—If you knew it had been love at first sight, just how surprised would you have been?
* * * * * * * * * * The Blessing of the Sword Saint took root in
It was an event that shook her life to its foundations without warning, without the slightest premonition.
In the midst of her ordinary, everyday life, it simply descended upon her out of the blue.
"—? Could it be… that I've been chosen?"
With the utmost seriousness, Theresia received her blessing with that single thought.
And she would keep that fact a secret from everyone for quite some time.
—The Astrea family was a prestigious lineage of the sword, one that had continued to produce Sword Saints for generation upon generation.
As a result of the great feat achieved hundreds of years ago by the first Sword Saint,
That tradition, spanning centuries, was passed down vigorously into Theresia's era as well.
Because of this, anyone born into the Astrea family was, whether they possessed the Blessing of the Sword Saint or not, all but destined to walk a life devoted to the sword.
Theresia's father, of course, as well as her two elder brothers and youngest brother—all the same. Regardless of aptitude or blessing, becoming familiar with the sword from the moment one came of age was the Astrea tradition.
Born into a household where such upbringing was taken for granted, how did Theresia, a daughter, grow up?—Well, as it happened, she spent her days entirely removed from the sword.
Naturally, being born an Astrea meant that, regardless of gender, one was made to hold a sword.
Theresia too, like her siblings, endured days of rigorous instruction where she was forced to swing a sword. She did—but the truth was, she possessed not a single shred of talent for the blade.
Or rather, one should say there was not the faintest trace of an attitude toward facing the sword.
Like many young girls, Theresia had no interest whatsoever in swords.
This wasn't a matter of being skilled or unskilled. Swordsmanship forced upon her without passion, training she threw herself into without conviction, and a defiant attitude—when all of this continued, it was only natural that her parents would cease to see any meaning in making her wield a sword.
—The Blessing of the Sword Saint was granted only to those who proved themselves worthy of the Sword God's favor.
The Blessing of the Sword Saint, inherited generation after generation exclusively by the Astrea family. As for the blessing whose details had yet to be fully revealed, at least at that time, that was the prevailing belief.
One had to earnestly face the sword and have their talent recognized before the blessing could be bestowed.
A daughter who had no interest in the sword, the eldest child who kept turning her back on it—Theresia's early dismissal as a candidate for Sword Saint, and the resulting freedom to do as she pleased, was an inevitable course of events.
Though Theresia had wrested her freedom from the sword practice more or less by force, she had her own reasons, such as they were.
Of course, having absolutely no interest in the Sword Saint and finding no meaning in dedicating herself to the blade was one reason her heart wasn't in training—but the greatest factor was something else entirely.
—Theresia was aware of the blessing she had been born with: the Blessing of the Death God.
The wounds she inflicted on others would never heal, and they would continue to bleed without end.
When she became conscious of that power, one that was singularly devoted to taking the lives of others, what took root in young Theresia's heart was terror at the consequences her own hands would bring about.
Sword training was the single greatest thing to feed that fear.
Whether practice or serious training, Theresia's uncontrollable blessing made no distinction of occasion. Even a scratch was enough—if it meant a wound that would never heal for a lifetime, there was nothing to smile about.
And wounds made by a sword could, through the slightest accident, take a life.
Thus, when she was freed from sword practice, Theresia was secretly relieved.
Living without hurting others was, if one were conscious of it, actually extremely difficult.
Even without consciously or actively trying to harm anyone, accidents and unconscious actions could happen to anyone, at any time. Even if the shard of a broken plate cut someone's fingertip—how could one be certain that the power of the blessing wouldn't take effect?
The young girl that was Theresia unconsciously avoided contact with other people.
If there was no touching, no approaching, there was no risk of hurting anyone. Naturally, she came to avoid the eyes of others and spent more and more time with flowers.
Having gained the freedom to cast aside the sword, she created her own flowerbed in the estate's garden, cultivating and loving the seasonal blossoms there—a girl who treasured the flowers she grew.
Her brothers training desperately with swords held high, enduring grueling drills that were painful to watch—Theresia did not feel alienation or guilt at the sight of them. But unable to tell anyone about her blessing, her only companions were the flowers she had grown herself.
"Someday… will someone like me ever be able to spend time with another person?"
Worried, tormented—those feelings could only be confessed to the flowers swaying their petals in the wind.
Just as was true for so many people, Theresia was an ordinary girl who wished to love someone and be loved in return.
But she questioned herself endlessly: having turned away from her family's ambitions, burdened by a blessing that could hurt or even kill someone—did she have any right to stand beside another person?
—It was in the midst of such days that the Sword God's favor rained down upon Theresia.
"—? Could it be… that I've been chosen?"
Suddenly, that realization struck her.
It weighed upon her as a far more profound sense of wrongness than her awareness of the Blessing of the Death God.
Of course it did. The blessing she was born with was as natural to her as having eyes that could see or ears that could hear—an innate function.
To receive a new blessing was like sprouting wings out of nowhere. A new function that had never existed before, suddenly emerging—what was there to welcome but a sense of unreality?
—I must not hold the sword.
Theresia thought this even as she felt revulsion and nausea toward her new blessing.
She recalled the time she had been forced to wield a sword against her will. In that moment, she understood with terrible clarity how futile, how meaningless, how vain and useless her actions had been.
The optimal, ideal, finest, supreme way to swing a sword—she understood it all by instinct.
Having been specialized in killing people, she now completely understood the art of killing.
"—!"
That was terror. That was despair. That was the day the world ended.
The time she could pretend to be nothing more than an ordinary girl—pretend to be nothing more than an ordinary girl—had come to an end, and she was forced to realize she was a Grim Reaper in the guise of a maiden.
Theresia told no one about the blessing she had received.
She would hide the Blessing of the Death God, hide the Blessing of the Sword Saint, bury them forever deep inside her heart, and attempt to seal away the fact that she was a monster made for slaughter.
She claimed to feel unwell and shut herself in her room at the estate.
Forgetting even to tend to her flowerbed, Theresia retreated into her shell. She did nothing but sleep, and when she finally raised her head from the suffocating darkness, she indulged in childish fantasies that everything might have been a dream, remaining sealed within her shell all the while.
But that was nothing more than the shallow wisdom of a child turning her back on something she didn't want to face.
—It quickly became apparent that Theresia had inherited the Blessing of the Sword Saint.
"Brother… The next Sword Saint is your daughter. It's this girl."
The Astrea main household—the birthplace of Theresia and the stronghold of the Sword Saint lineage.
It was Theresia's uncle, the previous Sword Saint, who had come to the estate, discovered Theresia curled up in her bed, and exposed her as the next Sword Saint.
The Blessing of the Sword Saint was a unique blessing, passed down through generations only within the Astrea family.
On some unspecified day, the blessing would suddenly transfer from the current Sword Saint to the next. And once the succession was complete, the Sword Saint would be released from the role and lose the blessing.
When the current Sword Saint lost the blessing, it was only natural that the entire kingdom would launch a search for who the next Sword Saint might be.
And the previous Sword Saint could tell at a single glance who the new Sword Saint was.
Thus did Theresia's days of seclusion come to an end.
"Pick up your sword, Theresia."
Emaciated, her hair and skin in a wretched state, Theresia was dragged out into the garden.
Barefoot, still in her nightgown, her consciousness drifting between dream and waking—yet even so, her uncle roughly hauled her out to the garden and forced a wooden sword into her hands.
With her thinning fingertips, Theresia shook her head repeatedly, resisting.
But no one listened to her protests. Her uncle made her grip the wooden sword over and over, and when she finally gave up and held the hilt, he pushed her back and turned her to face forward.
Standing before Theresia was her eldest brother, four years her senior.
The eldest brother, who had a gentle and kind face, wore a look of bewilderment. Unable to comprehend what was happening before his eyes, his confusion was plain to see.
—Full of openings.
Theresia was horrified by the thought that had just crossed her mind.
Shock pierced through her heart, leaving her speechless, her eyes wide open.
Ignoring Theresia's state, her uncle spoke in a low voice to the eldest brother.
He was to take up a wooden sword as well, and face Theresia head-on in a duel. He was to knock his sister down with that wooden sword and prove his own talent for the blade.
"Impossible!" the eldest brother cried out.
He was a kind brother. He had trained earnestly in the sword, harboring no doubts about the Astrea way of life—but to his sister Theresia, he was nothing but a kind brother.
She had been too afraid of hurting him to reach out on her own, but she had loved being held in his strong arms. He was kind. So very kind. Her brother.
"You coward!" the uncle's voice rang out, berating him.
Stung by the contempt of the previous Sword Saint—someone the eldest brother had admired and looked up to—his expression twisted with pain. The eldest brother, the second brother, the younger brother—Theresia knew who each of them had looked up to as they continued to swing their swords.
Being berated by that person, the eldest brother was deeply wounded. The second brother and the younger brother, dragged along to witness the same scene at the garden's edge, wore equally pained expressions.
Eventually, the eldest brother, still wearing that wounded expression, set his eyes with grim resolve.
With every ounce of the swordsmanship he had honed through years of continuous practice, he assumed a perfect guard, the wooden sword leveled straight ahead.
The trembling tip of his blade, and the sharpness of his gaze—Theresia understood.
Her brother was trying to knock his own wooden sword away without hurting Theresia. His stance, his gaze, and every bit of his sword pressure told her as much.
With his level of skill, it would not be difficult to do so against a weaker opponent.
It was more than sufficient to prove his talent and wrest the sword away from Theresia.
"— — — —"
At her uncle's shout, the duel that neither party desired was set into motion.
The eldest brother let out a cry of spirit, and honed sword pressure drove into Theresia.
