The Asarakam heir

by Black0wl

Summary:

I've always found it strange that the Organization never named a Number 1 between Teresa's death and the arrival of Alicia and Beth. We know the twins weren't truly combat-ready after Teresa was gone and they only really appear at the end of the story. That's why I wanted to explore the "why" and the "what if."

This story follows blue-eyed Lysia, a Claymore of the 78th generation, training alongside Galatea. We will witness their journey from apprentices to warriors and, eventually, to traitors. The Organization tried something new with her, and we will see how this experiment impacts her and the lore.

xoxo

Chapter 1

A gust of wind whipped up dust and made the rags I was wearing flap. I shivered, trying to hide my discomfort. I clenched my fists, trying to contain myself, to ignore the burning feeling of humiliation and fear in my gut.

I will survive.

That's when my eyes met those of the man in black. He came closer, his face barely visible under his hood, and his gaze lingered on me. I didn't look away.

"Hey, you in black!" I cried out, my voice firmer than I thought it would be. "I hear that the men in black are part of the Organization and the Claymores! I want to be one!"

"This one is... interesting," a raspy voice said.

A dark-haired woman, one of the vendors, leaned toward the man, a servile look on her face.

"Oh, that one, milord? A real savage. Found near the ruins of the great incident, where Yoma attacked. She survived where others, more robust, couldn't last. She's resilient; she's a good choice."

Her words left me unmoved. I might have looked weak, but I wasn't.

The man ignored the vendor, handed her a bag of money, then looked at me.

"You are lucky to be chosen by the Organization. Hunger, fear, and death are certain in these streets. We offer you strength. You will become like us. A warrior."

To kill Yoma. The idea made something in me vibrate. I smiled and nodded as the vendor untied me. The man didn't wait and began to walk.

After several days of marching in a leaden silence, we finally arrived at our destination. A guard immediately dragged me into a bathroom and ordered me to take a shower.

Once that was done, I received an outfit: a white shirt, white pants, and shoes. Then I was thrown in with the other girls my age.

The shock was brutal. Past the door, the room was large, cold, and filled with a heavy silence. About forty girls, not much older than me, were sitting on thin mats or talking among themselves.

Their eyes were brown, blue, or green, and their hair, in various shades of brown, red, or even black, was styled short or long in different ways. I sat down in a corner, ignoring the stares and resting as much as I could.

The conversations quickly resumed. I, however, quickly forgot about them. But the feeling of being watched persisted, which eventually irritated me. I raised my head, searching for the source of my discomfort.

A girl, a little taller than the others, with black hair and eyes of a pale, almost seawater green. They were so pure they seemed unreal. She was staring at me with an intensity that pierced through me, but without hostility—more... with curiosity. She was very pretty.

I fell back into my thoughts, losing track of time. Night fell quickly. A guard passed by, extinguishing the few torches. The darkness was total, and with it came the cold. Some girls grouped together or slept in the same bed to maximize warmth.

The nights here are worse than those I spent on the street, I told myself, and the worst is yet to come...

The wake-up was brutal. One of the guards woke us up by screaming, and I found myself jumping out of bed, scared.

The guard's scream still echoed in the room as he stood, arms crossed, his gaze stern. "Up! You have one minute to get ready and line up in front of the door!"

A murmur of panic swept through the room. The girls scrambled out of their makeshift beds, some stumbling in the dark, others pushing each other. I got up quickly, my new shoes clacking on the cold floor. The smell of dampness and dust still clung to my clothes.

In no time at all, we were all standing, more or less aligned in front of the heavy wooden door. The guard opened the door, revealing a dimly lit hallway and the sharp air of early morning.

"In a line! Follow me! Not a word, not a sound."

We walked in silence, our steps echoing on the cold stone. I glanced around me. The girl with the black hair and green eyes was a few places ahead of me, her back straight, her posture already proud. She didn't seem panicked, just... attentive. I envied her calm.

My heart was still pounding from the brutal wake-up call.

We arrived in a large courtyard where the cool air nipped at the skin. Other groups of older girls were already there, training with heavy wooden swords. Their movements were fluid, precise. Their bodies, though thin, exuded an astonishing strength.

"You will run until I tell you to stop," he said.

The command echoed through the courtyard. Without another word, the guards pushed us, and the mob started moving. We ran. On and on. Around the courtyard, then along the walls, under the indifferent gazes of the older girls who continued their sword exercises.

The air was cold and cutting, but the running warmed me up quickly. The pain in my lungs began to make itself felt, then the burning in my legs. I wasn't used to this. In the street, I ran to survive, to steal a piece of bread, to escape. Here, it was a silent punishment, a way to break us.

I felt my muscles screaming. Around me, girls slowed down, some stumbled and fell, struggling to get up under the guards' shouts. I saw the black-haired girl in front of me.

She maintained a steady pace, without a sign of effort. Her back remained straight, her breathing stable. She seemed made for this.

Time passed, or perhaps it stopped. My legs were like lead, my lungs on fire. I forced myself not to slow down, not to fall. I will survive. I repeated those words like a mantra. He hadn't brought me here to die of exhaustion.

He had promised me strength, and I had to show that I was worthy of it. I don't know how much time passed, but sweat was dripping down my temple.

The instructor showed no sign of stopping. Girls were dropping, one after another, writhing in pain or exhaustion. Their bodies were weak. I must not be weak. My small size made me feel like I had to prove more than the others that I wasn't a burden, easy prey. My ordinary blue-gray eyes scanned the ground, determined not to give in.

The effort was superhuman. Fatigue was overwhelming me, but a silent rage was simmering inside me. The faces of the Yoma who had destroyed my home flashed in my mind; the promise of strength resonated. I was not ready to collapse. Not yet.

While others were collapsing, I held on. I wasn't the fastest, but my perseverance was a brute force. I saw the tall girl. She was still there, running with the same ease.

Only a handful of us were still going, the others having collapsed, moaning on the cold courtyard ground or vomiting on the dirt.

Finally, the instructor raised his hand. His face impassive, he looked at us, the few survivors.

"Enough." His voice was a cutting blade.

Our bodies stopped abruptly. My legs gave out, and I fell to my knees, breathing heavily, black spots dancing before my eyes. The pain was everywhere. I felt sweat trickling down my face and neck.

When I managed to look up, I saw the blonde-haired girl. She was standing, barely out of breath. And her eyes, an unusual pale green, were fixed on me, with a slight spark that I couldn't decipher. We were the last two to have held on.

"You have two minutes to drink water, then you will start push-ups," the instructor's hoarse voice said, his gaze sweeping over the bodies slumped on the ground before lingering on the two of us for a moment.

A guard approached with a bucket of water and a ladle. The girls who had given up dragged themselves over to drink, water spilling onto their chins, their hands trembling.

I pushed myself forward to reach the ladle, my throat parched. The cool water was a bitter relief, sliding down my burning throat.

I glanced at the blonde-haired girl. She was drinking calmly, without rushing, her movements fluid even in her exhaustion.

Is she even human? the thought echoed in my head.

But I quickly refocused on the water and catching my breath.

Our two minutes passed far too quickly. The instructor stomped his foot on the ground.

