The days of peddling secrets just to eat in the downtrodden quarters of the capital, the nights of stealing dried vegetables under the cover of darkness, the afternoons reciting the few scriptures she knew by heart outside the church...

She just wanted to survive, but it seemed the world had other plans.

Filled with indignation and rage, yet unsure where to direct it.

The Duke of the Eastern Province merely wanted to cleanse his lands of the dregs, the rebels in the Northwest had their grievances, the kingdom sought perpetual peace for humankind. It seemed no one was to blame...

But who, if given the chance, wouldn't choose a settled life over that of a wretched vagabond?

In the end, she simply wanted to live. Was that wrong?

Foggy consciousness slowly sharpening, Eleanor spotted the disciplinary officers drawing near.

"I don't want to die," she whispered to herself, then with considerable effort, she placed her knife in the ground and staggered to her feet, stumbling forward.

Now, about thirty paces from the enemy's front line, Eleanor could see the sweat mixed with dust on the forehead of the soldier directly ahead.

He looked to be just a twenty-year-old, his eyes unable to hide his terror.

So, we’re all the same, Eleanor realized, smiling faintly. The enemy had noticed her.

He'd just smoothly pulled a thin rod from his tubular weapon, muscle memory guiding him as he aimed at Eleanor.

Shock crossed the enemy's face, unable to fathom a child on the battlefield.

In the final moment, he shifted his gun slightly to the right. The bullet, invisible to the naked eye, whizzed past Eleanor's ear, leaving only the sound of its passing.

The enemy seemed to panic, his head down, hands trembling as he fiddled with his weapon.

What now? Should she kill him? After all, he’d just spared her life...

But the dilemma was short-lived for Eleanor.

To her right, another enemy noticed her, a boy soldier. He planted his feet and emotionlessly pulled the trigger.

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

"Boom."

A puff of smoke, a flash, and then darkness. That was all Eleanor saw.

In her last moments, the once serene girl's heart was tumultuous.

"I don't want to die!" A desperate sob echoed in her throat.

Then, silence engulfed the world.

On the chaotic battlefield, absolute quiet lasted but an instant, then everything slowed nearly to a standstill. Eleanor could see every soldier’s movements on the distant walls, hear each tiny pop from the surface of the fireballs overhead, all the smells—earth, gunpowder, charred flesh, and decay—blended as they assaulted her nostrils.

As if her consciousness detached, spreading omni-directionally, just as Eleanor felt herself dissipating into the cosmos, her sprawling awareness began to contract with astonishing speed. When her consciousness finally snapped back into her body, she beheld the bullet, merely half a foot from her face.

Time had slowed, not stopped. The once insignificant dark dot was now a thumb-sized, rough-edged iron sphere, inching toward Eleanor's chest with an inexorable momentum.

Act, I don't want to die!

Her arms couldn't possibly reach in time—Eleanor twisted her body instead, attempting to minimize the impact of the inevitable strike.

On the battlefield, it was a slow-motion, silent comedy. Eleanor had given her all, and at last, after shifting her body mere inches, the blessing of slowed time ended.

Normal speed resumed. The sound of explosions merged into a cacophony, and the whirlwind roared back to life. A bullet pierced her left rib, a slight thud lost in the chaos, ejecting fragments from her back. With all her might spent in sluggish seconds, Eleanor fell backward, alone with no one to catch her.

The once clear sky filled with grey smoke and crimson fireballs, a spilling dye pot, clouding her vision irreversibly. She felt a brightness and warmth encroach but could not pinpoint its source. It was like the world itself held her in embrace.

How could that be?

Content, the girl closed her eyes.

From above, a soft golden light, like warm sun after a rain, descended from the clouds. Its reach narrowed while its power grew immense, indescribably pure light shining upon the lone figure in the field.

Magic particles, free in nature, seemed called, swirling around that central point, vaporizing the imposing tornado and numerous fireballs as if they were mere child's play.

Her flesh near the wound writhed, every tiny vessel scrubbed by boundless magic, her fracturing spirit reined in by the holy light.

Soldiers ceased their advance, their fingers paused on the triggers, even the disciplinary officers stopped their swinging swords, staring at the scene unfolding before them.

In the royal study, an elderly man processing state affairs abruptly looked north, his piercing gaze as if seeing through miles of distance, "A hero?"

Within the grand church, an old man reciting scriptures sighed and lifted his gaze to the colorful fresco of the dome, fixing on the confident figure bathed in sacred light, "The return..."

Atop the Mikhail Magic Tower, an elder running magical currents felt an unprovoked throb in his heart. Hastily releasing his wand's seal, he cradled its pendant carefully and exhaled in relief as the dormant soul remained intact, "Poor thing."

In a dim cellar, the sound of shattering glass marked another loss; a robed figure, shaking hands releasing another vial, "More!"

Where lush woods dominated, a figure set down his book and spread his arms wide toward the horizon, "Rest assured..."

...

At Clyster Street No.2, a youth in pajamas abruptly woke from his sleep, rubbing his slightly swollen eyes in disbelief, muttering, "Can someone tell me what's going on?!"