Inside the Great Tomb of Nazarick, the Throne Room stood silent—polished obsidian floors reflecting the crimson glow of magical torches. The vast ceiling arched high above them, chandeliers of crystallized mana humming faintly in the stillness.
Henry leaned against one of the pillars, watching Ulbert carefully.
Ulbert stood near the throne platform, his avatar tall and imposing as ever—robes immaculate, posture straight, crimson magic faintly flickering around him. If someone looked only at the surface, nothing seemed wrong.
But his voice carried something heavier. "…I will be playing less frequently."
Silence followed.
Momonga, seated upon the throne, slowly turned his skeletal gaze toward him "Work?"
Ulbert pause. "No. Medical reasons."
The words felt colder than any spell he could cast.
"I was diagnosed with osteonecrosis. The bone in my leg is deteriorating. Walking has become… difficult."
Henry froze, needing several long minutes to process what he had just heard.
Hearing it stated so calmly—so clinically, made it worse.
Ulbert, who had always spoken with fire in his voice and defiance in every word, now sounded restrained. Almost… distant.
It didn't fit him.
This was the same Ulbert who would argue for hours over strategy, who would laugh sharply at impossible odds, who carried himself like the world itself owed him resistance.
And yet now—There was no sarcasm in his voice.
The usual sharpness in Ulbert's presence felt muted, like a flame burning lower than it once had. He stood tall as always, but there was a hesitation that didn't belong to the Ulbert they knew.
Then, without anyone pressing him, he spoke. "…I fainted twice over the past few months."
The admission hung heavily in the air.
Ulbert didn't look at them when he said it. "The pain spikes without warning. I remained conscious long enough to reach a chair the first time. The second… was less graceful." He gave a faint, humorless scoff, as if mocking himself before anyone else could. "It appears my body has decided it no longer shares my standards."
Momonga stepped forward slightly. "You should have told us sooner."
Ulbert's sneer. "And accomplished what? Sympathy? Concern?" His jaw tightened. "I dislike the idea of being treated like a fragile glass."
Henry finally found his voice. "You're not fragile."
Ulbert's expression sharpened—but it wasn't anger. It was frustration. "My body failed me, Twice. Do not insult my intelligence by pretending that is anything admirable."
Silence settled again.
For someone like Ulbert, the fainting itself wasn't just a medical issue. It was humiliation.
It was the first time he had set aside the armor he wore so effortlessly—the pride, the sharp words, the unshakable composure—and allowed them to see the man beneath it. For all his devastating magic, nothing he summoned had ever felt as powerful—or as terrifying—as standing there without pride to shield him.
----
first, nothing seemed alarming.
Ulbert still logged in. He still attended meetings, he still argued—fiercely, intelligently, relentlessly—as he always had.
But something had changed.
Where he once debated for hours inside the halls of Nazarick, now he would fall quiet sooner. His replies became spaced out, his movements less sharp. Sometimes, in the middle of a strategy discussion, his avatar would simply stand still for several seconds longer than usual.
Then—He would log out.
No warning. No explanation.
The first time it happened, Henry frowned at the empty space where Ulbert had been standing. "…Connection issue?"
Momonga tilted his skull slightly. "Perhaps. It was sudden."
They didn't think much of it. Real life always came first. That was the unspoken rule.
But it kept happening.
No dramatic effect, not frequent enough to raise alarm.
Just… noticeable.
Ulbert would grow quieter. His once-imposing presence would dim slightly, like a flame losing oxygen. Then, after a long pause—He would disappear.
----
Ulbert wasn't collapsing. He was simply exhausted.
The pain in his leg drained him faster than he wanted to admit. Even sitting upright for long periods became taxing. The effort of maintaining his usual intensity—his sharp tone, his commanding posture—demanded more energy than he had.
And Ulbert hated that.
So instead of explaining, instead of letting them hear fatigue in his voice—He chose silence.
Logging out was easier than saying, I'm too tired.
---
Henry began to see the pattern.
Because the man who once lingered until the very last moment—who refused to log out before finishing every argument, every plan, every detail. Ulbert, who once stayed until the very last second—was now the first to log of.
Henry's hands slowly tightened at his sides.
Enough was enough.
The next time Ulbert logged in, Henry did not wait.
He approached him directly in the throne room. "You can't keep doing this."
Ulbert turned sharply. "Doing what?"