It was the kind of pressure that could restrain an opponent's movements and make them shrink back. As long as she didn't even raise her sword, knocking the wooden sword from her hands would be child's play.
This fight was wrong from the very start—wrong in its entire conception.
Theresia had no reason to fight, and her brother had no reason to hurt her. Their interests aligned perfectly; there should have been no conflict.
And yet— "—Enough."
From afar, a wooden sword that had been sent flying embedded itself point-first into the ground, and a voice rang out.
At the solemn sound of his voice, Theresia came back to herself, and found that the wooden sword in her hands was thrusting straight forward, its tip pressed against the throat of her stunned eldest brother.
—She remembered: she had caught her brother's downward strike, wrenched the wooden sword from his grip, and driven it to his throat.
All to demonstrate the gap in their power—that she could kill him at any moment.
The eldest brother, overwhelmed by what had happened, sank to his knees right there. Having witnessed this, Theresia turned back with trembling lips and looked at the second brother and the younger brother who had been watching the duel, and then at her parents.
Everyone stood frozen, their faces masks of disbelief as they took in the result.
"The next Sword Saint is Theresia. As expected—there is no mistake."
Of all the voices, only the uncle's words rang hollow and empty.
"A… ah… aah…—"
Theresia dropped the wooden sword, stared at her own hands, then clawed at her own red hair with those same hands. She clawed until she bled, let out an animal-like wail, and screamed.
She screamed, half-mad with anguish, coughing blood from the force of her regret and remorse.
Theresia had become the Sword Saint.
* * * * * * * * * The talent Theresia possessed for the sword mercilessly trampled over the time her brothers had devoted to it.
No amount of training hours meant anything against such overwhelming swordsmanship.
In Theresia's eyes, now that she had become the Sword Saint, every flaw in her brothers' swords was laid bare. To think that after all those years of effort, they still couldn't see even those flaws—she was horrified at herself for even thinking that.
At the same time, she found her brothers deeply pitiable—those who, even after having the gap between themselves and Theresia shown so clearly, still continued to devote themselves to the sword.
The eldest brother, the second brother, the younger brother—there was nothing else in the world to which they could pour their passion besides the sword.
Born into the Astrea family, raised in a house renowned for the blade, having sacrificed the greater part of their lives to the sword—when the summit was snatched away by their own sister, they had no choice but to keep moving forward.
Even knowing, with absolute certainty, that they would never reach that level.
—How foolish.
She couldn't help thinking that.
They should just do what they loved. The sword didn't matter anymore, not for Theresia.
Since Theresia could no longer be allowed that luxury, her brothers should live in the world they loved.
"Theresia-sama, preparations are complete. It is nearly time for us to depart."
A voice called out to Theresia, who had been gazing down from her window at her brothers training in the garden.
When she turned, standing there was a girl of similar age with beautifully short-cropped golden hair.
This was
In truth, her skill as a swordsman was outstanding.
Theresia didn't like making comparisons aloud, but her swordsmanship was surely on par with her brothers'.
She was earnest to a fault, devoted entirely to swordsmanship—and as a fellow woman, it was almost disconcerting.
"Yes, let's go. Today is instruction for the people at the castle, isn't it?"
"Yes. Everyone at the castle is looking forward to receiving instruction from Theresia-sama. Of course, I feel the same way."
"Carol, I think you're already strong enough."
"Not at all. Someone like me doesn't even come close to Theresia-sama's level."
As if denigrating herself, Carol evaluated her own abilities in that manner.
It was a deeply unsatisfying assessment from Theresia's perspective. After all, Theresia had never once held a sword in Carol's presence. No—it went beyond that.
The last time Theresia had held a sword was that day she had dueled her eldest brother with a wooden sword.
In the more than two years since, Theresia had not touched a sword even once.
And yet the duties of the Sword Saint still came around.
That she was the Sword Saint was an inescapable fact. She couldn't bring shame upon the entire Astrea family, so she obediently fulfilled that role and that role alone.
"If one with eyes to see looks closely enough, it becomes clear. Even without ever having witnessed Theresia-sama hold a sword, once you do, you would display a power beyond anyone's reach."
Carol's words, brimming with conviction, drew a wry smile from Theresia.
Accompanied by Carol, Theresia made her way to fulfill her duty of instructing soldiers. It wasn't anything grand—she simply walked among the troops as they went through their usual drills in formation, weapons at the ready, and pointed out their faults.
The terrifying aspect of the Blessing of the Sword Saint was that it supplemented every combat instinct one could conceive of. It was not limited to swordsmanship alone. Whether spear or axe, anything related to the art of war—Theresia could see the good and the bad in all of it.
She pointed out each flaw one by one, and the soldiers' movements transformed remarkably.
Though from Theresia's perspective, they were still riddled with defects, even those small changes made an enormous difference for those without talent.
Being thanked and respected for it made Theresia deeply uncomfortable.
She wanted to flee right then and there.
She wanted to get away from this place—from a place where she was wanted only for a power she never asked for.
Just as when she had received the Blessing of the Sword Saint, Theresia despaired at her circumstances.
She wanted to retreat to her room, curl back into her shell, and hope that the waves of fate would subside.
—Perhaps it was karma, punishment for her dependence on others and her evasion of responsibility.
In the Dragon Kingdom of Lugunica, a large-scale conflict erupted with a coalition of demi-humans.
It was quickly bound up with the long-standing tradition of demi-human prejudice that lingered within the kingdom, intertwined with the deep-seated resentment of demi-humans living within its borders, and erupted into flame.
The kingdom's greatest and worst civil war—the Demi-human War—had begun.
* * * * * * * * * Originating in the eastern reaches of the kingdom, this civil war grew more severe with each passing day.
At first, it was assumed that a mere handful of demi-humans could be swiftly crushed. But the kingdom had underestimated the depth of the connections that linked demi-humans beneath the surface.
Moreover, it seemed there existed someone who served as a bridge between the various races who had no prior ties—and the flames of civil war spread across the land in the blink of an eye.
The swirling vortex of conflict spread unchecked throughout the kingdom, and when a full year had been spent extinguishing it with nothing to show for it, the kingdom at last acknowledged the gravity of the situation.
"To Theresia van Astrea, Sword Saint of the present age—we hereby decree that you, alongside the knights and soldiers fighting tirelessly to suppress the civil war, are expected to produce results on the battlefield."
Having committed unprecedented military force and recognized the civil war as a problem for the entire kingdom, the high nobility could not afford to keep the "Sword Saint"—the ultimate weapon—in reserve.
Naturally, a missive demanding Theresia's participation in the war arrived.
—The time she had dreaded was finally at hand. Theresia had never known such despair.
It was different from the days when, through sheer willfulness, she had managed to avoid holding a sword.
What was demanded of her was not knowledge of the Sword Saint, but the sword power of the Sword Saint itself.
She could no longer avoid picking up the sword.
For the first time, Theresia was also given custody of the Dragon Sword Reid, which only the Sword Saint was permitted to carry.
"But that sword cannot be drawn except at the proper moment. You will need another sword besides. Pick one that suits you."
The one who offered this advice with understanding was her uncle, the previous Sword Saint.
Having once carried the Dragon Sword at his hip, he knew well the blade's capricious nature. Following his uncle's counsel, Theresia selected a longsword—she took one glance and saw that the same blade Carol favored as her attendant would also suit her perfectly.
—For Theresia's first battle, Carol, as well as her uncle and brothers, accompanied her.
Theresia's first battle was far from being a triumphant stage for her.
Even so, it was an event that demanded attention. It was a golden opportunity to make the name of House Astrea's sword known throughout the kingdom.
Regardless of Theresia's own state of mind, those around her grew excited of their own accord.
With the Sword Saint present, there could be no defeat—everyone took it upon themselves to expect as much.
Blinded by that thoughtless trust bestowed upon her from all sides, Theresia was terrified.
Unable to confide in anyone as she usually did, she kept it buried deep in her heart, and simply trembled in the face of her first battle.
And then, to her— "Are you frightened, Theresia?"
It was none other than the eldest brother who spoke to her so gently.
Hearing those words from her kind brother, Theresia—who had been waiting for her first battle inside a tent—was struck mute.
Consciously, Theresia had avoided contact with her brother.
No—not just her eldest brother. She had avoided contact with the second brother, the younger brother, their parents, and even their uncle.
It had been nearly two years since she had exchanged words with the brother she adored.
Not knowing what to say, Theresia could only keep her head lowered.
But her brother sat down beside her, looking so helpless, and gently pulled her close, stroking her head.
At the touch of his palm—unchanged from before—Theresia was overcome with shock.
"I know you feel guilty toward me and the brothers. I won't pretend that losing to you like that didn't bother me either. But…"
He paused there and smiled faintly.
It was the very smile Theresia had looked up to so many times.
"You're my precious little sister. If you're afraid, if you don't want to do this… then it's my job to protect you. I'm your big brother, after all."
"Bi… big brother…"
Tears overflowed. She had told herself she mustn't let weak words escape.
Of all people, it was the brother she had defeated—she had been so certain she must never let him hear her frailties. And yet that very brother had just denied that conviction.
"Losing to you hurt, and there were times I wanted to give up. But even so, in the end, I still love the sword. I'm grateful to have been born into this family, to have my brothers, to have you as my sister. I'm grateful to the sword."
"— — — —"
"So I'm glad I kept swinging the sword."
How foolish she had been. Theresia realized the full extent of her own stupidity.
She had watched her brothers continue their training even after losing to her, and convinced herself that they had no other path—that they were only reluctantly swinging their swords because they knew nothing else, clinging to that single thread. And looking down on them for it.
