Hildebrand jolted awake in her bed, gasping like she escaped from a nightmare. Was it one? Had it all been a nightmare? The jumble of memories fading like loose papers into the wind made it seem like that was the case.

Hildebrand touched her chest, where she had driven Altamea’s Fire through her heart. She felt fine, and she was perfectly fine. Either that was all a nightmare, or this was. Some sort of dying dream, where her life flashed before her eyes.

After sitting for another five minutes, Hildebrand came to a stunning conclusion: there was no flashing. It was an exaggeration to even say life was running at a healthy pace before her eyes; it was crawling.

Her memories were hazy, like a book with missing pages. She could remember some of the plot of the story, but not all the minutiae. But some details were so vivid she couldn’t deny their reality. Like the lingering sensation of a warm hand covering hers. Or the frozen image of Hugo’s dead, staring eyes. Or even the roughness of the hand that yanked her out of the darkness. But those fractured pieces only brought upon more confusion. Hildebrand’s head was spinning in circles, and she had to lie back down until the headaches stopped.

This wasn’t the world that should have been. Hugo should have been alive again, and she should have been dead and gone. When she plunged the sword into her heart, she had asked for Hugo to come back. If this world was real, didn’t the gods have a shred of mercy? Wasn’t it enough for her life to come to an end? Hildebrand placed the back of her hand against her forehead and sighed. Why did I have to come back? she wondered.

A knock on the door and a wake-up call made Hildebrand sit up from her stupor. For some odd reason, her body was almost moving on its own, like it was fulfilling an obligation. She jumped out of her bed and looked in the mirror, feeling her face, and twirling and pulling on her dull, copper locks.

She realized, staring into her own eyes, her vision wasn’t simply blurry from sleep. One of her eyes was discolored; the iris was a faded green and the pupil was a dark red. It was blind, or rather blinded. It had been blinded many years ago in the slums. It wasn’t that she couldn’t see at all from that side, the world looked distorted from that side. Her other copper-colored eye could see fine, and maybe that had always been the problem.

Hildebrand examined herself closely. She was many years younger and had a certain plain charm to herself, or so she told herself. She didn’t have the Saintess’s radiant beauty though. Her porcelain-white skin that glimmered in the sunlight was gone. So was the lustrous, glowing blonde hair. And the blue eyes that were as bright as the day’s sky and as deep as the depths of the seas.

Hildebrand stared at herself, at her one eye and plain features and rough skin that barely recovered from rot. At the crude partial prosthetic on the vanity. At the eyepatch. Those things didn’t belong to the Saintess Hildebrand. They belonged to the girl from the slums simply known as “Ghoul,” because of her dead stare.

Hildebrand noticed the paper sitting in front of her and pulled it closer. No, those things belonged to the girl named Hildebrand, too. The girl who wasn’t quite so skilled at reading the cursive penned on the paper. And they belonged to someone else too.

“Hilde…” Hildebrand muttered. The perks of being the Saintess were gone, but she still smiled. In this twisted world, that kind of beauty was a curse too. She turned her nose up at the tinge of regret and loss she felt.

She looked up and noticed the engraving above the vanity had a familiar name, “Helmsgrave Academy”.

“Ah,” she muttered. So that was what was written in cursive on the paper.

The Helmsgrave Academy was a place of learning for budding talents from across the continent. A chance for young adults to learn swordsmanship, magic, honor, and most importantly, heroism!

In reality, it was a dumping ground for unwanted children of the aristocracy. If they died in a duel or ventured into the Salted Lands, never to return, that was good. If they returned, having made a name for themselves and their families, all the better. There were also the unfortunate commoners “talented” enough to attend. The masses didn’t know any better. They simply figured a commoner getting a free ride to the same institution attended by nobility was a show of goodwill by nobility. They were naïve enough to believe in meritocracy.

Hildebrand rifled through papers that were scattered on her vanity just to confirm what her brain was already screaming at her. She was in her freshman year at the academy. She could remember orientation distinctly, like it was yesterday. It was actually last week. She could remember everything so distinctly and vividly; it was like she had actually lived the life she had woken up to.

“Oh,” she murmured, “I did live that life.” It was all coming back to her now.

“I’m… 18?” she asked herself. She was 18 years of age, or thereabouts. She was an orphan who grew up in the slums, so she was never really certain of her exact birth date regardless of which life she was living, but that was what she went by.

Why am I in the academy? Hildebrand thought. Even when she tried to recall the memories she had in this new life, she had no answer. Bishop Theodore simply showed up one day and took her away from the slums. Hilde had never gone through that. She remained undiscovered by the Church and became the Saintess by walking that path with her own too feet. The more Hildebrand thought about it, the more the memories of Hildebrand’s first life and this current life blended together. Strange, she concluded.

