1

Time passed, the sun swiftly rose, and as Izumi felt more bored than unwell, she got dressed and strolled around the keep to pass time. There were obviously only a few places where she could go, to avoid being seen by palace servants or guards not under Carmelia’s service, and so she eventually took shelter in the secluded library hall again.

There, Izumi once again encountered the other sheltered transmigrator, Benjamin Watts, absorbed in reading, as appeared to be his usual habit. Izumi could only envy his seemingly boundless patience and thirst for knowledge.

“Oh!” the young man greeted her with a surprised look. “You’re alive! Good morning, Izumi, my friend! Boy, am I glad to see you up and about! I was already certain last night was going to be the last I’d ever see of you. The look on Carmelia’s face—I thought my heart was going to stop. Um, are you quite sure you should be walking about yet?”

“I’m fine,” Izumi said. “At least, until whatever the doc's cooking up next is done.”

“Ahaha, don’t worry, the lady knows what she’s doing,” he laughed. “Most of the time, anyway. A few prisoners got some infernal diarrhea last month after her potion experiments, but nothing worse than that. At least she’s not boiling children alive in that pot of hers. I reckon that wouldn’t make her very popular at the court…‘Fallen,’ or not, they do value people’s lives. Or, well, lives in general. Not strictly people’s...You get what I’m saying. But, is it just me, or do you look different today? Refreshed, somehow? Very...very nice.”

“What’s that you’re reading there?” Izumi ignored his gawking and looked at the ominous, black-covered notebook in the young man’s hands.

“Oh, this? It’s a study. On daemons.” Benjamin lifted the book and showed Izumi the spread he had been at. On the left-hand page, a charcoal illustration had been drawn, of a rather disturbing creature. “Do they really look like this? The portrait was supposedly drawn by a witness, but I wouldn't know.”

“More or less,” Izumi said, looking away.

“Silen devehra. You are the first human to have fought a daemon and lived, and now you’re also the first human to have survived being infected by the Touch of Death. You truly are a pioneer, eh!”

“I wouldn’t have minded letting someone else have the honor, though. Not a very pleasant experience.”

“Pleasant or not, acquiring knowledge is always a thing to rejoice for,” the man told her. “Have a look at this book. After the Empire started collaborating with the Ledarnian colony, we also gained access to the information the cirelo have compiled over the centuries. Their accounts and observations, records of a forgotten war hardly anyone alive on Noertia has even heard of. Only a handful of people in the world know what we know, Izumi. And knowledge is power.”

“What do we know, really?” Izumi asked.

“A great deal,” Benjamin leafed through the pages. “Listen to this. In the beginning, it was assumed that daemons were like insects. You know, ants or bees or such. The elves speculated that they built nests, great underground hives, where there were queens, workers, warriors, and so forth. Numerous dangerous missions were carried out deep into the remote, most hostile corners of the lost continent, to locate those hives and eliminate them, and the queens therein. They thought that would end the war. So what did they find? What do you think?”

The youth looked up at Izumi through his thick-rimmed glasses.

“I take it they found no success, at least,” she answered.

“Nothing,” he answered. “They found absolutely nothing. Daemons don’t build homes or nests. They don’t settle anywhere, they’re nomadic. There are no castes or classes or other specializations among them. Each individual looks indistinguishable from the others in their natural state. Like mere copies. There are no distinct males or females, no elderly, no offsprings either. They have no nests, they don’t lay eggs, they don't pollinate. So how exactly do they reproduce? They were rare at the beginning of the current cycle, and those few that were seen tended to avoid contact, displaying no open hostility. And then, there were suddenly hundreds everywhere, thousands, enough to uproot the entire elven civilization. The question everyone’s been asking for eight long centuries since—how did this happen and why? Do they just pop out of thin air, like goti? Are they born from the earth, shaped out of clay? Well, even today, no one really knows for sure. As you can imagine, observing those creatures, even from a distance, is incredibly dangerous. Elves have good eyesight, but...It’s like those things have a sixth sense instead. They know when someone’s looking, and they’re too darned smart. But there’s a theory. Many theories, actually, but I strongly feel this could be the answer to the big question. The way Carmelia dodges the topic makes me think I might be onto something.”

“What is it then?” Izumi tilted her head.