"Down! Ready for push-ups!"

My muscles were already screaming, but I forced my body to obey. I got into position, my hands and feet anchored to the ground. Beside me, the pale-green-eyed girl did the same, her movements precise. This wasn't the end. This was only the beginning of what my life here would be.

The command "Begin!" rang out. I lowered my body, then rose, trembling. My arms were already like limp sticks.

Each repetition was torture. My muscles burned, my knees sank into the hard ground. I counted. One. Two. Three.

Around me, the groans resumed. Arms gave way, bodies slumped into the dust. The guards said nothing, leaving them there, motionless. Only those with the strength to get back up and resume the exercise were "useful."

I felt my own limits approaching. My body was screaming to stop, but something inside me refused to give in. Not after holding out during the run. Not after making it this far. I forced myself to focus on her, to copy her rhythm, to imagine that her strength could be transferred to me by simple observation.

My arms finally gave out. I collapsed, my face inches from the ground. A drop of sweat fell from my forehead. I closed my eyes for a moment, my vision blurred by the effort. When I reopened them, my gaze fell on the hands of the girl next to me.

Her palms were red, and I saw a thin layer of dirt stuck in the hollow of her fingers, a sign that she, too, must have clenched her fists into the earth to hold on.

Her breathing, though more regular than mine, was audible, and a fine bead of sweat glistened on her temple. She was strong, yes, but not without effort. A spark of relief, of recognition, passed through me.

"Thirty-five!" the instructor shouted. "Those who can't do more, get moving or I'll make you run until dinner!"

A wave of panic revived the slumped girls. Some got up, staggering, resuming the exercise with muffled groans. I gritted my teeth, using my elbows and knees to get back into position, my muscles torn.

The girl next to me lowered her eyes for a moment, her lips tight. I felt her make an extra effort to maintain her rhythm, her body stiffening slightly.

The push-ups seemed to last an eternity. My arms refused to hold me up. Every time I collapsed, I used the little strength I had left to get back up, torturing myself a little more with each movement. The instructor never stopped. Not as long as there were arms raised.

Finally, his piercing voice tore through the heavy air of exhaustion.

"Enough!"

I collapsed completely this time, face down, my lungs burning. My limbs refused to move. Around me, the courtyard was littered with motionless bodies, with faint groans. Only a few were still standing, swaying.

The instructor walked slowly in front of us, his gaze as hard as stone. He stopped in front of the blonde-haired girl.

"You. What's your name?"

"Galatea," she replied, her voice calm, yet it resonated with an unexpected clarity.

The instructor barely nodded. His gaze then swept over the others, then stopped on me, my brown hair matted to my forehead with sweat. My blue-gray eyes, usually discreet, held his gaze without flinching.

"And you, the little one. What's your name?"

I took a deep breath, tasting blood in my mouth. "Lysia."

"Galatea. Lysia." He repeated our names as if savoring them. "You are the only ones in your group who lasted until the end of every test." His gaze intensified. "Tenacity is a quality. Never lose it."

He then ignored us, addressing the guards.

"Take them to the mess hall. The others, let them crawl or starve if they can't keep up. They'll learn what it costs not to obey."

Once the orders were given, the guards began to move. I struggled to stand on my legs. My muscles trembled, but I refused to waver.

Someone's hand landed on my shoulder, ready to support me. I pushed it away with the little strength I had left. I didn't want their help.

I got up slowly, my body protesting with every movement. As I turned, my eyes met Galatea's. She was there, a few steps away, her own green eyes fixed on me. Her expression was still calm, but her lips barely stretched, a tiny, almost invisible smile.

"Not bad, little one," she said, her voice low, a little hoarse from the effort. "You're holding on."

"You too," I replied, my voice barely a whisper, a small, arrogant smile on my lips. "Galatea." I had heard her say her name. It rolled off my tongue, new and strange.

She nodded, the imperceptible smile fading. She turned on her heel and began to walk. Her steps were sure, despite the fatigue. I followed her, limping slightly, but with a new determination.

The mess hall was a stark room, just like the dormitory, but it smelled of hot soup, a scent that made my stomach rumble. The tables were long and made of raw wood, and iron bowls were already laid out. The girls who had managed to drag themselves here rushed to them, their faces marked by hunger and fatigue.

Galatea and I sat at a table a little apart. I didn't care about the other girls' whispers about Galatea.

My mind was focused on one thing: food. My aching muscles were demanding it, my stomach was screaming.

A guard served us a ladle of thick soup and a piece of stale bread. I ate greedily, each spoonful a balm for my sore muscles. I ate as if it were the last meal I would ever be given.

Galatea, sitting beside me, ate with calm dignity, her movements measured. She was not rushed and finished her first ladle long after I did.

"You're going to choke," she said suddenly, her voice low but with a hint of amusement.

I looked up, my mouth full, soup dripping slightly onto my chin. I looked at her with suspicion.

Galatea shook her head, a smile sketched on her lips. "Eating faster won't make you grow faster, you know. Or give you more muscle. Take your time."

I swallowed my mouthful with difficulty, a little embarrassed to be watched and teased like this. But hunger was stronger than embarrassment.

"I'm hungry," I replied simply, my voice still hoarse.

Galatea let out a soft, unexpected laugh.

"No one's going to take your share, you earned your meal." She nodded toward my empty bowl. "But slow down. If you don't digest it, it's useless."

I felt a slight blush spread across my cheeks at her teasing. She finished her own soup.

"We'd better rest. Tomorrow will be worse."

I nodded.

Chapter 2: childishness

The following days stretched into a ruthless cycle of pain and exhaustion. The training was designed to break us, to weed out the weak and forge the bodies of the survivors. No more simple runs and push-ups; we were now subjected to a brutal regimen of physical strengthening.

Every morning, before dawn, we were dragged from our beds for hours of exercises. Bending, pulling, carrying heavy loads, endurance runs on uneven terrain. Our already bruised muscles were pushed to their limits, and then beyond.

The instructors, men with empty gazes and harsh voices, tolerated no weakness.

Every fall, every slowdown was punished with blows from a stick or extra hours of exercise.

The meals, though regular, were barely enough to compensate for the energy expended. Hunger was a constant companion, a familiar sensation that never truly left me. The dormitory was silent at night, filled with the muffled groans of those struggling with cramps and aches.

I focused on my survival. The whispers of the other girls, their complaints, their tears, all of it slid off me. I didn't despise them, but a pragmatic annoyance rose within me. Why did they cling on, so incapable? After weeks, some were still at the same point, their bodies refusing effort. Being a warrior wasn't for them. Fear is an instinct, I knew that. Running, trembling—that's what anyone would do. But a warrior? A warrior doesn't freeze, doesn't flee. A warrior doesn't abandon her comrades-in-arms. If we flee, who protects? Who saves?

Every day, I repeated the mantra: I will survive. I will be strong. I will be like her…

 

Galatea was always there. She never complained. Her movements were always precise, her face impassive. She didn't seek attention, but her strength was evident. We were often side by side during exercises, pushing the same heavy stones, running the same miles.

