Mushoku Tensei: Edge of a Borrowed Fate

They moved fast. Strong horses, bred on the Wildland plains, hauled the heavy carts of loot. No formation, no banners. No helmets.

The squad was small, but every one of them was a fighter — seasoned, aura-trained. Not fresh blood. These were men who had held steel longer than most had been alive. No chatter. No jokes. Just motion.

At the front rode Serek. He didn't glance around. Only forward. Neck and back tight. Shoulders square.

Foss is ash. Bombs worked. Captains are down. No command post, no chain of orders. The whole line's on fire. They're folding in on themselves now, like blind dogs in a panic. Screaming, calling for help, trying to find the front. But there isn't one. While they guess where the next blow falls — we just walk. Through the hole we cut ourselves.

He squinted at the hills ahead.

Everything that needed doing is done. All that's left is to reach the border. Get back to our land. Start claiming what's ours now.

In his mind, Serek could already see the skeleton on the throne seething. Asura hadn't seen a raid like this in decades. And the fact that they'd breached into the central territories? That would sting.

In Boreas domain, he'd moved carefully — probing, testing, watching the response. It was tight there. Structured. But here? Different. Here he could loosen the reins. The center lived under a warm illusion. Nobles thought others would die in their place. Their guards were a token — the real force was holed up in the capital, just "in case."

Serek had judged he could split the group. The core was strong enough. And if they divided the loot, they could carry more. He didn't expect pursuit. If it came — they'd break it apart.

The wagons were already branching off — three different directions. No rush, no glancing back. Everything was going to plan.

Which is exactly what bothered him.

First — silence. Not normal silence. Thick. Off. Like sound was being swallowed.

Then — tremors. Barely there at first. A few horses snorted, started tossing their heads. One fighter turned to listen, but said nothing.

The shaking grew. You could feel it through your feet. Not footsteps. Not wind. Like something moved beneath the earth.

Serek stopped. Eyes toward the trail.

"Something's coming."

He raised a hand. The others halted. One reached for his blade. The horses were growing restless — one nearly reared. A cart jolted.

The tremor deepened.

"Positions," Serek snapped.

They scattered instantly. No shouting, no confusion. This crew was made for combat, not discussion.

Serek stayed where he was. Watching. The shape was already forming in his mind: not a patrol. Someone coming straight at them. Not cautious. Confident. Strong. Which meant — interesting.

He exhaled. The taste of victory had turned bitter on his tongue.

One horse. Then two. Then more. Kicking up dust in a rising wall.

At the front — a rider on a black horse. Full speed. Straight path. Gold lion on his chestplate.

Tch. Boreas, Serek thought.

No time to think.

"Ready!"

Two fighters raised crossbows. The bolts shimmered faintly blue. Not standard. No words needed.

The rest moved up — a living wall between the carts and the road.

Serek drew his blade. Rolled his wrist. Aura lit. Thick and hot, like molten iron. The air wavered.

"Don't hit the lead. Cut the tail. Sever the support. Let the hero ride in alone."

The crossbowmen nodded. Target clear.

"Fire."

The runes flared. Light jumped to the bolts. They tore from the strings — fast, screaming. Even with sharpened reflexes, Serek barely tracked them.

Boom. Boom.

The bolts missed the black rider, struck the horses behind. The beasts burst apart. Two knights were thrown — one rolled mid-air, the other crashed hard.

Explosion — a jagged ice field erupted where the bolts struck.

A wave of splinters tore down the road. Some guards didn't make it — their legs were cut out from under them. Those who did turn back had the same look in their eyes: they knew this weapon.

"Boreas dogs came for us!" Serek roared, his voice laced with aura, slicing through the field. "Think they can fuck us like dockside whores?"

He stepped forward, turned his blade, slashed it through the air.

"Let them come. We're not pups. Not garrison rats. We're the ones who burned a kingdom!"

He pointed the sword at the charging riders.

"Those who stand — walk home. Those who fall — won't die for nothing. But anyone who breaks — I'll kill myself."

The man in front leapt from his horse in one vicious motion. In the next heartbeat, he was close.

Impact.

The strike was fluid — whip-fast. Two of Serek's men dropped wordlessly. Heads rolled. A faint ripple split the air, clipping three more. Shallow cuts — blood came quick.

Water school, Serek noted. Cursed, flowing style.

Several of his warriors surged forward. Their blades skidded off, as if slicing mist. Riposte — swift. One man dropped, throat laid open. Another staggered, clutching his belly.

Part of the squad clashed with the oncoming guards. Metal rang. Shouts tore through dust and thunder.

Serek boiled. Everything in him burned.

Splitting the group — and this. Boreas dogs. As if summoned. A joke. Creator's sense of humor? Let's see who laughs last.

Boom.

Aura flared, fed by rage. Serek launched forward. The air cracked with the force of his charge, dust splitting around him.

Ahead, one fighter held off five.

He turned. Sword raised. A block.

Metal met metal. Ground cracked.

Familiar eyes.

Philip. Saurek's whelp.

Serek's men started to move — but a knight intercepted them. Judging by armor — a captain. His blow tore the air. But Philip was already gone — sliding, like water around stone.