She had imposed her own measure on her brothers, thinking they should just do what they loved.
She had belittled the brothers she should have looked up to, should have respected, the brothers she adored—reducing them to nothing more than their lack of talent.
Who was the fool? She was the far greater fool. And the Sword God was the greatest fool of all.
Why did He withhold His favor from the very people who loved her so?
Why did He bless someone like her, who continued to turn her back on the sword?
That blessing should have rained down upon her brothers and those like them.
"You don't need to fight. Because you're a gentle girl who can't even bring herself to kill a bug."
Fearing the power of the Blessing of the Death God, she had spent her life avoiding contact with everything and everyone, never hurting a soul.
Her brother's understanding took a slightly different form, but he had known all along what kind of person his sister was.
That realization filled her with such overwhelming joy that her heart trembled more than it had in years.
She yielded. She cried and clung to her brother, placing everything in his hands.
—And in Theresia's very first battle, that brother died protecting the main camp.
Theresia never swung her sword. Not once.
And for several years after that, Theresia never touched a sword again.
* * * * * * * * * —Five years after the Demi-human War began, Theresia turned nineteen.
The Blessing of the Sword Saint remained, quietly stirring within her.
But Theresia herself continued to miss opportunities to wield that power, and as the civil war worsened with each passing day, she did nothing—simply drifting through her days.
Her disastrous first battle as Sword Saint.
The front lines, where they had counted on the Sword Saint's valor, collapsed entirely—and in the midst of it, her eldest brother was killed in action. Theresia was shattered by his death, and afterward could not bring herself to touch a sword again.
The shameful truth of this, the first battle of the present Sword Saint, was completely suppressed. The existence of the Sword Saint served as a spiritual pillar for the kingdom. It could not be known that she had broken down in tears on her very first battle, gotten her brother killed, and retreated into her shell.
Thus Theresia's disgrace was buried away from public knowledge, erased from the record.
And in Theresia's place, unable to fulfill her role as Sword Saint and remaining shut away, the second brother and the younger brother threw themselves onto the battlefield—and died.
Her kind eldest brother, who would listen to any wish with a troubled but willing expression.
The second brother, a little mischievous but always the first to apologize when they made up.
The younger brother, a crybaby and a coward, who always followed behind her.
They all fought in Theresia's stead, and they all lost their lives.
"You were made to do too much. I'm sorry, Theresia."
The uncle, who had gone about bolstering the morale of the entire army as the previous Sword Saint, was also killed in action.
He had fought battle after battle, pressed on despite his wounds, and in the end served as the rearguard for the retreating allied forces, dying a valiant death.
Theresia could not say she bore no resentment toward her uncle.
Had he not spoken up, no one might have learned that Theresia had inherited the Blessing of the Sword Saint. If that had never come to light, her brothers might never have been driven to fight to the death in this civil war, and they might still be alive.
When she thought of it that way, yes, she did harbor resentment. But there were other feelings as well.
Her uncle had surely understood, better than anyone, the weight of the Sword Saint's title. As the previous Sword Saint, he had been asked to bear exactly as much as Theresia had.
For the sake of the kingdom, for Theresia's sake—so that the name of the Sword Saint would serve its purpose, he had acted as he believed best.
It was because things hadn't worked out that his final words to her had been what they were.
With that single sentence, Theresia found herself unable to hate her uncle.
If she couldn't blame him, then who was left to blame?
Only herself.
She who had inherited the title of Sword Saint, yet did nothing but weep and cower.
"Theresia-sama will surely stand again one day. It simply isn't time yet."
Even as Theresia was devastated by the repeated deaths of her brothers and uncle—her own blood—Carol, her attendant, never abandoned her.
Foolish and wretched after the disastrous retreat of her first battle, missing opportunities afterward through childish whims, retreating into her shell alone even now—Carol still tried to believe in Theresia.
Lately, Carol had even begun taking on the directives from the royal castle in Theresia's place, putting herself in danger.
But even knowing that Carol was walking such a dangerous tightrope, Theresia could not bring herself to respond to her feelings.
Blessed beyond measure with the talent to kill.
She had never imagined that a day would come when she would struggle with the fact that she could not bring herself to kill anyone. There was no reason to fight. There was no fighting to be done.
"— — — —"
When Carol's watchful eye was elsewhere, Theresia slipped out of the estate and began wandering through the capital.
Five years of unceasing civil war had drained the capital of its former vitality, leaving a gloomy atmosphere in its wake. Without bright topics to lift their spirits, the faces of the people showed no sign of cheer. Naturally avoiding crowds, Theresia sought solitude.
Recently, her preferred destination had become an undeveloped district on the edge of the capital.
It was an area where development had been abandoned mid-construction when the civil war broke out. Making her way through barely passable paths and gaps between buildings that were little more than ruins, she headed for a place deep within.
A slightly open space—not quite a plaza—was Theresia's favorite spot.
Nothing stirred her heart, exactly. But she found peace in the empty void that existed within the desolate surroundings, feeling it matched the state of her own heart.
In the morning, with air so crisp it was almost ironic, Theresia made her way to the back of the square.
She sat down on a stone staircase that led nowhere and peered over the other side—and there, before her, was a field blanketed in yellow flowers in wild bloom.
Sunlight filtering down, and soil perfectly suited to the growth of flowers.
Taking advantage of the fact that no one ever came to this secret place, Theresia had sown flower seeds there. She had lacked the energy to tend to the flowerbed back at the estate that had completely withered.
But she did have enough feeling to follow through and see what became of the seeds she had scattered on a whim.
"I haven't even watered them… and they've grown this much."
The flowers were strong.
While Theresia continued to gaze at her own weakness, the flowers reached only for the sky, unfurling their petals, blooming beautifully and proudly.
Once she had been captivated by their beauty; now she found herself yearning for their strength.
Something welled up inside her, and she felt tears coming.
She pressed her hand against the burning corners of her eyes, desperately trying to hold back her tears.
—It was at that moment that a sharp, hostile presence drew near.
"Oh—excuse me."
Barging into Theresia's sacred morning sanctuary with no sense of propriety was a figure radiating a dangerous aura.
Almost having been seen on the verge of tears, Theresia deliberately adopted a stronger tone as she spoke those words. Then she looked at the figure standing in the square.
When she did, she was struck dumb.
Short brown hair, eyes that were sharp despite their neatness. A lean, well-trained body that moved with lithe grace—and emanating from that entire frame, a demonic aura so intense it made the skin prickle.
The fact that his attitude was anything but friendly was surprising enough.
But what truly caught Theresia off guard was not such a minor detail.
—To Theresia, the young man looked like a single unsheathed sword.
A piece of steel, heated and forged, glaring straight at her.
That hallucination sent Theresia's heartbeat into a faint disarray. Placing her hand on her chest, she wondered what on earth had just happened.
She did not want the young man to notice her racing heart.
And so, to hide it, she put on a brave face and spoke.
"So there are people who come to a place like this this early in the morning? In a place like this—"
"— — — —"
Quite the greeting.
As Theresia addressed him with forced friendliness, the young man narrowed his eyes and launched a sharpened blade of sword pressure at her. Not a mere threat—it was thick, fully tempered sword pressure, concentrated to an alarming degree.
It was unmistakably an expression of his intent to drive her away, finding her irritating.
Instantly, things stopped being interesting.
If that was how he wanted to play it, Theresia would not hold back. She would crush that overconfident sword pressure and leave him deflated.
"…Is something the matter? You look rather fierce."
At Theresia's words, the young man seemed to feel the wind go out of his sails.
From that point on, he apparently concluded that Theresia was a complete amateur when it came to sword pressure, and to combat in general. In truth, he wasn't wrong.
Theresia had no combat experience, no record of continued swordsmanship.
She was an amateur girl who, despite supposedly being the strongest fighter alive, had no real experience to speak of.
"What's a woman doing in a place like this at this hour?"
The young man replied in rough, impolite language.
It was the first time Theresia had heard his voice. It was irritable, but easy to hear.
—And once again, she felt her heartbeat falter ever so slightly.
* * * * * * * * * After that, Theresia and the young man continued to run into each other repeatedly.
It seemed the young man visited the square on certain days off.
He appeared to find Theresia's presence bothersome, but he never tried to force her away. Perhaps he had concluded that it would be more trouble to drive her off.
To gaze upon the field of yellow flowers, Theresia kept returning to the square.
Sometimes the young man arrived first, sometimes Theresia did. As she sat on the steps overlooking the flower field, the young man would swing a magnificent sword—an elaborate, well-crafted weapon—and throw himself into earnest training. That became the unspoken rule of how the two of them spent their time in that place.
"— — — —"
Glancing sideways, Theresia watched the young man's sword dance.
A sigh of admiration almost escaped her lips unbidden. For Theresia to feel this way upon seeing another's swordsmanship was exceedingly rare—no, it might have been the first time ever.
At first, the sight of the young man holding a sword had filled her with revulsion.
That was less the young man's fault than a problem with Theresia's own mindset. Having fled from her duties as Sword Saint, only to come face to face with someone else wielding a sword in her very place of refuge.
Driven out of the comfortable hiding place she had好不容易 found. But that wretched anxiety had vanished from the very first day she watched the young man's sword dance.
The sword the young man wielded was, to put it charitably, not refined.
To Theresia, who possessed the Blessing of the Sword Saint, there were many obvious flaws. Theresia's bad habit was to be disgusted by the sheer number of flaws in another's sword, but with the youngman's blade—though she could see the flaws, the passion it held more than made up for them.
Her brothers had devoted everything to the sword as well.
