Without Regret

ARC 1: Without a Name

by Eroi Nica

a - La Luna

.

The first thing he noticed when he was back to the consciousness was—

—the moon.

Bright and whole, illuminating the world with it's obscure light. It wasn't that much, but enough to make him see in the night.

He was somewhere.

A desert.

Where?

He blinked. His last memory was of a blond git pulling him along into a black hole with the thightest chain. It had been in the near end of Holy Grail War. He had defeated the arrogant king, he was one step closer to make through it, alive.

He remembered: he had a name. One of a pure, lucid, a name of his own. He remembered: he had a live. One of a straight, unsual, but ordinary live nonetheless.

But he can't remember it.

That he had lived a name, and lived a live.

That he had tried and failed miserably to realize his ideal.

(I want to make everyone happy.)

(I want to save everyone.)

He know it is impossible to reach. He know it like he know that sky is blue. He had seen the outcome of his ideal in from of a sword-using bowman.

(I want to be the Hero of Justice.)

He remembered his ideal—his faith—just as he don't remember things. Like the arrogant king, the blond git, the sword-using bowman, or Holy Grail War.

(What do all of that mean to him?)

He lay there, on his back. Ignoring the sand started to make it's way to the remaining open wound his body have.

In the middle of nowhere, he started to think.

"What do I do now?"

He didn't remember his name. He didn't remember his live. He don't know where he is.

(It's just him. His soul. His body. His mind. All without any recollection of his own.)

The conscious leave his mind.

—and a wagon stopped beside his body.

(iamtheboneofmysword—) He doesn't remember.