Trained, Serek realized. Trained well.

Philip slipped to the side, dodging clean. Smooth, without waste. Serek followed, relentless — step, strike, step. Every movement heavy. Blade compressed the air, but never hit flesh.

Iron trail, Philip registered. A hammering style. Constant pressure.

He knew it. Every step laced with threat. Hits weren't meant to land — they denied space. Shrunk the field. Disrupted the breath. The pace stopped being yours. No pauses. No breaks. No recovery.

He dodged again. Felt the rhythm. But Serek was closing. Every miss — closer. Every swing — heavier.

Philip dipped low, angled in, tried to cut across. Failed. Serek countered instantly. Switched stance mid-motion. Weight shifted to legs. Shoulder snapped forward. Aura detonated on the blade.

Anchor break. Another Northern technique.

A sudden overload of mass. The fighter grounds his weight, keeps his motion, and drives from the earth like a spring. A short, explosive move — rising from below. Aura punches upward, rooted deep, surging to a point.

Everything focuses into a single burst — like a weapon firing from the body itself.

Philip staggered back a step. His sword nearly slipped from his hand. But the armor held. The plates groaned, the runes flared—and cracked. The blow that should've killed him scraped off the surface, carving a deep groove, but didn't break through.

Serek noticed the arcane glow of the runes.

"Artifact..." he muttered, frowning deeper. "...you think that'll save you, pup?"

And he moved in again.

Philip struck. A downward blow, fast, then twisted the blade to the side. Serek sidestepped—not dodging, just a subtle shift, a slight turn of the torso. The second strike came in heavy, arcing. Serek caught the rhythm, didn't block—slid past it, raising his sword to press the advantage.

He didn't make it.

The third strike from Philip began—then collapsed. The attack dropped inward. The blade sank. Philip dropped low, weight in his legs. Step—gliding, low, sweeping sideways into a blind spot. His body flowed like water, slipping out of the attack line as if he'd vanished.

Serek's blade cut air. The target was gone.

Malgra's Fin.

Philip appeared behind him.

The strike landed under the ribs. Serek jerked. Too late.

The sword skimmed along the armor, caught the edge, cut skin. Burned. Blood came at once. He twisted, putting force into the turn, but he knew: the tempo was broken.

A shot from the side. Serek ducked. The air screamed. Bolts whistled low—fast, hissing. One hit the ground nearby and exploded. Ice shards tore through the legs of a nearby guard.

Serek looked up—the battlefield was blanketed in smoke. White, with a bluish sheen like frost. Bodies, debris, screaming. The enemy was pushing. But there were fewer of them now.

Aura pulsed in his chest.

He inhaled, then exhaled with effort. The bleeding worsened. Pain frayed his thoughts. He tensed his wrist, dragged the blade through the air.

Strike.

Aura flared along the blade—like a wave. Red surged over the edge and lashed forward. A line of energy whipped across the field.

Philip's guards recoiled. One didn't move in time—he was hit in the side. Plates melted, cloth scorched. He dropped to one knee, howling, clutching his flank. One of Serek's men finished him off—clean beheading.

Serek advanced. Each step carried weight. His aura throbbed with every impact. The ground echoed with it. His body grew heavier—and stronger.

Philip, dodging another bolt, lunged. Slid to the side, closed the gap. A slicing cut, angling the line. The sword came in low, jumping under the forearm.

Serek parried. Countered. Technique against technique. Aura surged upward, clashing with Philip's blade.

Current.

The strike had been a feint. At the point of impact, Philip dropped—angled out again.

Serek turned with him. Adjusted stance. Fingers tightened on the hilt.

Anchor Shift.

Philip was knocked back. Recovered, slid back again—but slower now.

Serek stepped in. Straight. No windup. The blade thrust forward. Philip raised his sword—too early.

***

In the distance, along the country path, a man was walking.

He wasn't in a hurry. His matted hair hung in tangled clumps. His cloak was caked in dust, scorched in places, full of holes in others. His face was swollen, eyes sunken. The stench of alcohol clung to him even in the wind. He uncorked a wineskin, took a swig. Red wine spilled into his beard.

He'd been walking for over a week. Bare feet in the dirt. His steps were heavy, but steady.

Ahead—noise. Screams, explosions, clashing steel.

He reached the road.

Before him—a shattered supply convoy. Carts overturned, wheels soaked in blood, sacks of plunder ripped open. Corpses everywhere. Armor, flesh, leather—blended into chaos.

Two were still alive. One crawled, clutching his gut. Another staggered to his feet, holding a crossbow. A click—and the bolt fired. Runes flared. In the next instant—an ice explosion.

The blast of shards cut down everyone nearby. Even his own.

The earth was scarred. Cracked. Craters like after a catapult barrage. The smell of blood hung thick, pressing on the chest.

The man in the cloak stopped.

The fighting was down below, near a slope. He saw one warrior slice through three in a single motion. Another, bearing a golden lion on his chest, slipped past strikes as if he knew their path before they came.