“Silen devehra,” Benjamin pronounced after a theatrical pause. “Everyone assumed that daemons were biological organisms, but perhaps the whole premise was mistaken from the get-go? Perhaps they were never simple corporeal beings but spiritual beings? And there’s the answer to how they multiply. Touch of Death corrupts the very soul of any person wounded by a daemon, but what happens to the victim? Perhaps they don’t simply die of the ailment? No. They definitely do die...and are then reborn. As one of them.”

Izumi said nothing. She shuddered. She couldn’t be sure if it was the theory that repulsed her, or the enthusiastic gleam in Benjamin’s eyes as he presented his terrible thesis. As if it were something wonderful and uplifting.

“A war where the casualties join the enemy,” the youth went on. “Daemons don’t simply take lives, they rob their victims of their very identity. It’s the vilest, most despicable creature you can imagine, as if created out of pure spite towards life itself. Everything they touch, they turn into evil, deadly mockery of itself. And yet, there’s also certain beauty to them.”

“Beauty?” she repeated, raising a brow.

“Daemons have no language of their own,” Benjamin explained, “or other obvious means of communication, yet no in-fighting has ever been observed among them. They co-exist in harmony, hunt in perfect unison. As if they were indeed one. It’s been speculated that they have a sort of collective consciousness, which allows one entity to share the knowledge and abilities of the rest. Everything they learn, about us, about the world, gets instantaneously shared with the whole community. They don’t need words, as they can tell what the others are thinking via telepathy. In such a system, words would only be a hindrance.”

“If that’s true, this game’s totally broken,” Izumi shook her head. “How are we ever supposed to beat such things? Even if you could come up with a technique that kills one of them, the next one will then know how to avoid it. And that’s not even the start of it.”

“Yes,” Benjamin nodded. “They seem almost too perfect to be real. How could one race exert such superiority over the others, despite their apparent novelty on the pages of natural history? Now that is an excellent question. You know, maybe there’s a reason for that as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Okay, listen very close,” the young man brought his voice down. “This is kind of a controversial theory, and it could get me hanged as a heretic or worse, if the word were to spread. But, I personally believe that—”

—Ka-dong!

At that moment, the library doors were abruptly opened with a resounding noise, and Benjamin stopped whatever he was about to say.

Carmelia’s dark-clad figure entered the hall. She wasn’t a particularly expressive person by nature, but over the course of the past few days, Izumi had learned to read the subtle changes in her demeanor. Although, in this case, the sorceress’s darkened look was not particularly difficult to interpret. Indeed, the Court Wizard shortly fixed her grim gaze at Izumi, confirming her suspicions.

“I have bad news.”

2

In the familiar apartment complex along Donethal’s avenue, the silence of a certain Imperial Colonel’s study was interrupted by a knock on the door. Shortly after, an aged female servant timidly entered, a silvery tray in her hands.

“Madam. I have brought your breakfast...” she announced in a wavering voice.

The maid, hired on the very day the young mistress had moved in, was part startled, part relieved to find her employer awake and upright. The resident’s past days' rapid decline in morale—and the consumption rate of alcoholic beverages—had been deeply disconcerting, and the maid feared she would soon find herself unemployed.

Serving a persona non grata looked bad enough on the resume already, a dead mistress would be worse. It would not be easy to find a new occupation—not when old age was becoming a demerit too.

However, the relief brought by the mistress's improved state and form was short-lived. For some reason, the Colonel was dressed in her old uniform, as if about to head out to work. The news of her dishonorable discharge had spread fast, and this otherwise mundane scene now bore disturbing implications. Most likely, a tragic episode of drunken stupor.

However, the impression was somewhat mistaken.

“Thank you, Madeleine,” Miragrave Marfel told the maid in a sober tone, with not much emotion in it, not turning away from the window she was facing as she pulled on her riding gloves. “But I won’t need it.”

“Madam...?”

“Thank you, for these years you’ve served me,” the Colonel continued. “I'd reward you with something suitable for the occasion, but I believe you have already appropriated everything you've deemed to be of value in my house. The things you thought I wouldn't miss, anyway. Don't take it the wrong way. If there was indeed anything I missed, I would have asked to have it back.”

“W-why, milady...?” The maid, Madeleine, was getting increasingly anxious. “Why do you speak as though you are dismissing me...? H-have I upset you, by chance? W-was it the spoons? Or the brandy your honorable father sent you? You were away at the time, and not expected to return for some months, I—I did not wish for it to fall into the wrong hands...”

