——In the imperial capital of
The large-scale forbidden术 the Witch had set into motion was interrupted, and the dead resurrected into the world through her warped ritual were all forced to remain on earth with finite lives.
Those resurrected against their will who had been compelled to serve the Witch's designs gratefully returned themselves to dust, returning their souls to where they belonged — but naturally, there were plenty who did not.
Even if they were walking corpses stripped of life, every last one of them knew the Iron Blood Edict. They were subjects of the Empire.
Resurrected through power beyond the natural order, yes — but if they could swing a sword once more, many would choose to hold fast to their own convictions regardless of life or death. The army besieging the Fortress City shared that resolve.
In truth, however, the battle around the Fortress City
Why had the army of corpses abandoned the fight and chosen to flee? — Because the absence of their commander caused the front to collapse, which led to the cessation of combat.
Even Imperial subjects who feared no death — even an army of corpses — would not accept squandering their lives in a battle whose outcome had already been decided.
And as for why the commander's absence had come about— "How could there be such a preposterous… such an impossible story…!"
Raking his green hair in frustration while watching his formation be dismantled behind him, Pradio spat the words out.
This should not have happened. And yet, it had. All of it stemmed from the accumulated cruelty that had worked against everything surrounding Pradio.
Commanded to lead the massive army of corpses directed at the Fortress City, Pradio had set out to fulfill the duty befitting a revered member of the Vollachian imperial family.
But every stratagem Pradio devised was thwarted by the city's common folk, and the corpse soldiers' failure to follow orders properly only compounded the crisis they had been driven into.
Naturally, he had no intention of giving up. But the debts piled through sheer cruelty twisted and erupted, and in the end Pradio found himself forced to flee.
——No. This was no flight.
This was an honorable tactical withdrawal, a prelude to victory. After all, as a member of the Vollachian imperial bloodline who inherited the blood of the famed Magical Eye clan, it would not add up for someone like him to suffer such indignity.
"What was the 'Witch of Greed' even about…! To have raised my expectations with such grand words, only to end up like that…!"
Passing through Pradio's mind was the first to crumble among the accumulated debts — his fury at the white-haired "Witch" who had joined his command, nearly turned the tide of battle, and then irresponsibly abandoned her role and vanished.
She had done well enough by summoning a rain of stars to obliterate the Fortress City.
But that too was negated by a rogue blow from the capital, and to make matters worse, a furious counterattack from those whose eyes now burned with flame erupted immediately after.
As far as Pradio's magical eyes could see, every living person inside the Fortress City — including the defenseless evacuees — had taken up weapons with fire blazing in their eyes, pushing back the corpse soldiers.
And then, immediately after, the "Witch of Greed" had crumbled to dust and vanished without even attempting to resolve the situation.
'——Oh, so that's how it is. I was, as Sphinx,' Her last words, cast aside without even a glance in their direction. The profile of the "Witch" as she disappeared wearing that expression made his blood boil. Why had the "Witch" ended things looking so satisfied?
He could not understand a single thing. And not only could he not understand — there was nothing but disadvantage for Pradio in all of it.
"Curse you, curse you, curse you, curse you, curse you, curse you, curse you…!"
While spitting out venomous laments as though coughing up blood, Pradio fled the plains and plunged into the forest.
Around the time the "Witch of Greed" vanished, Pradio had grasped the change in the corpse soldiers — those who should have been able to revive any number of times were no longer reviving, and the immortal army had ceased to function.
Battles have a flow.
Every battle does. All the more so when it was a grand war that would determine the Empire's future.
Thus Pradio, sensing the shift in momentum, immediately abandoned his formation, gathered what few attendants remained, withdrew from the battlefield, and made the optimal judgment to prepare for a resurgence.
That was precisely why this was not flight, but a prelude to victory.
"You may believe you have won today. Vincent… Prisca…!"
But that, in the end, was merely a temporary victory — one that had been conceded to him.