In Hildebrand’s past life, her awakened Saintess powers, and the attention they garnered, were the only reason the Church found her and took her into its fold. Hildebrand ran all five of her fingers through her hair as she wondered what was going on. When she pulled her hand across the back of her neck and to the front of her face, she realized she had all of her fingers. Two of them had faint scars, where the Saintess’s perfect fingers started.

Hildebrand stared back at the partial hand prosthetic on the vanity. “Huh?” she blurted out. She tried it on just for good measure, on both hands, but neither hand fit. She had all 10 fingers. “Huuuh?” she repeated. It would have to be a mystery for another time. There was another round of calls to get ready for class.

Hildebrand changed into her uniform and made her way to the first class, the first of the year. She meandered a little. Half of her didn't know where the classroom was, and half of her couldn't recall where it was. She drew many stares while briskly walking around the campus, but they were more mixed than she remembered from her last life. The looks she got ranged from confusion to what could only be described as “who’s this weirdo?” Her cool and calm countenance started to melt into a perturbed grimace. Still, she was still glad she had landed in the academy.

She didn't want to return to the suffering of her childhood. She didn’t want to return to the days of starving in the icy rain and stabbing people in the back before they could do the same to her. And she didn't want to go through the dreary years of theological training and formation again. The stinging pain of the rod was fresh enough in her memories; she didn’t need to experience it again. And she didn’t need to hear the excuse of “that’s how we were trained”. They were all bitter memories. The academy was a sweet spot, even though it was crazier than she had anticipated.

She had simply attended the academy because she foolishly thought it would be fun. But other than the adoration she received, she couldn’t recall a single good memory. In the end, it was all scheming and subterfuge. Hildebrand tried to recall any useful information from the academy days but drew a blank. She couldn’t help but smirk bitterly at the irony of wasting three years of potential happiness for an effort that ultimately amounted to nothing.

As Hildebrand walked through hallway after hallway, she stopped at a familiar scene. It made her heart pound before she even realized what it was. It was where she would meet the young man of her dreams for the first time. Where she would catch his eye, but he wouldn’t catch hers. This time, she would definitely see him.

Hildebrand waited with bated breath. She waited even as the crowds of students swelled, and even as they scattered. Her gulp echoed in her ears. Her eyes shifted from side to side; the narrow hall seemed as vast as a canyon. “Where are you?” she asked to no one at all. “You’re late.” She waited longer, even as the bells outside rung loudly, signaling the start of classes. Hildebrand waited for Hugo.

***

Hildebrand had finally found what she was looking for. Just the class—Martial Arts—not the boy. It was in the gymnasium, rather than a classroom. She was late beyond a reasonable limit, but when she peered through the little windows on the gym’s double doors, she saw there was little going on. And she saw something else. A tall man with wild red hair, and a well-trained build. It stood out.

There were plenty of young nobles who were well-trained, but there was something about warriors who toiled every day while eating slop and wild game. Even through his shirt, Hildebrand could sense his thick forearms and broad chest. And he was more rugged than the others, like someone who seen more than his fair share of violence. He even had Hugo’s darker skin tone, the hide of someone who had lived wandering under the sun for years. Although, from behind, his hair seemed uncharacteristically well-coifed.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Close enough! she thought.

Hildebrand shrugged with glee and swung the doors open. She stood triumphantly with both hands on her hips.

“I finally found you!” she shouted with a grin. She ran to him and leaped at him with open arms. He turned just in time to catch her in his steady hands. She hugged him tight.

“I found you!” she said again, nuzzling against his chest. “Hugo,” she said.

“Hugo?” said a creeping, slithering voice. “…I don’t think I’ve ever used that name.”

“Huh?” Hildebrand pushed herself away and stumbled back. She had never seen the man standing before her in either life. He was a stranger.

He had a similar build to the Hugo she knew, if not a smidge taller and a little slenderer. She only realized the difference when she examined the stranger up close. And the stranger’s wild red hair was somehow tamed into something fashionable, fit for a young womanizing nobleman who spent too much time caring about his looks. Hugo would never.

The starkest difference was the stranger’s face. He had the face of a serpent. His narrow, seemingly closed, eyes were long and ripped like a fox’s closed eyes. Hugo had round yet piercing eyes, like a wolf, and thick eyebrows that sat heavy atop his serene eyes. The Stranger’s thin lips didn’t even have a hint of loveliness, unlike Hugo’s ever so slightly rosy lips.

