at the wagon.

“Stay close to the Saint!”

The guards also mounted in a hurry and seemed to be on the verge of departing when they recovered their whips.

“Wait, there is a wounded man here!”

I appealed to get her attention, but the Saint took one look at me and the man and would not move.

Her honey-colored eyes, which glanced at me, were void of any emotion.
They looked as if they were looking at a stone lying on the ground.
I was horrified.

“The big stage is waiting for me.
I must go quickly.”

The Saint then turned to face forward.

“Please wait.”

I rushed to her and held her reins to stop her from running off.
The horse startled, stamping its foot high in the air and the saint frowned.

“Hey, kingsguard mage! Don’t do anything dangerous!”

After the guards chided me, the Saint hit me on the shoulder with the whip in her hand.

“Get out of my way!”

I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder, but I didn’t have time to worry about it.

My hand leaves the reins and the Saint’s horse starts to run.
The guards rush to follow.

“Wait!”

(Why? A little help wouldn’t have been a problem for the Saint!)

Returning to the wagon, I bend down, put my shoulder on the edge of the wagon and exert myself to somehow lift the body of the wagon.
However, it was loaded with furniture and the weight was so heavy that it would not budge even slightly.
If I don’t do it quickly, I’ll be crushed to death!

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“It’s so heavy! Please, lift quickly!”

I clenched my teeth and put all my strength into it, but it still didn’t move.

In this situation, I had no choice but to use magic.
I meditate and focus my attention on the wind.

The only thing to do is to gather the wind on my cheeks, turn it into a blast and hit the wagon. 

My voice trembled because I was in a hurry.

“Wave of wind, send the wagon flying!”

A gust of wind that raises a cloud of dust blows over me and I shield my eyes with my hands.

The next moment, the weight on my shoulders disappears and when I open my eyes, the wagon is completely upside down, falling a short distance away.
Wood chips fly and the furniture it was loaded with would have been broken, but that’s not the point.

“Are you okay!?”

I kneel beside the man exposed under the wagon and shake his shoulder.

His legs are bent in the direction of the day after tomorrow and the largest amount of blood I have ever seen is beginning to seep into the ground.

I don’t know what to do and my hand on his shoulder begins to shake.

The man’s lips, trembling slightly, move.

 “He…lp.”

“Wait, I need a healer now…”

I would say so, but where is the healer? The hospital is already closed.

Meanwhile, his eyes, which were fading, were losing their light and closing.

“Grandpa, no.
Pull yourself together.”

I called out to him, but his lips were no longer moving at all.

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“Oh, no.
What am I going to do?”

When I removed my hands from the man’s shoulders, they were covered in blood.

I gasp for air, almost hyperventilating.

(He’s dead.
……! I couldn’t do anything!)

“I’m sorry.”

I put my hands together and apologize to the man.

When I look up, trembling with shock at not being able to save him, I see that the Saints’ horse has gone very far away and I cannot even see their backs.
Only the faint flickering light of the torches held by the guards can be seen at the end of the road.

Beyond that is a huge fire.

The Saint probably has no idea about the safety of the guards she is leading.

With a sense of resignation, I turn my back on the man and climb up on the back of the horse I have been riding.

As I rode at full speed, I shouted over and over in my head, “I’m not going to let them get away with this”.

(Iris, wasn’t he worth saving for you? You mean you don’t help people who don’t mean anything to you?)

I can’t forgive it.

I cannot tolerate a Saint who takes full advantage of her position and status, yet shows no mercy to the weak and kicks them down with impunity.
How can she not understand that we are all the same living people and feel pain in the same way?

The blood on my parched hands complains.
He must have had someone important in his life, too, as he was hurrying somewhere with furniture in his wagon.

It was the Saint who overturned the wagon.
I wanted her to feel guilty, at least a little bit.

Is the saint’s healing technique a show for Iris?

I cannot forgive what she said about the “big stage”.
For the old man pulling the wagon, that was his only stage.
No one should be able to belittle his stage.

With hands trembling with anger, I gripped the reins and gritted my teeth.

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