Chapter 61: The Reality in Illusion

Re-written date: 7 / 17 / 2025

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Chapter 61: The Reality in Illusion

"What if one day, the place you live in is suddenly attacked by a horde of monsters? They march in like they own the place. They kill your friends. Your family. They pillage everything. Now imagine your sister—someone precious to you—gets dragged off. She's assaulted. Violated. Treated like a toy. Then killed…"

"What if all you could do was hide… Holding your breath, too scared to move… And just watch it all unfold from beginning to end…"

"There's no way you could ever forgive them, right? You'd grab a weapon. Train. Think. Grow. And swear, I'll get my revenge no matter what. Then you'd start hunting them down. Corner them. Fight them. Kill them. Kill, kill, and keep on killing—until none are left…"

"Then comes along some naive fool, putting on a smug look and saying, 'But what about the children? We can spare them.' But they have no idea, do they? Those 'children' will do whatever it takes to survive. They'll raid villages. Steal livestock. Attack humans…"

"The goblins that live through all that—they learn. They adapt. They survive. Soon enough, they'll become leaders of their nests… or bodyguards for someone worse."

"In the end, who wins isn't really about who's stronger. It's just a matter of luck. Which means… humans and goblins aren't so different after all. And to them… I'm the goblin."

A silence like death fell across the cinema.

Not even a breath could be heard.

Wycliffe sat in his seat, eyes slowly closing.

His brows furrowed in deep thought—the same kind of thoughts mirrored in Goblin Slayer's monologue on-screen.

And in the end, all he could do was sigh.

Long. Heavy. Resigned.

On the other side, the audience who had finally come to understand what Goblin Slayer truly believed—they could only sit there, fists clenched or tears welling in their eyes.

If it had to be put into simple words… They had become the character.

Most of them were wealthy folk from the South, people who had never experienced war, never even seen a non-human up close.

To them, the horrors shown on screen were unthinkable—something they never imagined could happen in real life.

But now, through Goblin Slayer's words and actions, they understood.

This was a world where safety and peace weren't a given.

The brutal, blood-soaked reality painted by Goblin Slayer tore open a part of their hearts they didn't know existed.

It showed them humanity's deepest fear, but also its deepest courage.

The film rolled on.

The next arc featured new allies approaching Goblin Slayer, asking to join him in a goblin extermination mission.

Compared to what came before, this section felt lighter—A simple, classic adventure plot. And the audience finally got a moment to breathe.

They began enjoying it for what it was: an adventuring story.

But even then, Goblin Slayer wasn't some whimsical world like KonoSuba, where the dangers were comical and the stakes low.

This was real.

And many of the younger viewers who had once dreamed of becoming adventurers after watching KonoSuba now found themselves hesitating, questioning themselves.

Do I really have the strength and courage to become an adventurer?

That doubt, once planted, began to spread.

Meanwhile, the story pushed on toward the climax of the incident.

Goblin Slayer unleashed trick after trick—clever traps, dirty ambushes, brutal tactics—absolutely tearing through the goblins.

It was thrilling.

And at last, the audience began to feel the joy of a proper fantasy adventure again.

But with that thrill came another realization that their moral compass had quietly shifted.

They found themselves thinking—It's fine to use underhanded methods, so long as you kill the enemy.

And when they realized that… They didn't feel guilty.

No, they were even more excited to see what crazy strategy Goblin Slayer would come up with next.

Likewise, seated among the audience, both General Wilhelm and Knight Commander Wycliffee were completely drawn into the film's story. Wilhelm managed to keep his composure—he was, after all, the kind of man who could navigate a noble banquet without missing a beat. But Wycliffee was a different case altogether. The man had a reputation. He wasn't known for diplomacy or charm. In fact, he'd ruined more than one banquet simply by showing up and radiating his disdain. And yet now, here he was, watching the screen with rapt attention, eyes locked onto every scene like a predator stalking prey.

That alone said volumes about the film's impact.

To Wycliffee, banquets and stage plays had always been hollow. The actors were fake. The laughter from the audience was fake. The applause rang emptier than a battlefield after the dust settled. For years, he had refused to mingle with the Empire's upper crust, earning himself unflattering titles like The Iron Lump and The Warhound. He didn't care. Let them whisper. He'd rather spend six months fighting on the frontlines than two days sipping wine in a room full of liars.

So when Goblin Slayer began playing and the story unfolded in all its grim, grounded brutality, Wycliffee felt something shift. This wasn't fake. This wasn't hollow. This felt real.

He didn't just see the Goblin Slayer; he felt his presence. Every movement, every swing of his sword was charged with the kind of killing intent Wycliffee recognized from a hundred battlefields. The sharpness of his gaze, the silence in his steps, the raw purpose of his actions—none of it felt like fiction. Wycliffee could no longer remind himself this was only a movie. To him, it may as well have been a live feed from the northern frontier.

He even started to believe—truly believe—that somewhere, out in the vast and dangerous wilds of the North, there really was a man like that. A man who woke up every morning and checked the perimeter of his home for goblin tracks. A man who stood quietly among rowdy adventurers in the guild hall, watching them scramble over flashy jobs while he claimed the ones no one else dared to touch. A man who, without recognition or reward, made sure helpless villagers could sleep just a little easier at night.

If someone like that did exist, he would gladly recruit him.

The thought even amused him. 

A killer of goblins, stubborn and antisocial, joining his army? 

Impossible. 

Such a man wouldn't care for orders, medals, or glory. He lived for a purpose that went deeper than that. Wycliffee knew it, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

A smile.

A small one. Brief. Barely noticeable. But it was there.

And sitting next to him, the young Knight Rhine noticed it. The moment his eyes caught that subtle lift in the corners of his mentor's lips, his face went pale. His mind froze. For a moment, he wondered if he was hallucinating. Had he really just seen Knight Commander Wycliffee smile?

Rhine had been under the man's tutelage for years, through brutal training, harsh winters, and the unrelenting pressure of discipline. Never—not once—had he seen the man smile.

It was like spotting a Headless Knight casually waving hello to you in broad daylight.

Unreal.

But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made.

He understood now. That smile wasn't for the movie's spectacle or drama. It was for the man on screen—the Goblin Slayer. A soul who, like Wycliffee, had been shaped by violence and tragedy. A man who survived by turning suffering into focus, pain into purpose. Wycliffee saw a reflection of himself, or perhaps the man he once was—or still wished he could be.

It was that sense of connection that had brought the ghost of a smile to his face. Not joy. Not amusement. But a quiet recognition. A warrior acknowledging another.

As the film continued, the story moved toward its next arc. The battle for Water Town ended, and the screen faded into silence. The audience collectively exhaled, as though they'd all been holding their breath. The tension that had gripped them finally loosened.

Some were thrilled by the relentless action and brutal combat. Others felt a quiet satisfaction watching the Goblin Slayer slowly start to change—taking the first few steps toward something resembling healing, even if he didn't know it yet.

And all of them, every last person in that theater, leaned forward in their seats when they realized the story wasn't over.

There was still one final enemy left.

The Goblin Slayer pushed aside a thick patch of grass, its blades bent under the weight of dozens of small, muddy footprints. The forest grew quiet. The atmosphere shifted. Everyone watching knew, without a word being spoken, that this would be the climax.

The final confrontation was about to begin.