Once Pradio escaped, regrouped, and seized an absolute victory through an unstoppable next move — without borrowing the "Witch's" hand — that would mark the end of this fleeting respite.
Next time. This time, he would place the Vollachian Empire under the rule of the rightful Emperor.
For that purpose, Pradio had his magical eyes.
He who had been granted this Eye of Heaven would, without fail, ascend to the Emperor's throne— "————"
With that conviction in his heart, Pradio reached out with the power of his magical eyes to discern the path ahead — and noticed. Without his realizing it, every last one of his attendants had vanished.
"What? Hey… hey!? Where did they go!? You lot, you left me—"
His outrage at their disappearance was instantly swallowed by a sensation like dousing himself in ice water.
For one instant, he suspected his retinue had committed the insolence of abandoning him to flee — but if that were the case, his magical eyes would have caught sight of their departing backs. Since they hadn't, the reason they were gone was simple and clear — they had died.
"——!"
A full-body bristling seized his lifeless corpse flesh, and Pradio instinctively drew the Sun Sword — the sword-shaped destiny that was the mark of the Vollachian imperial family, proof of the right to become Emperor.
"——Ah."
His arm holding the sword was cleaved from his shoulder, and Pradio collapsed to the ground.
"N-N-N-…"
He opened all three of his eyes — the two on his forehead and the third — in shock.
Immediately after, a fresh impact tore through his remaining arm, and in a single instant he lost both hands with which to grip the sword. He understood that this was the result of a surprise axe strike.
But that was as far as his understanding reached. That was all. That was all there was.
"Why…"
Why had the magical eyes that had made Pradio special — the Eye of Heaven — failed to detect the ambush?
He didn't know, didn't know, didn't know. — In that instant, a possibility flashed through his mind.
He had heard the story once, long ago.
Of a foolish kind that had committed unforgivable crimes, earned the wrath of the most brilliant and feared Emperor the Vollachian Empire had ever known, been branded under the Iron Blood Edict as something to be despised, and had their very existence erased from recognition.
They were the abhorrent demi-humans who, within the Empire, were sentenced to death simply for existing— "——St"
"Don't move."
That cold, merciless impact removed Pradio Manescu from the stage of history forever.
——And that was the decisive blow behind the scenes of history: the moment the commander of the corpse army besieging the Fortress City was lost, and the Great Calamity suffered its total defeat with the collapse of the front line.
△▼△▼△▼△ The wheelchair's wheels groaned as Kachea gazed around the room she had been assigned, overwhelmed by its size.
"Just because my brother became a special general doesn't mean I should get special treatment too — he kept saying it, but still… this is too much…"
Surveying the spacious room, Kachea let her shoulders droop thinking about what lay ahead.
The imperial capital where she had originally lived was expected to take considerable time to recover from the effects of the Great Calamity, and for the time being, the capital's evacuees would need to disperse to the Fortress City and surrounding towns and villages.
In the midst of this, Kachea — who had Jamal for a brother and, through various circumstances, had secured a position at Emperor Vincent's side — was receiving far better treatment than anyone else.
That said, Kachea was not the type who wanted to live in luxury, and even if lavish goods were prepared for her one after another, she was at the end of the day just a ill-tempered girl with bad legs and no confidence she could enjoy any of it.
So she had declined virtually every privilege offered to her.
"Plus, the types who keep creeping up to me are getting annoying…"
The Oreley family was, if nothing else, part of the Empire's minor nobility, and Kachea held the position of a noble's daughter. There were servants in the household, and she had no aversion to having them look after her, but unlike in the past when they were a family of fallen nobles, Jamal's current standing was something quite different.
Perhaps because of that, there was no shortage of people trying to curry favor with Kachea as a means to get close to Jamal.
She had never cared about such pointless premises or external factors, and that was precisely why
"…Well, it's no use talking about a girl who isn't here anymore."