Yet Theresia could not help but feel a bitter emotion toward even their swords.
So why did she not feel the same toward the young man's sword?
The answer was surely embarrassingly simple.
"How stupid…"
—The young man's sword held not a single impurity.
To pour everything into the sword, to dedicate everything to it.
It was easy enough to say in words, and her brothers had done the same—or so Theresia had believed until now. But she couldn't have been more wrong.
Here, right before her, was a young man whose passion was nothing but the sword. Truly, nothing but the sword.
He had nothing but the sword. The sword was the only thing he loved. A single piece of steel that could love nothing else.
"…How… stupid."
Watching the young man's sword dance from the corner of her eye, Theresia felt her cheeks growing warm.
Theresia was the Sword Saint. Bathed in the Sword God's favor, she had been forced to the pinnacle of the blade.
The place this young man pursued with such single-minded devotion—that was where her own existence lay.
It had to be a delusion, but she felt as though he was reaching for her.
The Sword Saint Theresia could understand everything about the sword at a glance.
Any treasure sword, any cursed blade, any dull piece of steel, even the Dragon Sword itself—she could see through to their essence. She could wield any of them freely. In Theresia's hands, no steel remained bare.
Only him.
The one piece of steel that Theresia could not see through—only he was like that.
A sword, yet one whose limit even the Sword Saint herself could not discern.
That was surely why he occupied her thoughts so completely.
"Wilhelm Trias."
Three months passed before the young man—Wilhelm—and Theresia finally exchanged names.
In all the time they had met before that, neither had once asked for the other's name.
In truth, Theresia had been waiting for the opportunity numerous times, but Wilhelm never once noticed her intent. The exchange finally came about because a frustrated Theresia casually introduced herself and nudged him to do the same.
"Until now, I'd just been calling you 'flower girl' in my head."
What an impudent man, this fellow.
He had not a shred of consideration, cared only about himself, would talk for a bit and then leave whenever he felt like it—and Theresia's heart was constantly being tossed about.
"Do you like flowers?"
"Nope, hate 'em."
Even when Theresia finally showed him her beloved flower field—her finest creation—that was his response.
The man was absolutely incapable of saying things to please or flatter anyone.
Even as she seethed with indignation, she retracted the thought—"But then again, that's exactly why he's so much like a sword…"—resigned and helpless.
What Theresia hadn't realized was that in the face of this existence she couldn't control—the Sword Saint title didn't amount to much, and that thought was actually saving her.
"—Why do you swing your sword?"
Since exchanging names, the variety of words between them had slowly grown.
They would talk about flowers, exchange idle chatter, and part ways. The one that disrupted this familiar routine was surely caused by Wilhelm's unusual mood that day.
The tide of the Demi-human War had turned again, and Theresia had heard that things were going badly.
The core of the demi-human forces, which had infiltrated various parts of the kingdom to carry out acts of sabotage, was particularly formidable. She had even heard that among them was a "
She had felt a sudden pang of unease.
Wilhelm had long since told Theresia he was a soldier of the kingdom. Setting that aside, he was an outstanding swordsman. And on top of that, he had the eyes of someone thirsty for blood.
In a kingdom shaken by civil war, a soldier like him was tailor-made for the front lines—though he was far from invincible. One day, he might stop coming to this morning square.
That fear was what drove Theresia to ask that question.
Having finished his sword dance, drenched in sweat, Wilhelm looked Theresia straight in the eye. Then, after a moment of thought, he shrugged as if to say "what a ridiculous question," and answered like the single piece of steel he was: "Because it's all I have."
It should have been exactly the answer Theresia wanted to hear.
Yet she was acutely aware of the feeling of her heart being clawed at by anxiety and loneliness.
"Have you come to like flowers?"
"No, still hate 'em."
"Why do you swing your sword?"
"Because it's all I have."
Before long, that exchange became a ritual they never missed.
Theresia didn't even know herself what kind of answer she was seeking in those repeated questions. Was she relieved that his answer never changed? Or should she expect him to stay true to steel forever? She didn't know.
Not knowing, and leaving it irresponsibly as it was—that was Theresia.
It was the same as holding onto the title of Sword Saint while sending her brothers to their deaths, pushing her duties onto Carol, and continuing to waste her days in idleness.
That was why change always arrived without waiting for Theresia.
* * * * * * * * * It was usually Theresia who arrived at the square first.
Wilhelm's visits, once irregular, were now thoroughly predictable—and she was fully prepared with words to say and topics to discuss when they met.
Theresia was beginning to realize that she had grown dependent on his presence.
By exchanging words with Wilhelm, by watching him devote everything to the sword, Theresia could momentarily forget the weight of her "Sword Saint" title.
It was as if, because she was the Sword Saint, she was drawn to him—and as if, by him being told that being the Sword Saint was meaningless, she found salvation.
Whether she wanted to be the Sword Saint or not—even that was an act of dishonesty.
The guilt of wallowing endlessly in lukewarm water with no answer in sight.
Even that, his presence allowed her to forget.
"—Wilhelm."
As always, his approach was so obvious that Theresia turned around before he even arrived.
At the entrance to the square stood the young man with his sword.
A smile sprang to her lips unbidden, and Theresia beamed at him.
"— — — —"
The collapse of her emotions came without warning.
Eyes wide, lips quivering, Wilhelm covered his face with trembling hands. At his dramatic reaction, Theresia too was startled and shaken.
Wondering what she had done wrong, Theresia rushed to his side—but she didn't know what words to say.
Theresia had spent her life trying to avoid hurting others, cutting off contact as much as possible.
And so when she did wound someone's heart, she had no idea how to deal with it.
She despaired—despaired at herself, who knew nothing and had never tried to know.
At herself, who could find no words for Wilhelm, collapsed before her.
"Wilhelm…"
Without knowing what to say, Theresia's hand reached out to him. When was the last time she had touched someone of her own volition?
Terrified of hurting people, unable to let anyone close.
And yet, in this moment, the fear of being driven away without touching him was far greater.
Theresia touched Wilhelm's hand—the one covering his face—with her fingertips. And feeling terribly fragile and vulnerable, overwhelmed by an impossibly hot sensation, she realized.
Steel, tempered under tremendous heat, becomes stronger for having been struck.
Wilhelm was a single piece of steel, but he was not a finished sword.
And now, Wilhelm was being heated, being struck, and in the process of changing.
And the role of striking that steel—was now being asked of Theresia.
—If it was a sword facing her, then she, the Sword Saint, should be able to understand.
If it was this person, this sword—she should want to understand.
"Do you like flowers?"
The question came naturally, as always.
Perhaps someone watching from outside would have thought it a pitiful attempt at comfort. But between the two of them, it was enough.
"…I don't hate them."
And for the first time, the usual question received an unusual answer.
At that, the old Theresia would have thought: If the day came when Wilhelm's answer changed, wouldn't she once again taste disappointment, dejection, and the fear of being left behind?
But that wasn't what happened. She simply found him precious—the way he was changing, growing stronger. The steel that was striving to change, the single blade—she found it unbearably dear.
"Why do you swing your sword?"
And so, surely, this question too must have a different answer.
And that answer might perhaps bring Theresia salvation— "Because it's the only way I could think of to protect someone."
The sword was all he had, Wilhelm answered.
Yes—the sword was all this man had.
And it was precisely because he was like that that it was enough. That he was enough.
—From that point on, their rehearsed exchange was no longer necessary between them.
But that did not mean they lost the opportunity to speak to each other in the square.
If anything, when it came purely to the act of exchanging words, those opportunities had increased.
Wilhelm, who had once visited the square to practice his swordsmanship, now began to prioritize conversation with Theresia over his training.
Sitting together on the steps overlooking the flower field, Theresia listened to Wilhelm's words—he was not a man of many, and his attempts at conversation were clumsy, but simply hearing his voice was pleasant.
"They're talking about conferring a knighthood. I've become a knight."
The way he broached the subject that day, and the oddly fervent way he looked at her.
Theresia was not good with people and had kept others at a distance, but she was not so dense that she couldn't understand the meaning behind a young man's words spoken with such courage.
For a commoner to be recognized as a knight for battlefield exploits was extraordinary.
How many achievements the Sword Demon Wilhelm Trias had accumulated in this Demi-human War—Theresia, the worthless Sword Saint, knew all too painfully.
And to receive the honor of knighthood on top of that—what had he sought that position for?
"Oh, congratulations. You're one step closer to your dream, aren't you?"
Because she understood the truth behind his words, Theresia deliberately responded in a nonchalant tone.
If she let her guard down, she would flush scarlet in an instant. Pouring every nerve into maintaining her composure, Theresia smiled at Wilhelm, who looked somewhat crestfallen at her response.
"Dream?"
"You took up the sword to protect someone, didn't you? A knight is someone who protects others."
At Theresia's reply, Wilhelm immediately straightened his posture and nodded.
He was so contrarian most of the time, yet every so often he was innocent as a child.
—If only his desire to protect someone included her.
Half-certain it did, yet seeking reassurance like this—she hated herself for it.
She was so sure their feelings were mutual, yet she never acted on it—how truly, truly stupid, how wretched, how beyond saving. And so once again, Theresia made a mistake.
It was enough to convince her that she had never once done the right thing.
* * * * * * * * * Wilhelm's hometown had been burned to the ground, and he had thrown himself into the battlefield single-handedly.
When an out-of-breath Carol arrived to report the Sword Demon's unexpected act of insubordination, Theresia felt the blood drain from her entire body and nearly collapsed to her knees.
She could see Carol panicking at Theresia's ashen face. She could see it, but no strength came. She understood all too well how desperate the situation was.