“Rest easy,” Miragrave shook her head. “It is not my own wish to dismiss you, as much as it is a force of circumstance. For when I step outside this house next, I do so without expecting to ever return, and you will no longer have a master.”

“But...W-where do you mean to go, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I cannot answer you. For I do not know it myself. Where do we go, Madeleine? Where do we humans go? Where do emiri? Where does anyone? To another world? To another future? Or nowhere at all?”

Miragrave said no more, turned, and crouched to pick up her sword from the floor. Fastening it to her belt, she strode past the maid, out into the corridor, and down the stairs.

“Divines help me...” Madeleine lamented and took the tray back to the kitchen.

For someone who was practically born a soldier, simply walking down the stairs and leaving her apartment after being ordered into confinement was nothing short of an act of rebellion.

That's right—Miragrave thought not of escape.

This was her personal rebellion. A protest.

There was a clear distinction there, at least in her own mind. Even now, as made evident by the uniform she bore without shame, she considered herself as acting in the best interests of her fatherland. Not for her own safety or benefit, but because she felt this was the best way to further the Empire's interests, and the greater good of the public.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Sometimes orders had to be defied for the sake of justice.

Never before had such a situation occurred to her, but now was the time, if ever.

Inactivity wouldn’t help anyone. If there was anything she could do to restore the honor of the Empire she believed in, it was by using the time she had left by working for it.

Miragrave estimated her chances of achieving anything worthwhile as meager at best. Surely no one would follow her example. She was in this alone—and that was fine. It was not so much about the results as it was about effort. Principles. Making a point. Rather than quietly withering away, she was going to die standing up, for her country.

That was the only way she could allow herself to go out, as a soldier.

Since Miragrave felt no hope, neither could she feel disappointment in the loss of it—or so she had thought.

Nevertheless, at the moment she opened the front door and stepped outside into the narrow front yard, her already severe countenance turned a degree darker still.

Having to deal with the two guards posted at the entrance was already something she had expected with a heavy heart, but the reality awaiting her proved far worse.

Worse than anyone could have foreseen.

In the middle of the yard, accompanied by two more guards, was a strange-looking man in a black leather armor, apparently on his way in. In the grip of his right hand, the man carried a long, slim spear much different from the guards’ elaborate halberds. His helmet-less head was adorned with deep blue pearls attached to strands of his dark hair, as well as a single, great feather of a foreign bird called Zuú.

Anyone with wanting courage would have struggled to keep their composure before the man’s sharp gaze. At the mention of his name, the remains of said composure would no doubt be decisively obliterated.

The name was Shivgried—and the man the one whom they also called, the Impaler.

Before gaining the sinister moniker and being promoted to the Guild of Tratovia’s Heroes, he had been called Zaxon Shivgried, an officer of the Imperial Foreign Legion, hailing from the remote province of Tulfakar. He had advanced as far as the special forces due to his natural excellence in combat. During the brief campaign against Dharva in the north, he had acquired the cursed spear Lanhglid, said to pierce through any defense, and it became the source of his gross title.

That legend had taken a heavy blow some days ago.

Lanhglid’s spell had been repelled by the Langorian greatsword.

Fortunately, the witnesses of this marvel were few—and Shivgried was determined to keep it so.

The man recovered from his brief surprise, caused by Miragrave's appearance in the doorway. His lips soon contorted into a twisted grin, as he presumed to have seen through her intentions, and he spread his arms wide, as if to warmly receive her.

“My, leaving so soon?”

It was only now that the two guards at the door realized the prisoner had stepped out, and they looked like two hares caught between a forest fire and a dragon.

“Zaxon,” Miragrave received the warrior with a glare. “They say you are a man with the talent to always be in the right place at the right time. I feel I have to disagree.”

“I imagine that you would,” he replied. “But fault me not for my luck. Is a man to be blamed for the destiny that moves him? As much as I enjoy the sight of you, Marafel, I am not here of my own volition today, but merely as the humble instrument of his majesty's will. A duty not entirely displeasing, for once.”

“So the time has come.” The Colonel stepped down the stairs from the door. “His majesty has decided to claim my head.”

Shivgried took a step forward as well.

“It has,” he said. “'Death to the enemies of the Empire'. How many have fallen for those words? How many gallons of blood has been spilled, how far and wide? And how much of it in vain, only to satisfy the greed of pompous old men in their glum halls of stone? For all its worth, I would prefer to see your head where it belongs.”