The cloaked man didn't move. Just watched. Disinterested. As if deciding whether to continue forward—or turn away.

Something shifted in his clouded mind when he saw the lion crest. Lion... familiar. The thought pushed through the fog of drunkenness, like a finger wiping dust off glass.

Lion. Barcay region. Yes. He had made it.

He nodded to himself. Not with joy—just checking a box. One less target.

Down near the slope, one fighter stood soaked in blood. His aura roared, like a bonfire. Red waves shimmered in the air, visible even to the dullest senses. He was cut from head to toe, but still standing.

The knights were slowing. The ice bolts had done their work. Bodies torn, men screaming from frostbite. One was missing a leg. Another's face was frozen stiff.

Cleave.

Aura ripped through the earth, leaving a jagged wound like a blade had split the very rock. The shockwave floored anyone within three meters.

The man with the lion crest was flung aside. His body slammed into a boulder. Arms broken. Armor shattered. His sword cracked and split apart.

The wanderer exhaled. The drunken haze lingered, but his mind cleared. He took a step.

Then another.

The third step was a lunge.

Reality twisted. No flash, no sound—he vanished. Reappeared next to the one who'd just split the earth with his aura.

Serek didn't even have time to turn his head.

The sword was already falling.

Time itself seemed to halt.

Light cleave.

Serek's body froze, as if it hadn't realized what had happened. Then—his head began to slide from his shoulders.

He dropped like a sack.

The battlefield stopped. The remaining fighters froze, unsure what to do. A second… two… then they scattered. Ran in every direction. He didn't care.

His eyes were locked on the knight.

The knight was trying to rise. Left elbow—a mess of flesh. Right arm—dangling, useless.

The wanderer approached. Slowly. Without tension.

He reached out his hand.

He looked up at him. Said nothing.

The wanderer lifted him. Gently. Effortlessly. As if setting back on his feet something that had simply fallen by mistake.

"On behalf of House Boreas… khh…" The man didn't finish.

His throat seized—whether from pain or fury, it wasn't clear. He tried to straighten, but his legs wouldn't obey. Breathing hard, lips trembling.

The wanderer stood still. Didn't answer. Didn't move. Stared past him, unfocused.

"This is the Barcay region?" he rasped.

Philip blinked, not following.

"No… farther down the road… Boreas lands…"

"Hm…"

The wanderer frowned. His brow creased, as if trying to remember something just out of reach. He looked like a drunk trying to do math.

"Barcay or Boreas…?" he muttered.

He kept staring at the road, as if expecting a sign to appear on the horizon.

Philip opened his mouth, tried to speak—but only managed an exhale. Pain hit his chest like a hammer. No words came out.

The wanderer looked at him again.

"You know the Roa fortress?"

"Yes… a few days' ride…"

"I'm looking for a girl. Roxy. That's her name." His voice hardened. There was steel in his eyes now. "You know her?"

Philip squinted. The name rang a bell. A girl. A mage. Had been in Bueno. His father had sent her to Paul.

"Yes… village of Bueno…"

The wanderer said nothing. His expression didn't change. Just his gaze dipped—like mentally pinning a mark on a map.

Philip was breathing heavier. Each inhale came in ragged. Like he had to swallow the air. His eyelids twitched, body leaning sideways again—but he held on.

"If…" He tried to say something. Lips moved, breath faltered. Nothing came out.

The wanderer gave the slightest nod. He no longer cared about Philip. Not his wounds, not his words, not whether he'd survive. He had what he needed. He turned toward the road. Walked away without changing pace.

Philip didn't take his eyes off him. He sat slumped, mouth open, eyes burning from dust and blood—but didn't blink. Not until the cloak vanished around the bend. Not until the footsteps faded. Not until the silence returned.

Several minutes passed before Philip could lift his head.

The battlefield was quiet.

The captain lay on his side, eyes open. His sword nearby—but no longer in hand.

Philip looked away.

He started counting.

One…

Second by the road…

Third by the tree, soaked in blood—but breathing.

Three.

Out of the entire squad. Out of twenty.

Dust settled. The blood-smell no longer hit so sharp. Serek's aura still lingered in the air, like the taste of iron.

Philip stared at it in silence.

I should've died. We all should've.

He looked in the direction the wanderer had gone.

"Lord Philip…"

One of the guards limped over to him. Face blackened with soot, dried blood on his cheek, armor creaking with every step. He helped Philip up, one arm around him.

Philip stood unsteadily. The world swayed. Dozens of thoughts spun in his head. But one rose sharp, loud, clear. Like a command.

"Send word to everyone…" he breathed. Then firmer. "Serek is dead. Fell by my hand! Spread it!"

He stared the guard down. His voice hoarse, dull, like a sentence being passed.

He didn't care how many had died.

Didn't care who struck the final blow.

Didn't care what had happened a second before.

What mattered—was how it would sound. How it would be remembered.

If that wanderer tries… The thought didn't finish. Something sparked behind his eyes. Blood rushed. Pupils flinched.

If he gets between me and that glory… if he speaks… I'll erase him…

Consciousness snapped. Everything spun. Thoughts scattered.

Philip's eyes shut.