For Kachea, who recognized her own difficult and troublesome personality, Rem — who was surprisingly blunt and would voice things you'd rather not hear — was a perfect match. Frankly speaking, she was Kachea's first friend.
But Rem, too, had returned to the
As the date of their parting drew closer, Kachea couldn't bear to see Rem looking sad and had promised to exchange letters, but she had absolutely no idea what to write about.
"I-I mean, my days are already monotonous enough as it is…"
All the recent upheaval aside, Kachea's days were fundamentally flat and boring — nothing special ever happened, just time passing as she slowly withered away.
Even if she were to write Rem a letter, she couldn't imagine putting anything worthwhile on the page. And in the time she spent failing to write anything worthwhile, Rem would lose interest, the frequency of their letters would dwindle, and eventually they would stop altogether.
That bleak future materialized vividly in Kachea's mind.
"Oh, I can't take it anymore… I really, truly want to die…"
The moment she was alone, a crushing sense of loneliness washed over her, and Kachea's spirits sank further.
By nature, Kachea was pessimistic about everything, and her self-punishing thoughts ran deep. Someone had always been beside her to stop her from thinking that way — that was all.
Yesterday it had been Rem, and before that— "…Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot, what a complete idiot."
Gripping the wheelchair's wheels tightly, Kachea muttered through gritted teeth, impotent with resentment.
That enormous fool had barged into Kachea's world with feet still dirty, ignored every protest to stay away, pulled her into an embrace against her will, whispered sweet nothings she never wanted to hear, and then simply vanished on his own.
That thought — of that absolute, irredeemable fool — made her feel unbearably wretched.
"Oh no, no, I don't want to cry…"
A slow, warm swelling behind her eyes began to build, and Kachea suffered through it.
If she had known it would feel this miserable, she should have just died during the chaos of the Great Calamity protecting Rem or something. That way, Rem would have certainly called her an idiot, but it would have lodged deep in her heart as a thorn, and Rem would never have forgotten her.
She could have avoided writing pathetic letters, avoided doing anything that might make Rem despise her further.
The dead are unfair. Once you die, no one can say anything worse about you.
That was why Kachea made sure to never allow such unfairness — she would curse the dead.
"Idiot, idiot idiot, idiot idiot idiot, you IDIOT…!"
That tantrum, that act of venting her frustration, only backfired.
Continuing to curse someone who had died meant that, for as long as those curses continued, she was still thinking about that person.
Because of this, not only did tears well up, but her nose began to sting as well.
If she looked in a mirror, she would surely see an unspeakably ugly, ill-tempered girl sitting in a wheelchair.
"I don't want this anymore… I don't want to see anyone…"
Murmuring that, Kachea turned the wheelchair and headed toward the bed.
It was ungraceful, but she hadn't undone her braids, hadn't changed her clothes — she wanted to throw herself onto the bed and simply lie there until she starved to death. Of course, she couldn't actually starve. She would end up hungry, giving up on the starving part, and eating something while sniffling her nose.
Even so, to sob while thinking of someone in this kind of mood— "—? Who is it?"
Just as she was wheeling the bedward, the door was knocked from outside.
Thinking it was bad timing, she hesitated — ignoring it and going to bed felt wrong. Right now, everywhere was in turmoil with communication breakdowns and problems cropping up left and right. If Kachea threw a pointless tantrum here, someone might fail to get what they needed in time.
Her fundamentally serious side kicked in, and Kachea headed for the door.
For one instant, she wondered what to do about her wretched appearance, but only for one instant. What did it matter what anyone thought of her — Kachea reached for the door.
And— "…Hello, who is it?"
As she said that, Kachea slowly opened the door, and— "——Ah."
A ragged breath leaked weakly from her slender throat.
△▼△▼△▼△ "—Good work out there, Supreme General Jamal."
"Likewise."
Snapping off a crisp salute and returning it to the Imperial soldier who stepped aside, Jamal allowed a grin to tug at the corner of his mouth.