“What is it worth, Zaxon?” Miragrave snorted. “What is a man worth, when he hides his lust in the shadow of a tyrant? Is he sustained by the honor and duty that belongs to a soldier? No, you have no such redeeming qualities. You traded them all away for ‘glory’, power, for recognition, for personal gain. How vain. Before the hero you saw yourself as, you were reduced to a mere murderer-for-hire. Enough. I’ve made my peace. Take me away.”

At her words, the warrior burst into cold laughter.

“Hahaha! You never change, Marafel!” he said. “I sold my honor? And where would I be, if I hadn’t? I could be in your shoes, discredited and forsaken. Thrown away, like a used-up arbalest! No. Certainly, to the people of the Empire, I am a hero! Rather than upholding the law, I have become the law itself! Could you have ever imagined our roles traded in such a way? What has your knight’s honor ever brought you, foolish woman? Look at you. You insist to remain a patriot to the bitter end, a soldier to a lord you despise. Your idea of fighting back is distilled to a powerless look of disapproval as you step up to the block of your own will. Wake up. Your noble conviction changes no hearts in this corrupt land.”

“Do you dream of becoming a politician or why do you speak like one?” she retorted and stopped. “My power is inadequate to change the world, yes. But neither will the world change my mind. That is enough for me. At least I am conscious of facts, and devoid of empty visions of grandeur. Unlike some others I know.”

Not saying anything, Shivgried proceeded to walk around the woman, rubbing his jaw in contemplation.

“Do not be that way, Marafel,” he said. “You should not be like this. Being a fatalist ill suits a woman of your brilliance. Bending your fair neck before justice you know is immoral and biased, simply out of an aimless sense of duty...You are capable of much more than this.”

“What do you want, Zaxon?” the Colonel's gaze sharpened. “I do not walk this path only to meet whatever dreams you have of me.”

“I am telling you, you're not ambitious enough. Never were.” Leaning closer, Shivgried whispered to her, “So let me become your savior now, sister-in-arms.”

The sideways glare she returned made him pull away.

“I have the power,” he resumed out loud, filled with confidence. “I am one of the Guild now. Not a simple dog of war, but a Champion of the Throne. No, more than that. I can peel you even from his majesty's unforgiving grip. Verily, it may well be that his majesty will be our majesty for not much longer. There are elements out there that strongly feel so.”

The soldiers nearby shifted uncomfortably at his treacherous words. Shivgried disregarded them, his eyes only at Miragrave, as he continued,

“I dare say our interests align on this matter. Or am I mistaken?”

“I suspect you do not offer me a helping hand out of the kindness of your heart?” she asked.

“But I do;” Shivgried answered with a shrug. “There could be no other reason. A hand I am indeed offering you, to be taken and held, and never let go. Become my woman, Marafel. It is quite as simple as that.”

“Is this your idea of comedy?” she asked.

“Far from it. For you alone, my spear would impale even the Obsidian Throne. You will be a shunned traitor no more, not a mere soldier, a grunt, a lowly servant, or anything boorish and humiliating like that. Nay, you shall be the queen you were destined to be, of the new empire that will rise from the ashes of the old.”

“I refuse,” Miragrave gave her immediate answer and stepped past him.

“You would rather let Raleigh have you then!?” Shivgried shouted after her, a sudden fit of anger amplifying his voice. “You will burn, in disgrace, before the eyes of the people you swore to protect, of your faithful soldiers, as they sneer at you, and that will be the last memory they’ll have of you! Not how honorable and gallant you were in life, but only your helpless screams of agony as your flesh boils and skin is peeled! That will be all that history remembers of Miragrave Marafel! Think your father will endure it? I’ll be sure to describe it to him afterward, in great detail. How the daughter that made him so proud once threw away her sanity and dignity out of terror, and begged in tears for mercy in her final moments! Think his heart can take it?”

Slowly, Miragrave turned around.

Her face was pale but her gaze unbending, like tempered steel.

“For years, I awaited my death, Zaxon,” she said. “I counted the days, the very hours, until living itself became agony. And finally, it did come for me. I faced my end on the field outside Varnam—and it took me not. You think whatever generic horrors you can come up with compare with the abyss I’ve stared into? No, I greet your lukewarm flames with the fondness of an old friend.”