"Pretending nothing's wrong."
A cold laugh escaped Ulbert. "I am not fragile."
"I know that."
Silence.
Henry stepped closer.
"But you're human." The words were simple—quiet, almost gentle. Yet they cut deeper than any accusation ever could.
Ulbert's eyes flickered, just for a fraction of a second. "I refuse to become a burden. I would rather endure the pain than become someone others must compensate for."
Henry didn't look away. He saw it now—not arrogance.
Fear.
"You're not a burden."
Ulbert's expression hardened instantly, like a shield snapping back into place. "That is what people say before they grow tired." The sentence wasn't bitter. It was honest. And that honesty hurt more than anger ever could.
Momonga descended slowly from the throne, robes brushing softly against the marble floor. His voice calm—measured. "Ulbert. Do you believe we are so shallow?"
Silence filled the hall.
"We built this guild together. We trusted each other with secrets, with time, with effort. And yet you think we would abandon you over weakness?"
Ulbert's hands trembled slightly—He clenched them immediately, as if trying to hide even that. "People insist they don't mind. They accommodate." His voice was quieter now. "And then one day, they realize it would be easier if you were not there."
The confession lingered in the air.
That wasn't pride speaking, it was experience.
Henry stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Is that what you think of us? That we're waiting for the moment you become inconvenient?"
Ulbert didn't answer.
His silence was no longer defensive—it was uncertain.
"You think if you can't argue for hours or push yourself until you're drained, you somehow matter less?" That struck.
Ulbert inhaled sharply. For the first time, he didn't have a sharp retort ready.
"…I have always stood on my own. I have never required assistance."
His voice thinned slightly at the edges.
"Without my strength, I do not know who I am… or what would be left." He feared becoming replaceable. Inconvenient. Slowly edged out because he could no longer maintain the same intensity.
That was it.
No pride, no arrogance.
He didn't know how to exist without strength being the defining trait.
Momonga's tone softened, though it never lost its steadiness. "Then learn." Ulbert's gaze shifted to him. "Accepting support does not weaken strength—it solidifies it. You taught us ambition. You taught us to aim higher." Momonga stepped closer. "Allow us to teach you something in return."
Henry's voice dropped to almost a whisper. "You're not staying because you can endure more than us." He met Ulbert's eyes directly. "You're staying because you matter to us."
For a split second, the armor slipped.
His shoulders lowered—just slightly. "…I do not want your pity." For someone who defined himself through willpower and control, needing accommodation felt like erosion.
"You don't have it." A breath passed between them. "You have our loyalty."
Silence stretched again—but it felt different now.
He realized strength was not measured by how much pain he could endure in silence. It was measured by whether he trusted the people beside him enough to let them see it.
-------
After that night, things began to change—Henry made a decision.
If Ulbert refused to be treated like someone fragile, then Henry would not treat him that way...
He moved in with him.
At first, Ulbert protested. Strongly. "This is unnecessary."
Eventually living together meant Henry could help without making it feel like charity. It wasn't 'assistance.' It was simply sharing space—sharing responsibility. (I know, the MC is stupid)
It made things easier.
Easier to notice when Ulbert was pushing himself too far. Easier to make sure he ate properly. Easier to be there on days when the pain was worse than he admitted.
As time passed, the condition progressed.
With Henry's financial support, Ulbert underwent several surgeries. The procedures were difficult, and the recovery periods even more so. Hospitals replaced long gaming sessions. Rehabilitation replaced strategy meetings.
Each surgery carried risk. Each recovery demanded patience.
And patience was never Ulbert's strongest virtue. But slowly—very slowly—there was improvement.
The deterioration stopped, and the worst of the structural damage was corrected.
Eventually, the doctors said the word neither of them had dared to expect too soon, "Stable."
Ulbert would walk normally again.
But it would take time—months, perhaps longer. Physical therapy. Strength rebuilding. Careful progression.
Even after the operations, the exhaustion lingered. Surgery drained the body in ways pride could not override. Some days, simply standing with support was enough to leave him tired.
And that frustrated him more than the pain ever had. Ulbert exhaled, somewhere between annoyance and reluctant acceptance.
Because this time, he wasn't alone in managing it. Recovery was slow, and repetitive.
And through all of it, Henry stayed.
Not as a caretaker standing over him. But as someone beside him.
And for Ulbert, that made all the difference.