Type-Moon: The Human Love Simulator

Hengist's shout echoed through the dense forest, stirring up a commotion that quickly spread like ripples in water. The sound of countless footsteps approached rapidly, and within mere seconds, over a thousand Anglo-Saxons had gathered.

They had been searching for Nimue all along, and now Hengist's momentary delay had cost him his best chance to flee.

In truth, even without ships, both Hengist and Horsa had the strength to swim back to King Vortigern's kingdom—or even directly to the shores of Europe.

But Nimue's sudden interference had sealed their fate. With Anglo-Saxons swarming around them, Hengist—though formidable—was not strong enough to face over three thousand foes.

Hengist's face darkened as he drew his weapon. "Spare me and Horsa, and I'll leave you all the treasures my brother and I have amassed over decades. It's a fortune large enough to make each of you a lord."

No one answered. Only the ceaseless sound of footsteps closing in echoed around them, like the rustling of countless insects devouring flesh. The noise was unnerving, but Hengist didn't waver. He steeled himself, preparing to persuade the Anglo-Saxons to spare his life.

It wasn't impossible—Hengist's silver tongue had brought him this far.

But before he could continue, Nimue suddenly drew his own weapon and shouted, "My dear father, there's no point in trying! They despise us—they'll never forgive us! They're all brainwashed by that damned false saint, Kaelar!"

His words had the opposite effect. At the mention of Kaelar's name, the Anglo-Saxons stopped waiting for backup and charged.

Most of Nimue's followers were the most devoted of Kaelar's believers, while those executed by Hengist had been the ones more easily swayed by promises of wealth—the potential traitors.

The ones who had shouted loudest in favor of Kaelar's teachings were the very ones who hid behind true warriors when it came time for battle.

Nimue wouldn't allow that to happen. He wouldn't let Kaelar ever look around and lament, "Is this all I have left? Are all the good men dead?"

But Hengist wasn't an easy foe. Anyone who thought he had clawed his way to power just by groveling to Vortigern was gravely mistaken.

While not the strongest, Hengist's combat prowess was on par with a first-rate Heroic Spirit. More importantly, when he fought alongside his brother, Horsa, their combined power multiplied.

This was why, despite Horsa's occasional indiscretions, Hengist had always kept him close. Together, they were a force that could even escape Vortigern's wrath if necessary.

Decades of brotherly camaraderie meant that their attacks, though seemingly reckless, had no real openings. Any gaps in one's offense were immediately covered by the other, creating an impenetrable offensive front—a perfect harmony of attack as defense.

The skirmish lasted only moments, but Hengist and Horsa had already inflicted heavy casualties on the enlightened Anglo-Saxons. Yet, despite his success, Hengist felt a prickling sense of danger that he couldn't shake.

He didn't have time to ponder the source of this unease. There was only one logical conclusion—Kaelar's oppressive presence loomed over him like a dark cloud.

"Horsa! There's no time to waste!" Hengist shouted urgently. "We need to leave, now! Once we're back, King Vortigern will protect us!"

He shot Horsa a meaningful glance—a message only decades of brotherhood could convey.

(We're not going back to Vortigern. We're swimming to Gaul!)

Just as their eyes met, a sword pierced Nimue's chest. He let out a scream, his body crumpling right into Horsa's line of attack.

Horsa hesitated. If he struck, his blade would cleave Nimue in two, but the attack's momentum would be disrupted, exposing his brother's flank.

And then there was the fact that Nimue was Hengist's foster son. For decades, Hengist had not fathered a child of his own; perhaps this brave youth was his only chance for a successor.

In that split second, Horsa's killing intent wavered. His hesitation was fatal—the sharpness of his blade softened, and his strength faltered.

Hengist's heart sank, and he bellowed, "Horsa, don't hesitate! You are my most important kin!"

Nimue's timing couldn't have been better. Had he been in Hengist's way, Hengist would have cut him down without a second thought.

But Horsa... Horsa respected his elder brother. Decades of loyalty weren't so easily discarded. Seeing Nimue in danger, Horsa instinctively thought of his brother's feelings.

For Hengist, a foster son was nothing compared to his own blood. But Horsa would always place his brother's desires above his own.

It was too late to realize the mistake.

The perfect coordination of their brotherly swordplay shattered. Enemies surrounded them from every direction, and no one would miss the opening that Horsa's hesitation created.

Within moments, thirteen blades pierced Horsa's body. Summoning the last of his strength, he grabbed Hengist's cloak and hurled him away. "Brother, go!"

The ancient bloodlines of heroes endowed them with near-superhuman resilience, and Horsa, even in his final moments, could have slain the dozen who had attacked him.

But instead of revenge, he chose to save his brother.

Hengist's heart twisted in agony as he watched his brother fall. Decades of shared struggles and victories, cut short in a single moment.

But Hengist wasn't a man who succumbed to emotion. He didn't resist Horsa's final push, using the force to propel himself into a desperate escape.

And then, Nimue appeared once more.

It was still Nimue—always Nimue.

Weaponless, he stepped into Hengist's path, raising his arms in a feeble guard. With all his remaining strength, he blocked Hengist's escape.

Hengist's blade pierced Nimue's chest, but the youth's body had successfully blocked his way out.

Without his brother at his side, Hengist had no chance of fending off the thousands of Anglo-Saxons. Enemies closed in from all directions, offering no path to safety.

In an instant, Hengist was bleeding from countless wounds. His face, his arms, his body—all slashed and torn. As he looked around, he saw only the faces of Anglo-Saxons who wanted him dead, who would tear him apart if given the chance.

In that frozen moment, as the blades pressed in, a wave of clarity washed over him.

He understood.

It was Nimue. Of course, it was Nimue all along.

Hengist's eyes widened with revelation. He looked at the youth who had driven him into this inescapable corner.

There was no hatred, no resentment in his gaze—only a weary compassion, tinged with a trace of admiration.

With blood dripping from his lips, he managed to ask, "Tell me... was it worth it?"

Was it worth it?

No one could answer him.

Hengist would never learn the answer to his question.

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