"— — — —"
Into Theresia's ears, staring at the floor, came a voice that was absurdly out of place.
It was not Carol's. Not anyone in the household. But it sounded familiar—as if it belonged to someone who had always been close to Theresia—and that was when she realized.
It was the Sword God's laughter, mocking her for having spurned His favor.
"—I have to go."
Listening to the Sword God's laughter, Theresia slowly rose to her feet.
Even now, the mocking laughter echoed inside her small skull. But she could not allow the Sword God's ridicule to make her abandon everything.
She had put everything on her brothers' shoulders and gotten them killed.
She had pushed her responsibility onto the second brother, the younger brother, their uncle—and gotten them killed.
But him—only Wilhelm—she would not surrender.
That sword, that steel, that man—only he was hers alone.
"Carol, prepare to depart."
"Theresia-sama…? But your health…"
"—Prepare."
Carol, who had been worrying about Theresia's condition, straightened her back upon hearing the second command. She immediately set to work and swiftly made preparations.
The battle attire Theresia had not worn since that first battle, and a longsword that had never known the taste of blood.
"This time, I will not make a mistake."
Clutching the longsword, Theresia made that vow. She urged Carol onward and leapt onto a dragon carriage.
The dragon carriage bound for Wilhelm's rescue was far more numerous than Theresia had imagined. There were members of his unit, people who claimed they owed him their lives—so many of them.
The unsheathed sword that had once been so hostile and sharp was nowhere to be seen.
Now, that young man was a treasure sword, drawing many to him with his radiance and keen edge.
—The front at Wilhelm's hometown had already completely collapsed.
Screams and shouts of fury filled the air, the stench of blood and the acrid smell of burning dominating the battlefield.
The sheer horror of it made Theresia's stomach turn. She had imagined standing on the battlefield countless times. But reality effortlessly painted over any notion of what she had imagined.
In a battlefield where people hurt each other, took each other's lives, where blood and death ran rampant—resolve was worthless.
"Find Wilhelm! Now!"
The voice that rang out belonged to
"Theresia-sama! What should we—"
Carol's voice seeking orders reached her, but Theresia didn't hear it.
Bordeaux's troops clashed with enemy soldiers ravaging Wilhelm's hometown. Amid the tremendous collision, Theresia faintly sensed him.
"Theresia-sama!?"
The instant she sensed him, her feet moved.
Theresia dashed through the battlefield of warring soldiers without a shred of hesitation. She knew instinctively where to go—she didn't even need to look.
Treading over earth, cutting through mountains of corpses, she headed toward the place where screams of rage and death throes overlapped.
And arriving at the spot where the stench of blood was thickest, Theresia saw.
A green-skinned demi-human raising a greatsword over Wilhelm, who was on the verge of collapse.
Bloodied face looking up at the descending greatsword, Wilhelm's lips moved. In a hoarse, feeble voice, he murmured something.
"I don't… want to die…"
"— — — —"
It's all right.
It's all right, because— "— — — —"
Nothing else could be heard anymore.
Theresia replayed only Wilhelm's final whisper, the last thing she had heard.
She swung the longsword in her hand. It was light.
Without a sound—without so much as a jolt—the demi-human's head was cleaved cleanly away.
The massive body, still bearing the greatsword on its shoulder, toppled but was kicked away from Wilhelm before it could crush him. At that same moment, bullets of hostility and killing intent converged on Theresia's slender frame from every direction.
Every trajectory was visible. Readable. She could feel them on her skin.
Dodging, Theresia traced the bizarre lines she could see with her sword.
When had they appeared? Strange white lines, countless of them, floating in the air. Even more strange was that instinct told her to simply trace those lines with her blade.
Tracing, tracing, letting the sword glide along the white lines.
A storm of sword wind swept through, and the demi-humans standing on those lines were bisected one after another.
Severing limbs, beheading, piercing abdomens, reaping lives.
The Blessing of the Sword Saint and the Blessing of the Death God had finally seized their opportunity and erupted.
A severed wrist would never heal.
A pierced abdomen would never stop bleeding.
Even the shallowest cut—the pain would gnaw on forever.
"— — — —"
From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Wilhelm being carried away.
A young man held up a shield, and at his side stood Carol. Gathering the stunned Wilhelm, they began to withdraw from the combat zone.
Yes—good. That was good.
Get Wilhelm away from this place. Quickly.
"Theresia-sama…!"
Carol, watching Theresia fight, clutched the pendant hanging from her neck. At that gesture—like a prayer—Theresia almost laughed.
Yes, Carol had been right.
I really am stronger than anyone, better at killing than anyone.
—If only I had realized this sooner.
"— — — —"
The young man desperately pulled Wilhelm away as he struggled, trying to stay.
Wilhelm clawed at the earth in resistance, but his battered body would not allow it.
His presence grew distant. She felt relieved.
Relieved, and still swinging her sword—one, two, three lives taken. Easily. Effortlessly.
Slashing, slashing, hacking apart, drowning out the screams and death cries.
Drowning out the endlessly noisy voice of the Sword God.
Let her hear only that voice—his desperate voice, clinging to life.
Please—engrave into me the reason I fight like this.
Please, believe that my sword is saving Wilhelm—.
* * * * * * * * * The battle was over.
Theresia's purpose in throwing herself onto the battlefield had been fulfilled, and Wilhelm survived.
However, Wilhelm's purpose—protecting his hometown—had not been achieved.
His hometown was burned. His family home was lost. He was alone.
Driven by fury, Wilhelm had claimed over three hundred heads.
For a single swordsman on a single battlefield, that was an extraordinary, abnormal number.
—But all the more reason that Theresia's swordsmanship, which had claimed over a thousand heads, was beyond all reason.
The Sword Saint exists—here and now.
Her shameful first battle was kept hidden, and history would record this as the true first battle of the Sword Saint Theresia.
The battle itself had been a defeat, but her overwhelming swordsmanship had been proven.
The name Theresia van Astrea spread throughout the kingdom, powerfully bolstering the morale of the warriors who continued to fight.
That, of course, must have reached the ears of that young man—the Sword Demon.
"What an humiliation."
There had been no promise to meet again.
And yet, both of them shared the conviction that if they went to the square, they would find each other.
And in fact, it came true.
When Wilhelm arrived at the square, he swung his sword straight at Theresia.
She slipped her hand into the arc of his blade, stopping it with just two fingertips.
The optimal angle, the optimal force—Theresia understood it all.
Having had his sword strike stopped, Wilhelm twisted his lips roughly and hurled words at her—words not befitting a reunion, drenched in raw passion.
"—So."
"Were you laughing at me?"
"— — — —"
"Answer me, Theresia… no, Sword Saint!!"
She had no intention of laughing at him.
But then again, what意义 would such an explanation have?
It was true that Theresia had, in a sense, looked down on Wilhelm's swordsmanship. It was true that she had seen through his flaws, kept them to herself, and never told him.
The true intent behind all of that—explaining it wouldn't change a thing.
"— — — —"
She swept Wilhelm's legs as he lunged at her, flipping him roughly to the ground. He came at her with a frenzied expression, but she evaded every last attack and countered.
Before long, the fight became one-sided, and Theresia found herself holding his well-worn treasure sword—a blade whose hilt bore the visible stain of his blood and the marks of his tireless effort. She swung it free and traced a white line aimed at Wilhelm's torso.
The flat of the blade swept across his body, and Wilhelm, left breathless, crumpled.
"I'm never coming here again."
Torn by hatred, pity, and unrelenting dark thoughts, she couldn't bear to be seen by him.
Theresia shook her head and chose the option she had always chosen—to flee.
"Don't… look at me like that… don't hold… a sword…"
Wilhelm, his face pressed to the ground in frustration, forced out the words.
He had been the one who believed in the beauty and nobility of the sword more than anyone. To trample everything he was, to crush what he believed—that was the power Theresia possessed.
"Because I am the Sword Saint. I didn't understand why, but now I do."
The Blessing of the Death God she had been born with.
The Blessing of the Sword Saint she had never asked for but was given.
She had finally found a way to make peace with why these powers existed under her.
"The reason?"
"To swing the sword in order to protect someone. I think that's… a fine thing."
To swing the sword in order to protect someone.
If only she had realized such a simple thing sooner.
Even so, she might not have been able to choose who she wanted to protect.
But now—she could choose.
—She would protect Wilhelm.
With this power, this abhorrent power of slaughter, she would protect Wilhelm for as long as she could.
She would protect him, protect her family, protect Carol, protect even more people—and in doing so, protect something as vast as the kingdom itself, and become a splendid Sword Saint.
Because she was the strongest of all. The Sword Saint was the strongest.
Even if she trampled on his feelings, even if she betrayed what he believed in, she could not throw away the title of Sword Saint.
"Wait… Theresia…"
There were no more words to exchange.
As Theresia stepped away, thinking this would be the last time, a voice reached her back.
"— — — —"
She nearly stopped. She fought that impulse with everything she had.
Even so, Wilhelm's voice reached Theresia's ears.
"I'll take the sword away from you. Blessings, duties—none of it matters… Don't you dare forget what it means to swing a sword, or the beauty of the blade, Sword Saint."
"— — — —"
He said he would take it from her.
The Sword God's laughter once again echoed inside her skull.
Laughing at the young man who would dare such recklessness.
Laughing at the beloved child whose heart had been swayed by such a fragile hope.
* * * * * * * * * —It took two more years to end the civil war.
Since parting from Wilhelm, Theresia had thrown herself into every battlefield.
And with tireless, lion-like ferocity, she contributed to drastically reducing the demi-human coalition's fighting strength.