The stranger was no prince charming, that was certain. His face had a slight femininity to it, a slight eccentricity, like a schemer, or a madman. He was no Hero. He was a villain. It was written on his face. Hildebrand could read the two crossing blue lines tattooed up and across the right-side of his face as clear as day. She had no idea if it was even a language or anything she’d ever seen before; she didn’t know anything about the mark at all, but she knew for a fact it was the mark of a killer. It made her shudder slightly as the stranger leaned closer, as if showing it off.

Despite it all, Hildebrand couldn’t shake the feeling that the stranger was connected to Hugo somehow. It was unsettling.

“Oh, oh shit,” he said, putting two fingers to his temple with a raised brow. He tapped once. “It’s you.”

“Me?”

The man flipped through some papers in his hand and studied them. “Hildebr—I mean Hilde,” he said. “Miss Hilde, go take a seat.”

Hildebrand asked him quietly, “Who are you?”

The man leaned in close and whispered back. “You’ll find out in a little bit, so go sit down,” he said, “Little Miss Saintess.”

“Huh?”

He turned Hildebrand around and gave her a firm pat on the back, a little too firm. It almost launched her off of her feet. She did as she was told, trying not to pay attention to the gossiping whispers and mocking laughter. Her face was burning red, even though she was trying to control her emotions.

Hildebrand could feel her young brain racing through thoughts she didn’t want to think about. She grimaced with embarrassment and tried to hide her face with both hands as she slinked to the back.

But a hand caught her sleeve.

"Where are you going?"

Hildebrand turned to face whoever held her captive. A dark-haired tomboy. She had a friendly face, captivating green eyes, and long lashes that could make men and women alike swoon. And she had a good frame, like someone who had already trained in the martial arts, perhaps even with the sword. And yet her skin was sunkissed, like she was a commoner who had spent quite some time in the sun, even her arms, made bare by rolled-up sleeves.

“Mind your hands,” Hildebrand said, pulling her hand away. Hildebrand leered at the girl. She was, in a word, picturesque. Feelings of inferiority swirled in Hildebrand’s mind, despite the girl dressing like one of the boys, with slacks and a buttoned up long-sleeved shirt completed by a tie. The other young ladies wore silky blouses with ribbons, and skirts that revealed the tiniest bit of thigh, a little taste of freedom and adventure for both themselves and the young gentlemen they were hoping to attract. Even her hair was short; young ladies spent years growing their hair out as a status symbol, but it didn’t seem to matter to the tomboy. The tomboy’s clear gaze from underneath bushy eyebrows made Hildebrand blush slightly. The tomboy simply smiled. She was too comfortable in her own skin.

Hildebrand reflexively touched her own long, copper hair. The Saintess could never chop off her long hair. But was she even the Saintess anymore? Either way, Hildebrand wasn’t going to cut it.

"Sorry,” the tomboy said, her voice full of contained energy. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Come on, sit next to me!" She patted the empty spot on the floor next to her.

Hmm? Do we know each other? Hildebrand's thoughts raced through her memories. Who was this?

Ah! Hildebrand vaguely knew the tomboy. She was one of Hildebrand’s hangers-on, or minions, during the academy days. Something like that. Evidently, they had already met, but Hildebrand couldn’t recall when. She had always been good with names and faces, or rather, she made it a point to memorize everyone, no matter how insignificant, because they could always be useful one day, but that was the Saintess. Hildebrand was drawing a complete blank.

"Are you feeling okay?" the tomboy asked.

"Y-yeah! I just…" muttered Hildebrand.

The tomboy was starting to look suspiciously at Hildebrand.

I’ll be damned before I forget your name, minion #1! thought Hilde.

“Good to see you again…” Hildebrand paused. “Katari-“

"Erika,” Erika corrected matter-of-factly. She was neither pleased nor displeased, simply stating a fact.

"Ah! Erika!" said Hildebrand, pointing at Erika. “I’m sorry, you look just like this other girl—“

“But Katarina is blonde,” said Erika, again matter-of-factly. “Strawberry blonde.”

Who the hell was Katarina? That was a real person?

“W-when the light,” Hildebrand muttered, awkwardly pointing in every direction. “Her hair—“

“And she’s pretty pale,” Erika continued, showing off her tanned arm.

“…”

“And she has a mole right here,” Erika said, poking a spot below her lips. There was no mole.

“It’s a different Katarina…” Hildebrand squeaked.

“Is it?” Erika asked. “There’s only one Katarina in our year.”

“Yes,” Hildebrand lied, trying to put on her trademark Saintess smile. It came out wrong, and it couldn’t be more obvious she was lying. Even a blind man could tell.

“Oh! Why didn’t you just say so!” Erika said. She smiled unassumingly.