Saying no more, the Colonel stepped on, to be escorted away by the guards. Shivgried spat, gave the cowering guards at the house entrance a misguided glare, and then followed after the convict.

3

As soon as she was alone and back in her lofty tower quarters, princess Yuliana took out the silvery chain she had been given by the mysterious visitor yesterday, and wrapped it around her left wrist. Closing her eyes, she did her best to gather her rattled focus. The princess had beheld a few enchanted items of similar effects before, although none of them had seemed quite as refined as this one.

“Can you hear me?” Deeming her concentration sufficient and the channel opened, she voiced a question. And, soon enough, another person’s surprised voice sounded in her mind, similarly to Aiwesh’s sparse spiritual communications.

The voice clearly belonged to the young man Yuliana had met before, confirmed by an accompanying, vague sense of presence, as though they had suddenly been brought to the same room.

“Oh, your highness? What’s wrong?” Benjamin’s voice asked.

Maintaining her composure with effort, Yuliana quickly summarized the crux of the matter,

“My master—Colonel Marafel, I’ve heard she’s about to be executed tomorrow.”

“Ah, yes, we’re aware of the situation,” the young man responded in a regretful tone. “It seems the paperwork was put underway as soon as the news of her return reached the headquarters. A law on wartime exceptions was enacted to bypass the trial, and she was sentenced early this morning by majority vote...”

—“We have to do something to help her!” Yuliana impatiently interrupted him.

“We? We who?” his voice helplessly retorted. “Not a lot can be done, I’m afraid! With a person of Marafel’s rank and the questionable nature of the verdict, the security levels at the execution site will be exceptionally high. In fact, even the location hasn’t been disclosed in public yet. The Colonel was quite popular with her troops, the officers fear her execution might inspire open unrest, even a mutiny among the knights, so they’ve taken measures to prepare. We’d need an army to mount a rescue attempt, and even then, it would be difficult to extract the Colonel alive. And only the Emperor himself has the authority to overturn the verdict by legal means...”

“So you’re telling me we’re going to have to let her die!?” the princess lost her self-restraint and yelled. “I can’t! There’s got to be a way!”

“Even if you say that...” Benjamin thought for a moment. “I don’t know. Have you tried to appeal to his majesty?”

“Appeal...?”

“Yes. He really is our best bet at the moment, as far as I can see. At the very least, he can delay the execution and buy us more time until we can come up with a proper plan. I can really think of nothing else right now.”

“The Emperor...” Yuliana muttered, not very pleased by the idea.

“Do you think there is any way you could negotiate with him?” Benjamin suggested. “Perhaps there are some compromises you could make to bring him to our side? What does he want? What does he fear? I don’t know, I’m just throwing ideas. Whatever it is, it has to be soon. I’m not sure when the execution will take place, exactly, but likely as soon as the logistics allow. They won’t wait for protests.”

“But I—”

“The chain’s power is rapidly depleted. We should save some for an emergency. There’s not much else I can tell you at the moment. We’re doing all we can over here, but I believe you’re the one of us with the best chance at helping the Colonel. I’m sorry. Take care!”

Benjamin’s voice disappeared.

Yuliana sensed the contact fade and the flow of magical energy in the chain stabilized, somewhat reduced. Again, she was left in silence by herself, with regrettably few results, and just as little in terms of hope.

No one else would be able to lend her a hand in this dire situation. What had she even made the contact for? What had she expected the youth to do? The answer was too silly to even be voiced. Of course, she had secretly wished that whoever the powerful figure behind that odd man was, they would be able to achieve the impossible, only because she asked.

So that she alone would be freed from any painful sacrifices.

I’m even willing to depend on strangers? Is my spirit truly this feeble...?

Yuliana couldn’t keep running away from her responsibilities, she knew it. The life of a monarch was that of making compromises, as she had been told. No matter how far away she was from home, she couldn't escape being a princess.

So long as she refused to give in at anything, so long as she only kept demanding, dreaming, and shunning responsibility, she was no better than any sheltered royal child. Just as the Emperor had said.

The life of her dear mentor was on the line...If Miragrave was killed, it would be on Yuliana. Because she provoked the Emperor.

Taking a deep breath, the princess made up her mind. She walked to the bell hanging near the doorway, the bell connected to the servants’ quarters, and rang it.