I saw her grit her teeth sometimes, a vein bulging on her neck, but she never stopped. She was my silent benchmark, proof that it was possible to hold on, to overcome exhaustion, and to push past limits.

 

"Has anyone ever told you that you look like a mouse?" I let slip one day, without malice, as I was on her right.

Galatea, who was lifting a stone, froze. Her usually calm eyes rested on me, a flash of surprise, then a nuance I hadn't seen in her before. It wasn't anger, but something subtler: a hint of annoyance mixed with embarrassment.

 

"A… mouse?" Her usually poised voice had a slight hesitation. She imperceptibly furrowed her brows, as if the idea deeply bothered her. She said nothing else, but her gaze slid to the distant reflection of her face in a puddle, suddenly looking troubled.

 

"Yeah, a mouse," I continued, unfiltered, my thought escaping before I even had time to hold it back. "You have big ears for such a small head, but I think it makes you adorable."

 

Galatea stared at me. A slight rosy tint rose on her cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and barely perceptible irritation. She looked away, her chin slightly raised, and resumed pushing her stone with renewed force, without a word. The message was clear: the conversation was closed.

Our interactions remained rare, limited to exchanged glances, sometimes a mutual nod after a particularly difficult ordeal. Galatea, however, stood out.

While others collapsed, gasped, or let sweat stain their faces, she maintained impeccable posture, her movements still disconcertingly fluid. There was a quiet arrogance in her way of never looking disheveled, even under strain. Her pride in her own grace was already palpable.

One day, as we were both carrying a heavy log, my arms threatened to give out.

 

"Damned log… do they think we're going to enjoy lifting Yoma and carrying them around?" I grumbled, annoyed by the training, feeling the bark of the log clinging to my small hands.

 

She felt my weakness and, without a word, adjusted her grip. Her slender, surprisingly strong shoulders took on a little more weight, just enough to allow me to readjust my hold. I looked at her, surprised. She gave me a neutral look, but with a spark of acknowledgment not for my surprise, but for my determination not to falter. Her low voice cut through the air.

 

"Watch your breathing." A slight mocking smile stretched her lips, her gaze sliding to my soiled hands. "And your language, too…"

 

I stared at her, dumbfounded. My face, already red from the effort, must have turned crimson. "I don't give a damn about them, and I'll talk however I want!" I said, grabbing the dead weight between us more firmly. "I'd rather my entire body break than look weak in front of her."

 

Galatea raised a slender eyebrow, amused. "You handle your breathing poorly and always end up choking. If you want to survive, it's better to learn when to shut up." Her tone was calm, but her words carried weight, an unexpected maturity for a child our age.

A mix of annoyance and curiosity went through me. She had a lot of nerve, and yet, there was truth in what she said.

An idea came to me. I smiled, locked our gazes, then politely nodded, bowing as much as the log allowed.

 

"As Your Highness would say."

 

Galatea’s laugh was unexpected. A small, clear sound that echoed in the courtyard, attracting a few glances from the guards, quickly ignored. She shook her head, a genuine smile, fleeting but sincere, lighting up her face.

"You are incorrigible, Lysia," she said as I sped up our pace. "Be careful not to fall!" she snapped when my foot slipped slightly on a pebble.

 

"Trust me!"

 

Galatea slowed her pace by a breath, almost forcing me to do the same. Her gaze rested on me, no longer amused, but questioning.

"Why are you pushing yourself so hard, anyway? Most apprentices are here out of revenge or despair; you don't seem to fit either of those profiles." She seemed to be analyzing me, her keen eye searching for a flaw or an explanation.

"I could say the same for you…" My answer was evasive, a mirror held up. I knew my reason might be childish… but the memory of that warrior was my driving force. I focused on the girl in front of me.

Galatea’s reason… it was harder to pinpoint. Her ambition wasn't glory; she seemed to want irreproachability, as if any other path was an abyss.

 

"You seem to neither fear nor hate them, except perhaps for their apparent ugliness…" I smiled.

 

Galatea made a small sound, a mix of a sigh and a suppressed laugh. "I didn't have much choice, but it seems this path was destined for me…" she said.

"My village was attacked, but that's not the reason… A Claymore with wavy hair and a beautiful smile saved my life," I said, fleetingly recalling the memory of her.

 

"So… you wanted to join the Claymores because a beautiful woman saved your life?"

Galatea blinked. A split second of silence stretched, then her sharp gaze rested on me, a spark of mischief lighting her eyes. A thin smile stretched her lips, tinged with barely veiled mockery.

"Let me understand this, Lysia…" she said, drawing out the words with exasperating slowness. "So you… wanted to join our charming institution of suffering and mutilation… because a beautiful woman caught your eye?" A blush burned my face and ears as she continued, visibly relishing my embarrassment.

"Love at first sight for a silken-haired warrior?" She tilted her head, a small, clear laugh escaping, seemingly finding the idea absolutely delightful. "Oh, Lysia. That's adorably naive. I hope this… Warrior… lives up to your dreams if you meet her," she said with false innocence, making her almost impertinent.

Her smile widened, her eyes twinkling. "Tell me, Lysia, do you find me beautiful too? Or am I just… passable?" She asked the question with feigned lightness, but her gaze was fixed on mine, a defiant expectation in her eyes.

 

My already scarlet face turned an even brighter shade. She was openly mocking me, and the worst part was, I felt a strange mix of annoyance and… pride.

 

"Why…? I didn't know you wanted to please me, Latea." I threw the challenge back at her, an insolent smile stretching my lips despite my embarrassment. "But if you insist, I must admit you're not ugly. For a mouse, of course." I looked at her with a pointed wink, the pleasure of provocation outweighing the heat on my cheeks.

 

She gazed at me, her own smile, now sharper, slowly reforming. "Very well, Lys. If I'm only 'not ugly for a mouse,' I can't wait to see this marvelous warrior you idealize so much." A gleam of defiance burned in her eyes.

 

I sighed dramatically in response. "Laaaaaateaaaaa," I whined, my voice dripping with false admiration and exaggerated love. "Your beauty is breathtaking, Lateaaaaaa! You are extraordinary, Lateaaaaaa! Thank you for honoring me, and this world, with your presence…" I continued this way until the end of our exercise, watching Galatea's face tighten slightly, her patience visibly tested by my teasing.

 

At first, Galatea tried to ignore the litany, maintaining her impeccable posture and proud gaze. But my voice, deliberately syrupy and full of forced adoration, pierced her facade. Her forehead, usually smooth, creased with slight irritation. She clenched her jaw. A muscle twitched on her temple. The drawn-out "Laaaateaaaaa," the repeated "breathtaking" and "extraordinary" as praises seemed to grate on her nerves as we carried that log.

Her gaze rested on me for a moment, a mix of contained fury and tiny amusement, like a queen who's been pricked but forced to acknowledge her jester's ingenuity. She made a visible effort not to roll her eyes, not to react physically. Instead, a sigh, more exasperated than truly annoyed, escaped her lips.

"You are a true plague, Lysia," she finally murmured, in a voice only the two of us could have heard, almost a hiss between her clenched teeth. "A perfectly… unbearable nuisance!" She slightly sped up her pace, as if to escape my syrupy voice, her shoulders a little stiffer than usual.