The coalition, having lost a pivotal figure upon whom their entire foundation rested, found their grip loosening.
Their acceptance of the peace offer extended by the kingdom was, one could say, unavoidable.
Thus did the kingdom's greatest civil war—the Demi-human War—end with an anticlimax, much as it had begun, its brutal carnage during the conflict now a thing of the past.
"It's… over?"
Theresia had steeled herself for the next battle, and the battle after that—an endless string of battles with no end in sight.
And so when the report of the war's end arrived so abruptly, she lost her footing.
"Yes, it's over. The civil war has concluded. Thanks to you, Theresia-sama."
Carol caught the swaying Theresia and said that with an innocent smile.
Lately, Carol had been showing this gentler side of her more and more often. She held Theresia steady and gently stroked her back.
"Thanks to me…"
The words didn't register.
Theresia had simply been swinging her sword without rest—believing that, in the end, it would lead to protecting someone.
Believing that she could save the young man who had gone off on his own, disappearing somewhere.
Unaware of all this, Theresia's deeds were, as Carol had said, praised as the kingdom's greatest contribution.
A ceremony was held in her honor, and clutching her formal gown and ceremonial sword, Theresia felt from beginning to end that she was walking through a dream.
No—if this was a dream, then Theresia had been walking through a dream ever since the day she had received the Blessing of the Sword Saint and felt the Sword God's presence so close for the first time.
So this too was a dream. A dream conjured by the Sword God's love—a dream from which she could never awake.
And if, by some chance, there ever came a time when she could be freed from this dream— "— — — —"
A murmur tore through the fervor of the crowd gathered for the ceremony.
Without warning, without anyone's permission, a presence stepped into the venue.
In that hand was an unsheathed sword—a rusted, battered blade, completely spent.
Draped in a brown, filthy coat, the visible skin was caked with unsanitary grime. But before anyone could so much as furrow a brow, every person present instinctively felt something.
—From that presence, an overwhelming demonic aura radiated.
—No. Sword pressure.
"— — — —"
Silently taking his stance, the presence faced Theresia, who answered with her ceremonial sword.
The king, who stood on the same dais, halted the guards who moved to surround the intruder. Theresia was grateful. Now, there would be no interference.
She could meet the Sword Demon here without anyone getting in their way.
—There was no signal.
Yet as if they had silently agreed, both blades moved simultaneously, ringing with a sharp clash.
A dull piece of steel collided head-on with what was, despite being ceremonial, unmistakably a holy sword. Sparks flew in wild bursts, the slash cleaved through the air, and two shadows danced as they clashed upon the dais.
"— — — —"
As they fought, Theresia was filled with wonder. Her heart soared, her pulse racing.
In Theresia's eyes, as always, white lines appeared floating in the midst of the battle. She could see that tracing those lines would lead to the kill—the Sword God's guidance, visible and clear.
The path to victory, forged by the Sword God and shown at the pinnacle of the blade— Wilhelm's sword broke through it with nothing but pure training and a passion bordering on madness.
The rising white lines, as if they were perfectly visible, were torn asunder by his rusted blade.
Countless white lines appeared, and the Sword Demon met every last one head-on, roaring in defiance, straining to reach the sword's summit that should have been forever beyond his reach.
Her heart pounded. Again, again, with every clash.
With every crossing of blades, with every white line torn apart, with every meeting of eyes— Falling in love with the Sword Demon before her.
Again, again, as many times as it took, the Sword Saint would fall in love with this Sword Demon.
She adored him. She adored him—she couldn't bear it.
—This man, she couldn't bear how much she adored him.
"—!"
Disrupting the ceremony entirely, in front of all these watching eyes—what on earth am I doing? Theresia found the thought unbearably amusing.
Her cheeks burned. Her heart raced. With every exchange, her love deepened.
In a perfect world, she would have dropped the sword right then and flung herself into his arms.
There was nothing to take. From the very first moment they met—from the first time her heart raced at the sight of him—she had always, always been— "— — — —"
The option to refuse facing him, to flee again toward the easier path, was denied.
Not by the Sword God's commanding voice, but by the gaze of the demon before her—wholly, utterly denying it.
He would take her by his own power. He would not borrow the hand of anyone—not even hers.
With his own strength alone, with his own obsession, with everything he had devoted to the sword, he would take the woman away from the Sword God.
Just how long. How much time.
Just how many times—hundreds, thousands, millions of times—had he been thinking of her?
Blades clashed, tsuba locked, tips flashed, and they struck against each other again and again.
And then, with the Sword God's roar ringing in her ears, one final blow was delivered— "— — — —"
The rusted blade snapped, its broken tip spinning through the air and bouncing across the dais.
The one who had dealt that blow was, without question, the Sword Saint pouring every ounce of her soul into the strike.
It was a full-force blow, the Sword Saint's power concentrated more than ever before.
But— "My—"
"— — — —"
"—My win."
The treasure sword had been torn from Theresia's hands.
Her palm went numb from the impact, and behind her the sword rang out as it struck the ground. And at Theresia's white throat, the broken tip of a dull blade was pressed.
The resplendently adorned Sword Saint had been defeated by the dirt-battered Sword Demon.
It was the moment a treasure sword was defeated by a piece of dull steel—and the illusion of the Sword Saint was shattered.
"You no longer have reason to hold a sword when you're weaker than me."
The voice came.
Come to think of it, it had been quite a while since she had heard that gruff voice of his.
And yet those were his first words.
"If I don't hold the sword… then who will?"
"I'll take over the reason you used to swing the sword. You should become the reason I swing mine."
His reason for swinging the sword was to protect something.
"Be that reason for me," he said—while pulling the hood from his coat.
That filthy, scowling face glared at her, and Theresia shook her head.
He had come with such lofty words about taking and protecting, but he truly didn't understand the heart of a woman. Then again, he was a sword—she supposed it couldn't be helped.
"You're terrible. Everything I resolved, everything I steeled myself for—all of it, wasted."
"I'll take all of that over too. You just forget you ever held a sword and live peacefully… That's right. Grow some flowers, and live a quiet life behind me."
Oh, how—how— "Behind you, protected by your sword?"
"That's right."
"You'll protect me?"
"That's right."
If she could be counted among the things he held dear—and if he would answer her love— Theresia smiled at the Sword Demon's—Wilhelm's—words.
Then she touched the blade pressed to her neck and took one step forward.
Through the blade she touched, she felt Wilhelm's two years.
If he had been thinking of her all that time, her heart would grow warm.
Unbearable emotion welled up, and tears filled Theresia's eyes. They overflowed slowly, tracing her smiling cheeks and falling away.
"Do you like flowers?"
"I don't hate them anymore."
"Why do you swing your sword?"
"To protect you."
That was her limit.
The moment she released the sword, the Sword God's voice ceased entirely.
She could see nothing but Wilhelm.
She could feel nothing but Wilhelm.
There was no one but Wilhelm.
She leaned gently against his chest, tilting her head slightly upward.
Wilhelm's lips met Theresia's closed ones. Soft, warm—love swelled within her, and Theresia's world was utterly transformed.
Cheeks flushed, she looked at the man before her—the man she adored.
Wilhelm said nothing, quietly waiting for her to speak.
His attitude was absurd. She was the one who had been waiting. As if he didn't know—so once again, like before, she took the initiative: "Do you love me?"
"…That goes without saying."
He turned away with that gruff reply.
Her eyes widened at his words—and then sound came flooding back into the world that had contained only the two of them. The time-stop that had fallen over the audience lifted, and guards came rushing over in large numbers.
Among them was a group of faces that knew Wilhelm well.
"Oh dear."
Theresia pouted at the sight of them, while Wilhelm looked their way with an expression of relief.
She was standing right in front of him, and yet he was looking elsewhere—how dare he.
He hadn't even said the words she wanted to hear.
"There are things I want you to say out loud, you know."
"Ah…"
Scratching his cheek, Wilhelm turned his head as if to deflect the conversation. But eventually, he seemed to surrender to Theresia's gaze, let out a sigh, and suddenly pulled her slender waist close.
And leaning his face close to Theresia's ear, he whispered: "Someday, when I feel like it."
—It felt like it would take a very long time for him to "feel like it."
Even as she harbored that complaint, she looked forward to the day when it would finally come.
Because Theresia had been conquered—and she let the man she loved have his way.
* * * * * * * * * —After that, looking back, many things happened.
There was a considerable fuss over welcoming as her husband the man who had barged into the ceremony and committed the unprecedented outrage of stealing the spotlight.
When Theresia retired from the Sword Saint, Wilhelm joined the Royal Knights at the recommendation of Bordeaux and others—another fuss.
Carol, who had sworn to serve Theresia for life, fell in love with one of Wilhelm's comrades-in-arms and got married—yet another fuss.
Bordeaux, having earned far too many military honors on the battlefield, was given a seat on the council that managed the kingdom's important affairs—still more fuss.
All sorts of things truly happened, and it was a happy time.
"I love you, Wilhelm. And you?"
"— — — —"
In the end, he never once said those words beyond that. Though he did show it through his actions in lieu of words.
Being put off like that was something only a gentle woman or a woman head-over-heels for her man would tolerate—and Theresia was both, so she let herself be put off.
Their time together as husband and wife passed peacefully and carefree.
Wilhelm kept his promise to Theresia. Since that day at the ceremony, he had not once let her hold a sword. Theresia had no lingering attachment to the blade. The Sword God's voice had long since gone silent.
Still, on occasion, the Blessing of the Sword Saint would make an appearance.
