trade ship, tired when picked up, was young, but he could say his name. My parents liked the name Louis, and they kept it as a toddler name.
He was strictly raised as a samurai son, but now that he was ten years old, he was deprived of his territory by war, and his tired father was killed in battle, and his mother and his unconnected brothers of blood were killed in front of him, and his country and home were lost.
From its appearance, Tired was consoled by the warlords of the enemy nations, the enemies' enemies, and captured without being killed. He was then freed by a bandit raid on the road to an enemy country as a sex slave. That was the meeting with your head.
At first, your head also brought the tiredness around, just to comfort you, but tiredness gradually attracted you to the luxurious temperament of your head.
The head also taught witchcraft in anticipation of his tired talents, and when he only became adorable with the tiredness he had nostalgic for himself, and he plotted evil as a member of the wild ambush. Tired embraced it without resistance, feeling no guilt in trampling others, and became immersed as pure pleasure.
"Oh, yeah. I thought you were going to teach me new techniques."
Your head laughs with a nigga, and your tiredness peels off one of your raw necks that you have lowered from your hips.
That wasn't the samurai's neck. It's the neck of a baby I killed in a neighboring village. The reason I was hanging mixed up in the samurai's neck wasn't that I wanted to brag about my neck. This was later possessed for use as a catalyst for surgery. Your head told you to take one baby's neck somewhere, and you procured it.
"Hmm. You're right, you seem to have tormented and killed him. Be a good grudge."
I look down at the crying face of the blue-white discolored baby, and your head says satisfactorily.
"What kind of technique do you... teach me...?
Tired of looking up at your head's face spreading a naughty grin like a child and asking with an inadvertent look.
"I'm still working on it, too. I had a basic mould. I'm going to teach you a quick lesson, and you and I are going to do some research. A baby is a person, not a person, and more than half of it is an animal. That's why the spirit is so special. There seems to be a wide range of spells and witchcraft that can be applied."
Indeed, as you put it, the foundation of the technique taught at that time and the study and production of the technique carried out jointly by the two of us thereafter can be applied in various ways and will be of great use. Until hundreds of years away.
These were the best times of my life. Dozens and hundreds of people killed, no guilt or other shards, and I enjoyed it sincerely. Above all, I was happy to be on my side with my loved ones and to have fun with them.
"Now what?
Someone asks tiredly. No, I know the Lord of that voice tired.
Your head disappeared from the side of tiredness. And there stood before him a beloved, tired, unlike your head.
She still looked tired with a pitiful face that seemed to cry. That pierces my tired heart. The first unpleasant feeling I feel. It felt like nothing had happened before. Heartache. Guilt.
"Why... do you blame me... Ayane... why do you pity me..."
Girl nestled in front of tired - tired of taking her gaze off her beloved daughter and moaning.
I dropped my gaze down and got a little tired. My feet were filled with corpses. In it was a mixture of those whom he had slain, which was also in his memory.
I felt the girl in front of me slowly approaching me, tired. Tired was afraid of the daughter. Tired neglected the daughter. When I met her - no, after I started loving her, something decisive went crazy in my tiredness.
"Ayane... more than that... stop blaming me... Ayane..."
Tired of blatantly threatening and telling as if begging. Ayane has never blamed herself. But tiredness assumes so. I fear to be blamed.
"Ayane... don't look at me with pity..."
Eventually Tired squatted on the spot with his head in his arms, desperately trying to see Ayane's face. But even though he missed his gaze and closed his eyes, he was wary that Ayane's face would not disappear.