 

I straightened my head, putting on a fake sad face that contrasted with the mischievous smile tugging at my lips. "Oh, my princess!" I complained in a whining tone, but my gaze was full of playfulness. "I thought you'd like my compliments… I put so much effort into them! I guess you don't care about my love…" I said, my voice becoming more serious at the end, a hint of sincerity mixed with insolence.

 

Galatea stopped dead upon hearing my phrase, forcing me to do the same, the log still between us. Her usually controlled face showed a rare expression of perplexity. The annoyance was still there, but it was tinged with palpable incomprehension.

The silence stretched between us, broken only by the heavy breathing of the other apprentices. Her eyes searched mine, trying to decipher what lay behind my expression. For the first time, Galatea seemed… uncertain.

Then, a rediscovered spark of mischief rekindled in her eyes. A slow smile, full of regained smugness, stretched her thin lips.

 

"Oh, Lysia. Your 'love'?" Galatea's voice now dripped with false compassion, mimicking my own tone, which boded nothing good for me… "I didn't know you had such feelings for me… That 'magnificent' warrior with perfect curls, have you already forgotten her?" She put on a pout. "Don't tell me I'm just her stand-in… you'd break my heart…"

I rolled my eyes, letting out an amused sigh, and pulled the log to force her to keep walking.

 

"Come on, let's go."

---

That's the vision idk if you get it but ....that's the same image for me.

 

Chapter 3: The end of childhood

Notes:

I hope you will like it and comments <3

F0xTr0t
xoxox

The weeks passed in this way, blurring into one another as boredom began to set in.

Our child bodies transformed, lengthening, muscling, but at what cost... our skin was covered in bruises, our hands calloused. We had become machines of endurance, hard shells ready to be filled with what would transform us. The training room was vast and glacial, like all the rooms in the Organization.

The young recruits, all girls barely ten years old, stood at attention, their eyes fixed on the instructors. The day's lesson covered different types of  Yomas, their weaknesses, and techniques for observing movements. A soporific class, even for future warriors whose survival would one day depend on this knowledge.

We were grouped in tight ranks, shoulder to shoulder. Galatea and I were positioned toward the back of the group. The instructors, dark and rigid figures, patrolled mostly at the front and sides, their voices carrying far, their piercing eyes sweeping over faces searching for the slightest inattention.

But our position, slightly set back, and Galatea's apparent concentration perfectly masked my lack of interest. The other apprentices were too absorbed by the fear of boredom, fatigue, or the difficulty of retaining information to pay attention to their neighbors.

I stood in rank, just behind Galatea. Her hair was a good barrier. While the instructor explained Yoma mutations and the weak points to target, a silent battle began within me. My eyes drifted to the ceiling, then to the silhouettes of the other girls, and finally, inevitably, to Galatea's broad, stoic back.

An impish smile stretched my lips, no longer paying the slightest attention to the guards. After all, I didn't need to listen to this gibberish. It wasn't important. What mattered was cutting them down, not knowing how many bumps they had or what kind of warriors they might have been.

The urge to sleep was overwhelming. Without anyone noticing, I leaned slightly forward.

My forehead gently came to rest against Galatea's shoulder blade. My eyelids grew heavy. I wasn't sleeping deeply; I was ready to straighten up if necessary... obviously... I let myself be lulled by her warm presence.

One foot slightly back, the weight of my small body almost entirely supported by Galatea's unshakeable stability.

I felt Galatea's back stiffen, a sudden and unusual tension. Her body, usually so still, had barely flinched, a movement only I, pressed against her, could have perceived. Then, after a moment of suspension, I felt a very slight sigh escape her, almost a whisper.

Her shoulder, on which I was leaning, became a little more rigid, as if she were holding back. I couldn't tell if it was annoyance, or if she didn't want to wake me or was afraid I would lose my balance and fall.

So I decided to gently raise my hand and play with the tips of her hair.

The class finally ended, and I let out a sigh of relief. The guards gave orders for the next activity.

As we started to move to leave the room, Galatea, whose impeccable posture betrayed no fatigue, turned to me. Her expression was still neutral, but I perceived a glint in her eyes.

"You seem to.... sleep a lot during classes, Lysia," she said in a calm voice, without any apparent judgment. "Is it perhaps for your growth?"

I let out a small yawn, "No, It's just boring, and if you didn't like it or anything, you should have moved away or told a guard," I said, then a small arrogant smile formed on my lips as another yawn escaped. I tried to continue, " I think I'll be taller than you...soon."

Galatea looked at me, a faint smile barely stretching her lips. A mocking sparkle shone in her clear eyes. "Really? will you ?" she murmured, her tone tinged with amused doubt. "That... I'll have to see to believe... And I can't wait." Her gaze remained on me as she looked me up and down.

I rolled my eyes and rushed toward her, lifting her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and sprinting as fast as possible. I felt her bouncing and shaking on my shoulder as she tried to escape my embrace.

As I ran, I felt her hand hit my back, not with force, but with obvious amusement. A light, crystalline laugh escaped her lips as she wiggled a little more, but without truly trying to free herself.

"Let me go!" she said between bursts of laughter, but her voice was full of cheerfulness, not anger.

"If you keep wiggling like that, you'll make us fall, Gala!" I said, out of breath and slightly annoyed, the laughter in my voice mingling with the effort. "You sound like a real damsel in distress or a Scaredy-Cat..."

One morning, the atmosphere changed. The instructors looked graver. The guards watched us with new intensity. After the usual training, we were gathered in the courtyard. The man in the dark robe, the one who had bought me at the market, was there. Beside him, other equally austere figures.

"The time has come," the man said, his gravelly voice resounding in the silence. "You have proven your tenacity. You have proven yourselves worthy. Tomorrow, you will begin to become what you are destined to be. Warriors."

A shiver ran through the crowd of young girls. The words floated in the air, heavy with promises and terror.

The word "operation" resonated in the courtyard, colder than the morning wind. It settled upon us like a shroud, enveloping whispers and terrified glances. The crowd of young girls slowly dispersed, each dragging their feet toward the dormitory, the weight of the revelation pressing on shoulders already bowed by training.

In the dormitory, the silence was no longer that of exhaustion, but of apprehension. No one spoke, but the whispers of fear were palpable in the air.

Some girls were curled up on their mats, arms wrapped around their knees, their pale faces reflecting the growing darkness. The youngest sobbed silently, and others seemed impatient.

I lay on my own mat, my eyes fixed on the dark ceiling. The operation. They were going to open us, insert... what? Rumor had it it was Yoma blood and flesh.

The idea was repugnant, terrifying. I had fled Yoma all my life, hated them for what they had taken from me, and now they were going to put their essence into me? My stomach clenched.

"Gross," I muttered.

I glanced at Galatea. She was sitting on her mat, back perfectly straight, her green eyes fixed on nothingness. Not a tremor. Not a sound. She was disturbingly still, as if meditating on her own destiny. Her strength, her calm, were an armor.

Yet, a small something betrayed her. Her hand, resting on her thigh, gripped the fabric of her pants so tightly that her knuckles were white. Even she, "Her Highness" impassive, felt fear.