For instance, while cooking—if she picked up a kitchen knife, she would instinctively know the optimal angle of attack. Though beyond skill with a blade, the rest of domestic work proved far more demanding than being a swordsman, and she gradually came to think that housewives had it much harder.
"…Ah."
Also around this time, she learned how to control the Blessing of the Death God. She accidentally cut her fingertip on a shell while cooking.
Any wound inflicted voluntarily was a target for the blessing. She went pale at the wound she had given herself, panicking to stop the bleeding—but the blood stopped almost immediately.
—It was that simple? She was dumbfounded.
To accept the existence of the blessing and control its power.
She had been entrusted with the grand title of Sword Saint, yet here she was—a girl who couldn't even manage her own abilities.
If only she had learned this sooner—such thoughts welled up in her heart whenever she thought of her brothers.
"Theresia."
"—Mm."
At such times, Wilhelm would return just as if he had been watching for the perfect moment. And he would strip away Theresia's flimsy attempt to hide her feelings and force his way right into her heart.
She was saved by that.
"Do you love me?"
"— — — —"
He stubbornly refused to answer that particular question.
* * * * * * * * * After that—more things happened.
Truly, many things happened.
The son born to the two of them, Heinkel.
The woman Heinkel took as his wife, and the child she bore—Reinhard—Theresia and Wilhelm's first grandchild.
—No one could really be called at fault.
Heinkel, their pride and joy, who had striven earnestly and sincerely to be more devoted to the sword than anyone.
His bride, struck down by the illness known as "Sleeping Beauty," robbing Heinkel of any chance to explain himself and leaving young Reinhard alone.
Reinhard, blessed at first glance with talent that made one tremble, and yet crammed with a fate no child should have to bear.
No one was to blame.
And so, as always, the one at fault was herself.
Heinkel had been twisted, the bride had been trapped in her dream, and Reinhard had tried so hard to be loved by such parents.
She had been the first to realize it, and the one who could do nothing about it—that was the greatest foolishness of all, beyond any remedy.
"There's a battle to take down the
A nominal knight of the Royal Guards, a nominal重大 mission.
Overlapping with his trembling son's voice, the proposal laid before her, Theresia silently and quietly solidified a single resolution.
The longsword she had once favored had been maintained all along by Carol, kept in the same condition as it had been in those days.
"I am opposed! What are you thinking!?"
As expected, Wilhelm opposed Theresia's decision.
Pierced by that sharp, iron-willed gaze.
His hair had threads of white in it, and his voice had lost its former youthful ring, but Wilhelm's essence had not changed.
His dignity, his passion, his awkwardness—everything was exactly as Theresia had loved, and continued to love.
"—My decision is already made."
"By your own right! Who in their— Wait. Don't tell me…"
At Theresia's stubborn demeanor, Wilhelm realized whose idea it was.
His face flushed red with fury, and uncontainable sword pressure crackled around him.
"That bastard… Have you no shame—!"
"You have no right to say that to me or to you."
"— — — —"
Wilhelm was tormented by guilt over their son just the same. The fury faded from his expression, and Wilhelm bit his lip.
He was still a man of fiery temperament, but he had matured enough to suppress that heat and feign calm.
"I should also be part of the—"
"You have your own duty to fulfill. You haven't forgotten Lord Fords's anguish, have you, Wilhelm?"
"— — — —"
The daughter of Prince Fords had been abducted by unknown intruders who had infiltrated the royal castle. As commander of the Royal Knights, it was Wilhelm's obligation to recover her immediately.
It was impossible to bring the Sword Demon along on the Great Expedition.
In his place, the request was for Theresia's participation—still active, still bearing the Blessing of the Sword Saint.
She could not refuse. The peaceful days spent with her sword set down had been built on selfishness above all else.
She could not continue indulging in that any longer.
"Theresia, this is—"
"Wilhelm."
Calling his name, she stopped his attempt to persuade her further. Her face, slightly breathless, broke into a smile as she asked him.
It had been quite some time since she had asked this question: "Do you love me?"
"You—"
She saw the same emotion she had always seen behind his composure.
Still smiling, Theresia drove a knife-hand into Wilhelm's shoulder. A blow that cut through the air and split skin.
Caught off guard before his wife, Wilhelm couldn't react to the attack, and his shoulder erupted in blood.
"Theresia… What are you doing?"
The shallow wound to his shoulder bore the power of the Blessing of the Death God. It wasn't deep, but the bleeding would continue—as long as Theresia remained at his side, as long as they stayed apart.
"Theresia?"
She pressed herself gently against his chest.
Feeling the strength of the arms that held her, Theresia pressed her lips to the wound on Wilhelm's shoulder.
Her lips stained crimson with blood, tasting her husband's blood for the first time.
"This way, you can't follow me. That wound won't heal as long as I'm near."
"You did something this stupid just for that…? Let me tell you—even if the bleeding doesn't stop, I'll still—"
"That would defeat the purpose entirely."
Laughing softly, Theresia pulled away.
And pointing at the wound on Wilhelm's shoulder: "I'll leave that wound as it is. So you won't come after me. Once we've both finished our duties, I'll heal it for you."
"— — — —"
"Don't worry. Who do you think I am? The second-strongest swordswoman in this world, after you."
"Getting competitive with youngsters at forty-some years of age…"
"Don't say unnecessary things."
She cut him off sharply before he could say anything rude.
After all—they had been together for over twenty years.
The steel had not changed. And so— "I love you, Wilhelm."
"— — — —"
"Yes, that's enough. That answer can wait until next time."
"Next time?"
At Wilhelm's furrowed brow, Theresia nodded.
And swearing to their reunion on the wound at Wilhelm's shoulder— "When you come back, you're going to tell me the words I couldn't hear that day."
* * * * * * * * * Memory shattered.
Her vision blurred as though caught in a sandstorm, the sounds around her sparse and difficult to discern.
"—!"
She could hear someone's roar—a scream—a shriek.
The world was a wall of green—no, that was the ground. The color of grassland. When she looked around, a thick fog closed off the world entirely, reducing visibility to less than ten meters.
The subjugation force had been half destroyed. The unit was in ruins.
Everyone was pushing and shoving, and in the dense fog, it was impossible to tell which way to flee.
Only a vague, overwhelming sense of oppression could be felt from beyond the fog. And so the shouts flew—flee in the opposite direction.
"— — — —"
She couldn't remember, in an instant, what had happened.
A fierce battle—but the situation should have been in their favor. Even with her own strength, which had been relegated to the reserves, she felt she could still be of use—that was what she had believed— "—?"
Thinking that far, she noticed a faint sense of something missing.
She looked down at her palms. Something was wrong.
Her limbs, her eyes, her feet—there was nothing wrong with them.
But somewhere, there was a sensation as though wings had been lost— "The blessing…"
She realized.
The sensation of the Blessing of the Sword Saint—she could no longer feel it anywhere. No matter how far she had distanced herself from the sword, the presence of the Sword God that had always been beside her.
That mocking laughter—gone, now, from everywhere.
"Reinhard—!"
At the same time, Theresia could intuitively sense where the blessing lost from her body had gone.
It was the same sensation her uncle had possessed when he had discerned that Theresia had inherited the blessing. Or perhaps, more simply, because Theresia had always been aware of Reinhard's boundless natural talent.
Whichever it was, Theresia never doubted that Reinhard was the next Sword Saint.
That feeling might have been a betrayal toward Heinkel, her own flesh and blood—but there was no one left to reproach her for it, nor any time remaining to be reproached.
"Oh my—a woman left alone in a place like this. How very brave of you."
A gentle, incongruous voice—of a girl who clearly didn't understand the situation.
Turning around, Theresia saw a small figure in the thick fog.
White garments, platinum-colored hair.
A gaze of intimate warmth, professing infinite fellowship and sympathy for a stranger—disgusting in its misplaced affection.
"— — — —"
"I suppose you've taken a dislike to me."
Theresia leveled her longsword and stepped forward.
Had it been peacetime, she might have worried about the girl. But this was the death world ruled by the White Whale's fog.
For a girl to appear here went beyond strange.
Even without the Blessing of the Sword Saint, Theresia's body still retained a vestige of its former swordsmanship. She displayed the full power of a swordmaster's peak, her running slash cleaving the girl's small body in two— and then— "I want to understand you."
The girl's voice tickled her eardrums, and consciousness cut out.
With a snap, like a string being severed.
Consciousness plummeted into darkness.
Like being plunged into a bottomless warm pool with limbs bound, Theresia's body sank.
Thoughts of her grandchild's future, her son's heart, the bride who connected the two of them—worries rushed through her mind.
And at last— "Wilhelm."
Calling the name of the man she loved, consciousness faded entirely.
And then— * * * * * * * * * "…What a pathetic face…"
Behind slowly opening eyelids, she saw a crumpled face.
His hair had gone completely white, and more wrinkles had lined his face with age—but it was handsome in its own way. It couldn't be helped.
She could never have mistaken him.
It was her husband's face. Though a considerable amount of time seemed to have passed since their parting.
"— — — —"
She let out a long breath.
Nearby, she sensed the presence of Heinkel and—could it be Reinhard? Perhaps the three Astrea men had come together to see her off.
They had always been kind children.
"Theresia, I…"
With his wrinkled face, Wilhelm's voice caught.
To be so unsightly before his son and grandson.
Where had his dignity and vigor gone? Though come to think of it, even in his prime, Wilhelm had been surprisingly prone to moments of weakness like this.
"Hey, Wilhelm…"
Her own voice was hoarse, yet strangely youthful.
As if it didn't belong to her—no, it was certainly hers, but she should have been an old woman by now.
Her voice sounded like when she had first fallen in love. How embarrassing.
