The SSS class adventurer is a divine cleric-Chapter 71: I’d still do it

The light faded from Derek’s eyes.

And when it returned, it was cold.

He stood in silence surrounded not by enemies, but by stillness. A long, vast chamber stretched endlessly in both directions, lit only by faint rays of silver falling through cracks in a stone ceiling high above.

The ground was polished obsidian, cracked in a thousand places, but what caught his gaze were the swords.

Hundreds, thousands of them. Lining the chamber walls.

Some hanging from the ceiling, some stabbed into the ground, broken, splintered, fractured down the spine.

Some rusted. Others still gleamed with fresh polish.

Each of bore a name inscripted into its hilt.

Names he recognized.

Every single one.

Derek’s throat tightened as he walked between the rows. Each step echoed like judgment, like a drumbeat of memory.

He passed one:

Sir Aemon Drelv, Sworn Shield of the Northern Watch.

Then another:

Holse Mor, Vanguard of the Eastern March.

He stopped.

The name rang like a thunderclap in his chest.

Holse.

He knelt, fingers trembling as he touched the shattered hilt.

The sword was clean, but cold and lifeless.

Just as he was reminiscing the past. A voice interrupted his thoughts.

"You left us, Derek."

The voice made his blood freeze.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he rose to his feet.

And turned.

From the rows of broken blades, they stepped forward.

Men and women he had fought beside.

Brothers and sisters of the sword. Loyalists. Nobles. Royal knights.

The King himself.

And at the front stands Holse.

The man whose blood had once run hotter than fire, whose fists had crushed monsters twice his size and whose laughter had once filled war camps like music.

Now he stared at Derek with hollow eyes.

Disappointment. Bitterness. Pain.

"You were our strongest," Holse said, voice like gravel.

"You were the backbone of Starfall," another chimed in, a duke, long since dead. "You vanished when we needed you most."

"You ran. With the girl," the King spat, stepping forward. "You chose one child over a kingdom."

Derek clenched his jaw, but he didn’t speak.

They circled him like vultures of memory.

"You were the sword of the realm,"

"a General of six campaigns"

"the Stalwart of Starfall"

"and yet you abandoned your oath."

"You deserted, Derek."

The word echoed louder than any other.

DESERTER.

Derek didn’t flinch.

His gaze fell to the cracked floor, then back to Holse, the only one whose expression still showed a trace of something else. Not anger. Not hatred. But Sadness.

"I made a choice," Derek finally said, voice quiet, but iron in its edges.

"I couldn’t save the kingdom. I couldn’t save all of you. But I could save her."

He looked down again at the name on the hilt.

Holse Mor.

"My brother," Derek whispered. "If it were you in my place... You’d have made the same choice."

Holse didn’t respond.

The others did.

"You say you feel guilt," the King hissed. "Then prove it."

"Lay down your life before us."

Their forms shimmered, light twisting around them like coiling blades.

And from the walls, the swords rose. Their broken edges reformed. Hilts hummed with power.

They became whole again. And they turned on him.

Derek didn’t flinch as Holse lifted his blade.

"I’m guilty," he said simply. "But I’m not sorry."

Derek summoned a sword that was darker than the night itself, mana and resolve exploded around him.

Aether swirled in his veins as he took a stance, a martial skill older than most kingdoms, his hand resting on the hilt of a blade he hadn’t drawn in over a decade.

The air cracked with pressure.

"I’ll face your judgment."

And with a breath that shook the chamber—

He drew his sword.

On another battlefield. Ashes fell like snow.

Soft. Slow. Unforgiving.

Neal Throdan stepped forward starring at a battlefield, a place which he remembered as home, now turned into the ruins of a grand battle.

The once-grand estate of the Throdan lineage was nothing but a ruin. Cracked obsidian tiles, giant pillars of polished granite engraved with the Throdan’s history, all lay broken beneath his feet, blood smeared across them like war paint. The air reeked of smoke and scorched metal.

A familiar hallway stood crumbled ahead, half-swallowed by flame. He recognized it. The corridor where he’d play with his younger brother.

Where they used to sneak sweets from the pantry. Where his mother would stand, hands on her hips, scolding them both with an exasperated smile.

Now gone. All of it.

The sky above was a churning mass of gray, its clouds never quite forming, as though the heavens themselves had lost the will to weep.

Neal’s breath hitched.

The system’s voice slithered into his mind like a blade pressed against an old scar.

"Welcome to the Trial of Truth."

And then it began.

The memory.

The punishment.

Bodies littered the courtyard. The corpses of loyal guards, of family retainers, of distant cousins who once wrote him letters. All burned beyond recognition.

Some still reached for the gates, fingers outstretched.

Some still crawled, burnt limbs dragging across stone in search of hope.

But there was none.

And as he walked down the ruins of his once grand estate, there he saw a small body. Face-down. Blonde hair singed at the edges.

Whose facial features were to similar to his own almost like the younger version of him.

Neal froze.

His legs trembled as he took a step closer. His voice, a broken whisper, escaped his lips: "No..."

The boy stirred.

Slowly, painfully, he lifted his head.

Blue eyes blinked open.

Innocent. Familiar.

"Brother?" the boy asked softly.

Neal’s breath caught in his throat. "C-Ceon...?"

The boy, his little brother, stood, wobbly, swaying like a leaf in the wind. His clothes were blackened, his face smudged with ash, but the smile he wore... it hurt.

"You promised," Leon said.

Neal’s heart cracked.

"You said you’d protect us all. That you’d get strong and come back to beat the monsters. That nothing could hurt us."

"Leon... I... I didn’t know—"

"You lied."

Neal staggered back.

"You left. You trained. You fought battles that didn’t matter... while we burned."

"No!" Neal shouted. "I—I didn’t know it would happen while I was away. I didn’t mean to—"

"I was scared and you weren’t there!" The boy sobbed then it turned into a dark menacing voice "You left me alone" the boy screamed, voice warping. "We died while you chased strength! What good is your power if it came too late?!"

His form began to shift.

From an ash-covered child to something terrible.

The boy’s hand morphed into a jagged blade wreathed in orange fire, eyes now glowing with seething rage.

The illusion lunged at him.

"You don’t deserve to carry our memory."

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