I propped myself up a little, leaning on my elbows. "Aren't you scared?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper in the oppressive silence of the room.

Galatea didn't look away from the wall. "Fear is useless, Lysia. It changes nothing."

I got up and walked over to her, dropping onto her mat and giving her a small, impudent smile. "That doesn't stop you from feeling it," I retorted, subtly pointing to her clenched hand.

She looked down at her hand, then released her grip, relaxing her fingers. An almost imperceptible sigh escaped her lips. "It's true," she admitted, her voice softer than usual. "It's the unknown. What will happen... what we will become." She looked at me, and for the first time, her green eyes reflected a trace of vulnerability. "But it's the only path."

Her words resonated with what I had repeated to myself for weeks. Strength. Survival. That was the only thing that mattered. The alternative was hunger, cold, or death at the hands of a Yoma. Here, at least, there was a promise, even if it came with an unimaginable price.

"At worst, we'll just die..." I said quietly. "If all goes well, we'll wake up... different. Blonder..." I said, a slight smile stretching my lips. "Blonde would suit you."

Galatea stared at me, incredulous, then a faint amused smile formed on her lips. She shook her head, a small, soft laugh escaping her control. "I don't think that's the goal of the operation." But there was no reprimand in her voice, just an acceptance of my humor.

I feigned surprise and theatrically put my hand on my chest. "You weren't here out of pure vanity?!"

Galatea rolled her eyes with a theatrical sigh. "Of course, Lysia. I dreamed of having sun-colored hair flowing in the wind to face monsters with a giant sword." Her tone was ironic, but real amusement shone in her eyes.

"Focus. Tomorrow will be... difficult." She finally lay down too; her presence slightly eased my nervousness. She said nothing more, but her simple presence, her regained calm, was a balm.

We lay there, side by side, in silent anticipation of dawn. The last night of our lives as children. My thoughts turned to the Claymore with wavy hair, recalling a bittersweet memory.

---

Flashback

 

My village. The blood-tinged twilight. The screams of agony that pierced the night. The massive shadows of the Yoma, their claws tearing everything in their path, their bloodshot eyes gleaming with insatiable hunger. I was a terrified child, curled up under a pile of debris, my heart pounding, my hands clamped over my mouth to stifle my own cries. Powerless. That was the feeling that gnawed at me the most, far more than fear.

And then... she appeared.

A slender figure, swift as the wind. The Yoma, so imposing, were nothing compared to her. I remember her hair. A golden blonde that seemed to catch the last light of day, waving like a river of pure gold as she moved with a supernatural grace. Her sword, longer than she was, traced silver arcs in the air, each movement of deadly precision, slicing through the monsters' flesh with disconcerting ease.

My breath caught. This was no human. This was... a legend. A warrior from tales, come to life. The monsters fell, dismembered, their cries dying under the relentless blade. And when the last Yoma collapsed into a smoking pile of flesh, silence returned, heavy, macabre, but whole.

She stood there, amidst the shredded bodies, her Claymore resting on her shoulder. She sought no thanks; her silver eyes swept the scene without apparent emotion. But then, her eyes settled on me, a small, trembling, dusty thing. A faint smile touched her lips.

A thin smile, barely perceptible, that conveyed no joy, but rather a distant sadness, a resignation tinged with a wisdom I couldn't understand. That smile was... strange. Beautiful. Terrifying.

I stood up, my child's legs wobbling, and ran toward her, without thinking, my small feet hitting stones and debris. My eyes shining with blind adoration, filled with stars, I lifted my grimy face to her.

"Thank you!" The word escaped, breathless, imbued with all the admiration and gratitude of a saved child. "Thank you for coming!"

The warrior lowered her head slightly, her eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that seemed to probe my soul. Her smile faded, replaced by an expression of astonished curiosity. It was surely an unexpected reaction. Most humans fled or stared at Claymores with horror. Yet I felt no fear or repulsion, only pure and sincere admiration for my heroine.

"You're not afraid?" she asked, her voice calm, steady, but with a tiny hint of surprise. Her gaze seemed to pierce me, not to intimidate, but to understand.

I shook my head fervently, my eyes fixed on her golden hair. "No! You're... incredible! You're my hero, why would I be afraid of you?"

An almost imperceptible sigh escaped her lips. A mix of weariness and perhaps, a tiny touch of amusement or melancholy at this innocence. Her gaze lingered for another moment on my face, a prolonged observation, as if she were carving my small silhouette into her memory.

"Don't waste your time thanking, child," she finally said, her voice resuming its usual detached tone, though a little softer than usual. "It's just my job. Those who survive... quickly learn to rely only on themselves."

Then, with the same swiftness with which she had appeared, she turned away. Her silhouette, already blurred by the falling night, vanished on the horizon, leaving me alone amidst the smoking ruins, with only the echo of her words and the etched image of her smile and wavy hair for company.

---

 

I fell asleep with that last thought.

The next morning, the awakening was not brutal. A silent guard gestured for us to get up. No shouts, no haste. A silent procession formed, leading us not to the training yard, but to a building we had never seen before. It was made of black stone, windowless, and a heavy, strange metallic smell emanated from it.

The interior was a succession of narrow, dark corridors, lit by flickering torches. Finally, we arrived in a large circular room with several doors. Masked figures, clad in long white robes, stood before them. The "scientists," no doubt. Their faces were hidden, their hands gloved, and their eyes, visible through slits, were devoid of all emotion.

One by one, the girls were called. Their names echoed in the silence of the room. Some stumbled, others resisted and were dragged away. Muffled screams, groans, then a disturbing silence, broken only by the scientists' instruments. I listened, my heart pounding in my chest.

Fear chilled my insides, but a strange curiosity kept me from looking away from the door from which the macabre sounds emanated.

After several hours, my turn came. "Lysia," a flat voice said.

I didn't flinch. I walked toward the leftmost door, entering the room. In the center, a cold stone table, gleaming tools, and shallow basins filled with a dark liquid.

I walked toward the stone table designated for me, my legs trembling but my determination unwavering. I lay on my back, arms by my sides. The stone was glacial. One of the masked scientists approached, his eyes fixed. His hands gripped my arms and legs, tying them securely.

"Ready, child?" His voice was a cold whisper.

I didn't answer. I stared at the ceiling, breathing deeply. Ready or not, there was no turning back, and whatever I said, I doubted he would listen.

A cold, sharp scalpel sank into my flesh. A sharp pain shot through my body, tearing a groan from my throat. Then, another incision, and another. I felt the warm liquid of my own blood trickle onto my skin. And then, the horror.

A viscous, cold, thick substance was inserted into my wounds. It wasn't the warmth of a remedy. It was a foreign essence, a deliberate infection. A wave of intense, burning cold surged through my veins, mixing with my blood, chilling me from within. My entire body began to tremble, not from cold, but from a violent reaction. A sensation of glacial burning spread, as if my insides were caught in a blizzard and a firestorm at once.

By some miracle, I hadn't yet fainted. I clenched my teeth, tears streaming down my cheeks.

