He rubs his forehead and takes a swig of his mead. His grip tightens on his hammer.

"Yeah, but...ain't that easy."

He can objectively understand that it's not really his fault that he died. It's Tom's fault. Tom, the murderer. Kid can't blame himself unless he also wants to blame everyone else who fell victim to Tom and his pickaxe.

But it's just...hard. He's Kid. The Kid. The Kid who casually carries around shoulder-mounted cannons and mortars. Yet one guy with a dinky little pickaxe...

He shakes his head.