The title "Supreme General" had been specially prepared for Jamal, in recognition of his battlefield service at Emperor Vincent's side during this great war.
His role was the honor of serving as personal guard to Vincent — for Jamal, who had originally pursued glory for the Oreley family by aiming to become a general, it was exactly the position he wanted.
With this, he could show up everyone who had laughed at him for overreaching, and above all, he could give Kachea — who could not survive without someone supporting her — a good life.
He knew that Kachea, who was negative about everything and could not recognize her own worth, resented Jamal's kindness. But she was still his precious family — his one sister.
She might say all sorts of things, but he knew she could never fully refuse.
"Tch, like this big brother's meddling was even necessary…"
Voicing his pent-up frustration, Jamal set off toward Kachea's quarters.
With Jamal's promotion to Supreme General as the catalyst, Kachea's treatment as a relative had also changed to something far removed from that of an ordinary Imperial citizen.
For now, this was a temporary arrangement while the capital's reconstruction progressed, but after everything she had been put through, he wanted Kachea to live without hardship.
The friend's daughter who had stayed with Kachea for a while had also returned to the Kingdom by now.
It was probably about time Kachea was allowed to grieve in peace.
"Once that's done, we'll break out the finest wine and meat."
Saying that, Jamal jiggled the bottle of sake he had requisitioned from the reserves using a general's authority, and the bag of premium cuts, his thoughts turning toward a means of consoling Kachea.
Slice the thick meat and grill it lavishly, tear into it while gulping down fine wine.
That was Jamal's way of facing sorrow.
"Kachea, you in there? It's me."
Knocking firmly on the door, Jamal called out to Kachea who should have been inside.
Kachea, who struggled to leave the house on her own, spent most of her time shut up in her room if left to her own devices. She would almost certainly be doing the same now.
But no answer came from inside, and Jamal furrowed his brow in puzzlement.
"You asleep? Hey, I'm coming in."
Sulking and sleeping like the dead were common occurrences, so Jamal didn't think twice, opened the door, and stepped into Kachea's room.
In a room that, having just been moved into, bore no impression of its occupant, Jamal glanced around and noticed the absence of any presence from the bedroom. Frowning at the oddity— "Kachea?"
Sure enough, no figure could be seen inside the bedroom he peered into.
In fact, Kachea was nowhere to be found in the entire room. Unusual as it was, Jamal considered the possibility that she had gone out and they had missed each other — and it was at that moment that he noticed.
The letter placed on the desk in the bedroom.
"————"
At first it lay at the edge of his awareness, but then Jamal's attention was drawn to it with fierce intensity. There was nothing unusual about the letter itself. What made it distinctive was what had been placed alongside it.
There, unmistakable in Jamal's memory, was the bandana that a certain man used to wear— "——!"
In a rush, he reached for the letter, roughly broke the seal, and scanned its contents.
Inside was Kachea's characteristically feeble handwriting, along with a different, forceful script appended to it — a marriage application.
"——You damn bastard."
The instant he grasped the intent of the marriage application, such a curse escaped Jamal's lips.
And despite its harsh words, it was brimming with an irrepressible relief and joy — the complicated heart of a brother who was losing his precious sister to a detestable friend.
"H-Ha ha ha—ha ha ha ha ha!!"
In the end, Jamal pressed his palms to his face and burst out laughing before the letter. He laughed and laughed and laughed so hard that tears streamed from the one eye not covered by his eyepatch.
That was among the few tears shed in the Empire for a blessing rather than a farewell — but no Imperial history book would ever record the fact.
What was recorded was that on this day, here, the missing noble daughter's marriage to the scoundrel who had carried her off was formally made, and that one Supreme General had celebrated it.
——From that point onward, Kachea Orely's whereabouts became impossible to trace with any certainty.
But that was nothing to mourn, and the proof was in the letters that continued to arrive without fail at the home of her one true friend, and in the fact that the words those letters contained bore no trace of sorrow or misery whatsoever.