Images flashed through my mind. Shifting shadows, inhuman forms, distant roars. A voice, an ancient whisper that twisted and mingled with the pain. It seemed to awaken, to awaken through the horror of this new essence permeating me. A new hunger, not of my stomach, but of my soul, began to rumble.

I started to pray faithlessly, for it to end as soon as possible. I gradually drifted into unconsciousness.

My body was no longer my own. Every fiber, every muscle, screamed with throbbing pain, a consuming fever that blurred the contours of reality. The world was nothing more than an alternation of shadows and lights, indistinct voices and deafening silences. I lay motionless, imprisoned in this new chrysalis of suffering.

And it was in that burning haze that memories, like specters, began to dance. Those from before, from days past, from the streets...

---

Dream

 

The cold bit into my bones, a familiar companion in the muddy alleys where I spent my nights. I had no home, no family, just the frozen pavements and the shadows of the markets. Each day was a battle for a piece of hardened bread, a struggle not to be crushed by indifferent passersby. My hands, thin and agile, knew the weight of a stolen purse, the harsh satisfaction of a successful theft. I was quick, elusive, always on the lookout.

I was barely 6 or 7 years old, but life had aged me a hundred. The street had taught me resourcefulness, caution, and above all, survival. Fear was a constant smell, but it didn't paralyze me. It sharpened my senses, making my movements swifter. My small, frail body was a trap set for those who thought me harmless.

One day, driven by a curiosity that hunger couldn't extinguish, I ventured beyond the outskirts, where houses gave way to a dense, silent forest, seeking to clean myself in a stream.

And it was there, among the wet ferns and ancient tree trunks, that I saw him.

A small fox. Not a scrawny animal from tales, but a creature of striking beauty. Its reddish coat blazed under the filtered light of the leaves, its eyes were a piercing gold, and its snout thin, almost arrogant. He stared at me for a moment, without fear, without hatred, just with an insolent intelligence, before disappearing like a reddish shadow among the trees. He was cunning, and so incredibly beautiful.

But as I tried to get closer, he growled, and I tried to soothe him, then noticed a wound on his paw.

"Well, smarty-pants, did you hurt yourself?" I said, approaching him as he tried to back away. "You might die like that," I added, tossing him a piece of dried meat I had in my pocket.

The dream then blurred. The fox's beauty shifted into a hazy image: fangs, red eyes, and destruction. Screams, fire...

Then,

the void....

---

Chapter 4: From Child to Claymore

Notes:

I was thinking how Claymore universe's have harsh realities i mean is really the only manga/anime where i fully understand how important is the "friendship". Bc the kids have a brutal training, a brutal live and lack of normal social interaction. Their interactions are often about survival, strength, or just their "utility" for the organisation, 24/24h dehumanized by everyone.💀

This is why I guess claymores often end up focusing only on their own...

The operating room smelled of cold steel, tears, and dried blood. I woke up with a weight. A heavy, icy weight, right there, in my chest, and a persistent headache that came not just from pain, but from a strange background noise. It was a blur. Like a poorly tuned radio, filling my head with fog, leaving me grumpy and annoyed.

I don't know how long I spent in the dark. Hours, days? Time had lost all meaning. When my eyelids finally lifted, a harsh light blinded me.

My entire body was a throbbing ache, every muscle screaming for vengeance. I felt my wounds sewn up, bandages tight around my skin. But the pain was different, deeper, as if it came from inside my bones.

I let myself sink back into the abyss, hoping to make it all stop.

When I opened my eyes again, I found I was back in the dormitory. The silence was no longer total. Faint groans rose from the surrounding mats, and the air was heavy with a metallic, acrid smell... of blood.

I tried to sit up, and my muscles, though bruised, seemed strangely to respond with a new, unusual strength. I felt as if my body was both alien and more powerful.

My gaze fell on my hands. They seemed longer, my fingers thinner, but my nails... my nails had become hard, almost like claws. I turned them over, fascinated.

Then I noticed my reflection in a puddle on the floor. White hair and my eyes... They were the same... a blue-grey, just... colder? It was the first time I had seen myself like this, and a wave of shock went through me.

I wasn't supposed to have silver eyes and blonde or white hair, was I? So why are my damn eyes still the same? I wondered.

Around me, the dormitory was a surreal scene. The headcount after the operation was barely twenty now. There had been about fifty at the start. Girls were getting up with difficulty, their bodies swaying; others remained lying down, gasping. Their eyes, previously all colors, now all shone with the same silvery gleam, like the pale moon reflected on a dark lake.

Their hair too had turned blonde, various shades, or pure white.

A little further away, several mats were empty. Some were stained with dried blood. Others, torn. I knew the girls who occupied them were no longer there. They hadn't survived. Their groans had been silenced forever. A cold anguish clutched my heart. Had they turned into Yoma? Or were they simply... gone? My stomach clenched.

My gaze searched for Galatea, slightly panicked. But she was sitting on her mat, her back as straight as usual. Her eyes were also silver, intensely bright, almost hypnotic. Her white hair shone in the dim light, accentuating the unreal aura she already possessed. I also noticed that her ears had become slightly pointed... but my gaze quickly returned to her eyes as she looked at me; her eyes showed no trace of surprise regarding the color of mine.

She was... magnificent for... a mouse, I hastened to add in the privacy of my mind.

"Welcome to the club, Lysia," she said, her voice clear and crisp in the mental fog, devoid of any trace of fatigue. "How do you feel?"

The pain was still there, but lessened by this new strength. My body vibrated with a strange energy. "Like crap..." I replied, my own voice seeming deeper to my ears. "And you, Your Highness? How's the blonde hair working out?"

A fleeting smile crossed her face, her silver eyes sparkling with amusement. "Better than yours, I imagine. But 'weird' is a good word to describe the feeling." She got up and offered me a hand. "Get up. I bet they won't let us wallow for long."

I took her hand. Her skin was warmer than mine, and her grip was firm. I stood up with her help, feeling every muscle stretch, every nerve tingle. And to think this was just the beginning... the beginning of a new existence, strange and terrifying, but shared.

As the pain persisted and the strange vibrating energy became constant, I felt my senses sharpen. Every sound in the dormitory resonated louder. Every smell, even the faintest, reached me with unbearable clarity. The murmurs or gasps of the other girls, barely audible before, now seemed to echo in my skull.

I could feel the warmth of bodies around me, the pressure of the air, the faint draft under the door. It was as if a veil had been lifted from before my eyes, my ears, my whole being.

I groaned slightly at the noise and new sensations.

Galatea seemed to react differently to the world. Her senses were probably as heightened, but she concealed or managed it much better than I did. She moved with a newfound fluidity, her gestures imbued with a latent strength and elegance.

 

Hardly had we stood up when a guard entered, his dry, authoritative voice cutting through the heavy air of pain. "Up, new recruits. Training has only just begun."

My entire body tensed. My vision blurred with pain, and anger surged. They had just cut us open, transformed us into something inhuman, and they expected us to obey immediately?

"Why is he barking so loudly?" I growled, my voice hoarser than I would have liked, my rage overriding my caution.

One of the guards must have heard me because he fixed his gaze on me, frowning. He stepped forward, his hard gaze on me. "What did you say?"