Erika. Yes, that name seemed to trigger some memories from Hildebrand’s last life. She was a talkative sort, too talkative. The only thing Hildebrand remembered was that having this girl stuck to her side helped train her ability to filter out nonsense noises. That inhumane training had made her sensitive hearing all the more sensitive.

She had near superhuman hearing thanks to that. Thankfully, that was as much of a mental ability as a physical one. Hildebrand still had it after coming back to the past or whatever this world was. She could hear a pin drop in another room, with the doors closed.

Oh, and this Erika girl died during the war against the monsters that emerged from the World’s End, against the “Overmen”. Her family from the Kingdom of Eisenblut somehow sent a note to Hildebrand, informing her of Erika's passing in battle. The only reason Hildebrand remembered that was because she was baffled by the fact they had managed to get a letter to her in the middle of an active battlefield. Truly dumbfounding.

Erika took Hildebrand’s hand unashamedly. "I was worried you hit your head and lost your memories or something!”

It was a wild guess, one that couldn’t be further from the truth. "Ye-sss…" Hildebrand hissed, lying through her teeth. She shook Erika’s hands off like water. "I hit my head."

"What!" Erika shouted.

So loud! Erika had a voice like a beast's roar!

"By the gods! We need to take you to the—"

Hildebrand quickly covered Erika's mouth, showing her annoyance plainly. She didn't even remember how to put on airs anymore, nor did she have the patience for it. Was patience also a blessing that only belonged to the Saintess?

"It's not that serious, so just pipe down…" Hildebrand grumbled.

Hildebrand pushed Erika back into her seat and took the spot next to the tomboy. Now the entire class's eyes were on her, and something deep inside was too weary to put on the Saintess charms. She simply shrugged at them, as if to ask, “What?” Was this what it was like for Hugo, too? She could see why he had hidden himself behind mediocrity. All those sticky, leering eyes were frightening.

Whispers were flying, so many the room turned into a concert hall.

Damn! Damn you, Erika! Hildebrand repeated in her head. If there was one thing Hildebrand, not the Saintess, had a knack for, it was pinning the blame on someone else and convincing herself of it, and others too.

Hildebrand wanted to stomp her feet to let out some tense energy, but controlled herself. She looked over at Erika, who was practically clinging to Hildebrand with the look of a worried puppy. Hildebrand’s anger softened.

Haa. Is she seriously worried about me? thought Hildebrand.

"My memories are starting to come back, so don't worry about me," Hildebrand said. She pushed the clingy girl back. "And you don't have to hold me…"

She was really starting to feel like she had hit her head. A headache was coming on between Erika's cooing and oohing and repeated questions of "Are you really ok?" "Really?" "Are you sure?" and the amplified whispers. What a disaster!

Hildebrand always thought Hugo was a little dimwitted, even though he often proved himself to be right. There was simply something about him that seemed a little foolish. Perhaps it was the way he acted when he matched brainwaves with Greg, or maybe it was simply the fact he could rarely see eye to eye with Hildebrand. Maybe it was something else. Whatever the case, now Hildebrand had a newfound respect for Hugo, even more than before. Returning to the past wasn’t easy at all. It was difficult!

While the idea of returning to the past wasn’t something she had ever thought about in-depth, Hildebrand had read about it in books. The characters made it look easy! They had a mission and a purpose, often dreadful revenge, and executed it flawlessly, without drawing attention to themselves unless it benefitted them.

It’s only been an hour since I returned! Hildebrand fumed. It had been over 2 hours since she returned. And I’ve already made a fool of myself!

Hugo dimwitted? Not a chance in hell. He was like the protagonist of one of those novels!

Hildebrand palmed her face and sighed. If only he would show up already.

Where are you? Hildebrand pondered. Everything was going wrong. Everything was going wrong… Hildebrand stared at the serpent-faced man she had hugged earlier.

“Attention!” he said.

The class didn’t listen.

“Hey,” he said, in an echoing voice. It wasn’t loud, but it rang in Hildebrand’s head like a bell. “Pay attention, you brats,” he commanded. Everyone listened this time. “I’m—” He scrawled chalk on the board and read it aloud. “Roy Garland. Martial Arts Instructor.” He tapped the board twice for emphasis.

Hildebrand felt a bead of sweat drip down her face. She noticed the unique Holy Kingdom emblem of the clergy on Roy Garland’s breast pocket. He wasn’t simply a member of the Church, he was from the Central Church. He was someone high up. He was someone Hildebrand had never met or even seen once in her life. He was someone neither Hugo nor Hilde had ever met in their lives. He was the martial arts instructor. He should have been Rinaldo Renzi. But he wasn’t.

Everything was wrong.

Where are you, Hugo? Hildebrand wondered.