"— — — —"
The feeling of having first fallen in love—that butterfly-in-the-stomach sensation.
With so little time left, they had wasted it simply gazing at each other.
But that was fine.
The words Theresia needed to convey had been conveyed abundantly. Wilhelm surely understood that.
So the time, the opportunity, and the words he needed—they were his.
Theresia only needed to wait quietly for those words.
She would make him wait, but she would absolutely answer his expectations. That was the kind of man Wilhelm Trias was.
That was the kind of husband
"There's something I… have to tell you."
"— — — —"
"I—I'm no good with words… I can't convey my thoughts properly to others, and I've caused you trouble too… So for over twenty years, I've never once…"
"— — — —"
"Twenty years. I may have caused you anxiety. But I…"
"You fool."
Unable to say it properly, fumbling to find the words—watching that clumsy figure, she could hold back no longer.
She laughed. What on earth was this man saying?
"Had you really not noticed?"
Reaching out toward his cheeks—cheeks that were on the verge of tears, straining to put his heart into words.
Her body was terribly heavy now. Almost no strength remained, but she poured every last bit of it into her fingertips and wiped the tears from his cheek.
"You've always been telling me, you know."
"— — — —"
As if he thought he had hidden it.
As if merely never putting it into words meant he had concealed it successfully.
"Your eyes. Your voice. Your manner. Your actions—always."
Everything Wilhelm directed toward Theresia.
His heart—conveyed to her more clearly than anything else— "I love you—"
"You—"
It had been enough, after all.
"—I love you."
* * * * * * * * * From beginning to end, it must have been a blessed life.
She had dear brothers, a close female friend, the help of so many people, and she had met Wilhelm.
There were certainly still many problems to face.
But she believed—that if it was them, they would be fine.
However, there had been one thing.
At the very end, one thing she had never been able to ask—and it weighed on her heart.
—If she had told him it was love at first sight, just how surprised would he have been?
* * * * * * * * * The last words they had exchanged were words of love.
With a satisfied smile, her cheeks flushed with tenderness, her eyes glistening with tears—the form of Theresia van Astrea vanished in a blink, crumbling away.
The blood-soaked woman who had been gasping in Wilhelm's arms was gone without a trace. All that remained was a lump of ash—the only evidence that she had been there at all.
"— — — —"
In his arms, the woman who had burned away her life and turned to ash. Wilhelm stared at Theresia's remains, saying nothing, his head bowed in silence.
"…Are you satisfied now?"
And in Wilhelm's place, a voice spoke.
The red-haired, middle-aged man—Heinkel—fixed his gaze of hatred upon Reinhard, who stood nearby.
Meeting that gaze, Reinhard slowly turned to face him and let out a breath.
"Satisfied? What do you mean?"
"Don't play dumb—I saw the whole thing! Satisfied, aren't you? You must be! This way, the title of Sword Saint is rightfully yours—congratulations! And the rumors that you killed the previous Sword Saint to steal it—turns out they're undeniably true. Right? You're satisfied, aren't you? Answer me!"
"I'm not sure I understand what you're trying to say."
"Stop with that smug look, you little brat!"
Heinkel heaved ragged breaths and lunged at Reinhard. But Reinhard sidestepped his grasping fingers and restrained his father with an open palm.
The bearing of the current Sword Saint showed not a trace of having clashed with the previous Sword Saint. In truth, Heinkel was no match at all.
As though confronted with that fact, Heinkel's throat trembled with a faint shudder.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, Reinhard…!"
As if to cover his own wavering heart, Heinkel pressed on even more desperately, jabbing a finger at Reinhard and spraying spittle.
"No matter how many pretty words you spout, what I saw doesn't change! You cut down Mom—Theresia van Astrea! I'll make it public! I'll spread the word so that no one will ever acknowledge you as the Sword Saint!"
"— — — —"
"Go on, keep up the composure—but you can't let go of the Sword Saint's honor, can you? It might have been swept under the rug before, but not anymore! You killed your own kin and you call yourself the Sword Saint? The kingdom's sword? Ha! Don't make me laugh! You're a murderer!"
"Vice-Commander, no matter how many times you say it, I won't understand. —I did not cut down the previous Sword Saint. That is your misunderstanding, Vice-Commander."
"Wh… at…?"
As Heinkel continued to shout, face red with agitation, Reinhard answered calmly. Heinkel's eyes went wide at the content, but there was no trace of evasion or deception in Reinhard.
This wasn't a matter of how to phrase things. Reinhard was stating a fact.
"The enemy just now was a corpse being moved by secret arts. The previous Sword Saint… could not possibly have been my grandmother. There must be some mistake."
"— — — —"
At Reinhard's words, Heinkel's face went blank.
Then he thrust his hands into his red hair and clawed at it violently. A faint, strained laugh escaped, and Heinkel's face twisted into something manic: "Then what about the last thing—!? What about when she was talking with Dad!? Glaring at us with that look of resentment… If that wasn't Mom, then what was it!?"
"—Enough, Heinkel."
Baring his teeth, burning with something beyond hatred—Heinkel's fury was stopped by Wilhelm, who had maintained his silence until now.
The old swordsman, still in his crouched position, tore the sleeve from his coat and used it to bandage the wound on his right leg—where the longsword had pierced him.
The wound, which should not have healed due to the Blessing of the Death God, had lost its power the moment Theresia's existence vanished. —No, even before that, it had stopped the moment Theresia, in her right mind, had returned to his side. What throbbed in its place was the wound carved into his left shoulder during their parting.
The Theresia of sound mind had wounded his left shoulder. The Theresia of the corpse had wounded his right leg.
The wounds carved by the Blessing of the Death God had lost their power when both of those Theresias were gone.
"Enough? Dad! How can you be all right with this!? This guy…!"
"Enough, Heinkel. …Enough."
As Heinkel tried once more to lunge at Reinhard, Wilhelm stopped him again.
He removed his sleeveless coat, spread the fabric, and wrapped Theresia's ashen remains within it. To leave her to the wind like this felt too lonely.
At the very least, he had to return these ashes to her grave.
"—!"
Watching his father, Heinkel gritted his teeth in frustration and fell silent. Wilhelm gathered the ashes and stood on unsteady legs.
The bleeding had stopped, but the amount lost had been considerable. The wound at his right hip was deep, and it was不安 to think of him walking alone. Instinctively, Reinhard moved to steady his swaying shoulder.
But— "Don't you dare touch me!!"
"— — — —"
Wilhelm's roar struck down the hand that was about to touch him.
Reinhard froze with his arm half-raised. Wilhelm would not turn to face him. Without meeting each other's eyes, the Sword Demon let out a quiet breath.
"Reinhard…"
"—Yes."
Unlike Wilhelm's trembling voice, Reinhard's was steady and composed.
Closing his eyes once at that voice, Wilhelm spoke.
—It was a question.
"Do you regret… cutting down your grandmother? Cutting down Theresia?"
"— — — —"
A brief pause followed before the answer.
It might have been dismissed as a meaningless exchange, like the one with Heinkel just moments ago.
But Reinhard took a beat, and then answered.
"No. —I did the right thing. I do not regret it."
"…I see. That's right."
"— — — —"
"You are correct. I am wrong. —And so, there is nothing left for me to say to you."
Answering in a quiet voice, Wilhelm turned his back to Reinhard.
Grandfather and grandson did not look at each other as they concluded that decisive exchange.
And Wilhelm, pointing toward the center of the city with the hand that held the ashes: "Garfiel has headed there, but I'm concerned about the city hall. If possible, I would ask you to provide support. Sword Saint Reinhard."
"— — — —"
At that distant, formal language—the politeness of a stranger—Reinhard looked in the direction of the pointed finger. Then, nodding, he glanced at Heinkel for the last time.
Heinkel, still burning with hatred, caught his breath faintly at those blue eyes—but Reinhard let that small display of fear pass, and said: "Outside is dangerous. Vice-Commander, please evacuate to a shelter if possible. —Together with Lord Wilhelm."
"I—I don't need you to tell me that! Get lost!"
Reinhard turned away from that parting retort. Running toward the waterway, he leapt across the surface, vaulting over buildings as he vanished toward the city center with inhuman speed.
Watching that extraordinary athleticism fade away, Heinkel spat. Then he hurried over to Wilhelm, who was walking with a heavy limp. But— "Father, you can't be alone—"
"Leave me be. I don't want anyone to see my face right now."
"Father…"
"Don't worry about me. Just think about your own safety. Find some building or shelter to hide in. …That should be enough."
Leaving only those words, Wilhelm walked away, leaving Heinkel behind.
Clutching the coat that held his wife's ashes, dragging his leg, his back receding into the distance.
"— — — —"
Heinkel could neither call after that retreating figure nor walk alongside him. He was left behind.
Left behind, until eventually Wilhelm disappeared from view, and Heinkel— "What… What the hell, what the hell, what the hell, what the hell, damn it, what the hell is this!"
In the deserted plaza, Heinkel glared at the cobblestones and vented his fury. He clawed at his head, screamed wordless rage, and hurled the sword at his hip to the ground.
The beautiful knight's sword struck the pavement with a sharp ring, bounced, and skittered away.
"Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn—every last one of you…! Every last one of you, just die…! Dieeeeeeee!!"
His blood-curdling scream was the only sound that echoed through the empty plaza.
Forever, forever—his scream, a mingling of resentment and grief, rising high and far— The battlefield where grandfather, father, and grandson—the Astreas—had all stood together came to its end.
A woman who had been grandmother, mother, and wife.
The last moments of Theresia van Astrea left wounds upon three hearts, each different.
—And thus, all the battlefields of the Watergate City of