I was not in the mood. The throbbing pain, the disgust at what they had done to my body, all of it boiled within me. I raised my head, my electric blue gaze meeting his without flinching.

"I asked why you're yelling like that!" I said louder, the challenge evident in my voice. "Just because we have white hair now doesn't mean we've lost our hearing, you know!" An arrogant and slightly mocking smile stretched my lips, sarcasm piercing the tension.

A heavy silence fell over the dormitory. The other apprentices, already half-conscious or struggling to get up, ceased all movement. Their newly silvered eyes widened in terror, settling alternately on me and the guard.

A few let out stifled whimpers, others tried to make themselves as small as possible, their faces pale with fear. A girl near me let out a nervous tremor of laughter, quickly stifled by a hand over her mouth. Incredulity and pure fear nailed them to the ground.

The guard was stunned for a moment, his face contorting with contained fury at this unprecedented insubordination and insolence. He lunged at me, grabbing my arm. My transformed muscles reacted, but the pain and surprise were stronger. He dragged me forcibly out of the dormitory, my feet dragging on the cold floor, while I struggled and spat insults he had probably never heard from a child's mouth.

I could feel the intense gaze burning my nape, a silent observation.

 

The punishment was brutal. I was dragged to the training yard. The guard threw me to the ground in front of the other new recruits who were beginning to arrive, looking terrified.

"Push-ups! Until I've had enough!" he barked.

My muscles were already screaming, but I forced myself into position. Each flexion was torture. My arms trembled, my sewn-up wounds pulled. Rage and pain intertwined, and I continued to curse under my breath, barely audible insults, a continuous stream of defiance.

Just as my arms faltered and my body neared the ground for the tenth time, a searing pain shot through my ribs. The guard had just given me a violent kick. I tensed my muscles and tried to ignore the pain, breathless, but I clenched my teeth, refusing to scream as I continued doing push-ups. His eyes reflected cruel satisfaction.

"Again! Or you won't eat all week!"

"As if I give a damn," I huffed.

My stomach was on fire, my teeth clenched, my curses becoming furious growls. Every kick, every insult fueled my rage.

The ordeal lasted what felt like an eternity. I don't know how long. Five minutes? Ten? Twenty? It was a blur of pain, of dust on which my sweat dripped, the rage burning my body. While the dog continued to bark orders and beat me at the slightest weakness.

Just when I thought my body would give out permanently, a new voice resonated in the courtyard, a calmer voice, tinged with a different authority.

"That's enough."

 

I looked up, eyes filled with rage, body trembling, to see two familiar figures approaching. Two warriors in uniform, Claymores. One, with short blonde hair and vivid silver eyes, an aura of quiet determination. Beside her, another, with shoulder-length wavy hair.

The guard saluted them, slightly surprised. "She needs to learn discipline." He motioned to me with his chin, without any trace of remorse.

I resisted the urge to respond to that remark, biting furiously inside my cheek.

The one with the shorter hair replied, "I see. She's got spirit, huh?" She chuckled softly, a dry, almost mocking sound. "Well, iron is forged with hammer blows. Let us handle it; the training truly begins now," she said, pointing to a pile of swords similar to those the women carried.

I painfully got to my feet, my whole body trembling. I exhaled and walked toward the rest of the group, placing myself to Galatea's left. My ribs and abs shot sharp pains with every movement, a brutal reminder of the guard's kicks. I grimaced. Galatea, right beside me, gave me a brief silver glance, her expression difficult to decipher, but I felt a hint of annoyance and perhaps worry? before she turned to the instructors, impassive.

"I am Noëlle, Number 4, and Sophie, Number 3," announced one of the new instructors, her voice resonating with calm authority. "Exceptionally, we will be your instructors for the next few days."

I observed the two women. Noëlle seemed to adopt a more agile approach, her gaze measured. Sophie, on the other hand, swept her eyes over the small group with amusement and impatience. I discreetly hid behind Galatea's shoulder, ashamed of my blue eyes so different from theirs.

 

That's when things started to get even stranger. As they explained how to hold the sword, a flow of energy began to well up within me. It hadn't left me since the operation, but now, it was reacting. It was cold, a penetrating coldness that contrasted with the physical effort. I suppressed it.

Clenching my cold fingers around the hilt of the heavy sword that reached my height.

The instructor, the one with boyishly short silver hair, Noëlle I think, showed us the basic grip, guard positions, and the first movements. Meanwhile, Sophie, the one with wavy hair, watched us, leaning gently against a wall.

The Claymore sword was immense, its metal cold and heavy. For me, barely 1.30m tall, it towered over my head, its point tickling the sky. I had to hold it with two hands to lift it, my arms already exhausted under its colossal weight.

I struggled, each clumsy swing making me waver. The steel blade wouldn't obey, too heavy, too long for my small arms. The flow of cold energy within me stirred, like a beast impatient to be freed, to help me tame this recalcitrant metal. I kept it confined, burning with anger. My ribs burned, and the pain distracted me, making me even clumsier. I shot dark glances at the instructor, even though she wasn't looking at me.

Galatea, beside me, seemed to handle her sword with disconcerting ease. Her movements were fluid, precise, her new strength making the heavy blade seem so light in her hands. Even though she wasn't as tall as an adult yet, she already had an imposing stature for her age.

The sword, though still large, seemed less disproportionate to her. She struck the dummies with impressive power, each blow delivered with formidable efficiency.

My gaze met hers. An amused smile stretched her lips, her silver eyes twinkling. She tilted her head slightly towards my sword, which seemed gigantic to me.

"Your sword will end up dragging you to the ground if you're not careful, little one," she murmured, just loud enough for me to hear, while the instructor observed us from afar. "You look like you're holding a fallen tree."

I grimaced. "It's too big!" I whispered back, feeling a surge of frustration.

"It's your size, Chief Ankle-Biter," she retorted with an impassive face and voice. "You're flailing instead of thinking. If you keep this up, you'll trip over it." She mimed a fall, a mocking smile escaping her lips.

"Excuse me, Captain Sky-High, have you finished hunting birds from the sky and decided to set your sights on me?" I rolled my eyes, a small laugh escaping, then turned to her and said, "I feel like I'm holding you by the feets and having to wave you in the air" I said as a laugh escaped me imagining the scene, and a small laugh escaped me.

Galatea let out a small amused puff, her silver eyes twinkling with mischief as she resumed her exercises.

A surge of annoyance rose in me as I struggled to improve.

I had to adapt. I had to understand how to become one with this mass of metal. I would grip the handle again, trying to concentrate, the advice in my head, and not on the insane weight that wanted to pull my sword to the ground. I could feel a new strength inside me that seemed to react, allowing me to hold the sword better, although I could feel my arms trembling from the effort.

The instructors gave us no respite. Hours passed in endless repetitions of the same movements. Then, at a nod from our two instructors, came the moment of a small competition to see the best, through simulated combat against the dummies.

We had to strike, parry, move. Galatea was formidable, her blade slicing through the air with a speed and power I never thought possible for a child, especially not on our first day.

In contrast, I was slow, my blows lacked force. But my tenacity was still there. I struck again and again, even if my arms burned. I wouldn't fall. Not in front of Galatea or the others.

While Noëlle corrected a recruit's posture, Sophie's gaze swept over the group and stopped for a moment on me. My blood ran cold. She was looking at me, but her attention didn't seem to be on my clumsiness with the sword. Her silver eyes were fixed on me, and I looked down in panic. My body still hadn't recovered from the blows delivered by the stupid guard.

 

"You, the little one," she said in a neutral voice, but with an intensity that pierced me. "Lift your head, don't pretend I'm not talking to you!"

I obeyed, feeling the gazes of the other girls fall on me, again. Galatea, right beside me, continued her training, but I felt her discreet attention.

Sophie approached slowly. Noëlle watched us without really understanding, as Sophie's footsteps echoed in the courtyard. She leaned slightly, her face a few centimeters from mine. Her silver eyes scrutinized my own eyes; my body stiffened.

"Interesting," she murmured, more to herself than to me. "Never seen such a shade. Normally our eyes are silver." She grabbed my jaw and brought her face closer for a more thorough inspection. Her gaze moved from my eyes to sweep over my entire appearance.

"A failure perhaps..." Her voice was not accusatory, just factual, as if stating it was going to rain. A tense silence settled. The other girls looked away, nervous. Anger rose in me, and I clenched my teeth, stepping away from her.

Claymores, especially high-ranking ones, didn't like anomalies... After all, differences often meant weaknesses, or worse... uncontrollable risks. I groaned slightly at her implications.

Suddenly, without a word of warning, Sophie unleashed a blinding kick towards my leg, at which I let out a cry. It was a quick, dry movement, aimed at unbalancing me without seriously injuring me. At the same time, her other hand came down, aiming to grab my shoulder.

"Hey Sophie, don't you think you're going a bit hard there?" shouted Noëlle, but neither she nor I seemed to pay attention.

My body reacted before my mind could process the information. The instinct of survival, sharpened by my transformation, let the new strength of my Yoki pour into my body. I took an awkward step aside, almost tripping, but avoiding the full impact of her hand.

Sophie's hand barely grazed my shoulder. The sword in my hands, though still heavy, instinctively rose to parry, a gesture of pure defense. It was a raw reflex, without any technique, but it had been lifted.

Sophie stepped back, her silver eyes sparkling with fierce amusement. Noëlle, for her part, observed the scene with undisguised interest, a flicker of analysis in her gaze.

"Not bad, half-pint," Sophie said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You've got bounce. But a true warrior doesn't hide behind her comrades." She cast a quick glance at Galatea, who hadn't moved, but whose muscles were tense.

Anger rumbled within me. Not only had she attacked me without warning, but she had dared to imply I was a coward, that I was hiding. My Yoki stirred, a wave of intense cold threatening to surge. I gripped the sword even tighter.

"Shut up!" I spat, rage vibrating in my voice. Without even thinking, I lunged forward. The sword in my hands, a colossal burden just moments ago, now felt light as a feather. My speed surprised even myself. I swung the steel blade in a fierce arc, aiming for Sophie's flank.

She dodged my blow with disconcerting ease, a mocking smile floating on her lips. But my left hand, transformed into a hard fist, didn't stop. In the momentum of my missed sword attack, I moved it with lightning speed and punched her square in the face.

A dry sound, a crack. Surprise crossed Sophie's silver eyes before her head was thrown to the side.

Silence fell again, heavier still. The other recruits had stopped breathing. Even Galatea's eyes were wide, her body finally relaxed but frozen. My anger subsided, and I froze, breathless and exhausted.

Sophie slowly turned her face to me. A thin line of blood escaped from her split lip. Her eyes, surprised at first, shone with a new light, that of fierce satisfaction. The smile returned, wider, more genuine this time, revealing a hint of excitement.

"A cowardly attack... though I must admit it was well thought out," she murmured, wiping the blood from the back of her hand and looking at it. "Now that's what I call spirit!"

Noëlle, who had remained apart, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, finally burst out laughing and mocked her comrade, who did not respond. My Yoki, released for an instant, retracted within me, leaving me trembling with adrenaline and retrospective fear, and above all, drained.

Then, to my great surprise, Sophie approached me and raised her hand. I closed my eyes, ready for any physical punishment, for the repercussion of my insolence. But she just caught me in a brief embrace, pressing my head against her muscular flank, ruffling my white hair with a rough hand. Then, without warning, she lightly hit my head with her fist.

"You're lucky you ran into us," she said in a hoarse voice, a mix of warning and compliment. "Other Claymores wouldn't have taken such disrespect so well... snot-nosed brat." She continued to lightly hit my head.

As I caught my breath, surprise nailing me to the spot, she abruptly let me go, pushing me forward, and unexpectedly, she gave me a sharp knee to my already bruised stomach. I choked, bending in half, the pain stealing my breath. The cold inside me stirred violently, a defensive instinct urging me to release my Yoki, but I held back, struggling not to collapse.

I choked back the insult wanting to escape my mouth, looking at Sophie who watched me fall, her smile still present. Noëlle didn't move, but her eyes widened.

Having no strength to stop my fall, I fell headfirst to the ground, my hands still wrapped around my stomach and my breath short. An urge to vomit overwhelmed me, and I struggled with all my might not to release my entire meal there.

The impact was painful, but the humiliation was much worse. My face was pressed against the dirt floor of the courtyard, and I could feel the gazes of the other recruits weighing on me. Some were horrified, others just terrified. Galatea, who had frozen for a moment, took a step forward, a glimmer of fury seeming to cross her eyes.

"Sophie, was that necessary? You're the one who didn't dodge her blow..." Noëlle's tone was sharp, her steps nearing us. "Are you going to start tormenting the apprentices?" she chuckled.

Sophie didn't take her eyes off me. Even though my face was on the ground, I could feel her gaze on me. I rolled onto my back, observing her, my gaze filled with fury.

Her smile faded, replaced by a more calculating expression. "She's resilient, she'll be fine. It's a good lesson for her," she shrugged, turning on her heel to resume training.

I felt the cold ground against my cheek, the taste of dust in my mouth. My body trembled, but not just from pain. A cold, creeping anger rose within me, mixing with the agitated Yoki. This rage was different, deeper, and it resonated with the power dormant within me. I was not a failure. I was not weak. And I would prove it.

I lay on my back for a moment, rage burning despite the pain. My electric blue eyes, so different from the silver eyes around me, stared at the sky. I could hear the muffled whispers of the other recruits, their fear, their relief not to be in my place.

A shadow leaned over me. I didn't need to look to know it was Galatea. She said nothing. She simply extended a hand, her silver gaze intensely rare, devoid of judgment, but filled with discreet solicitude.

"I was so comfortable here, though..." I said, my voice hoarse from effort and pain, a hint of bitterness in my words.

Galatea didn't directly respond to my sarcastic remark. She just looked at me, her eyes reflecting tacit understanding. "You've dreamed enough, lazybones."

I stared at her. Her silent offer was not pity, but simple support. I clenched my teeth, accepting the help. With a quick movement, Galatea straightened me up and allowed me to lean on her. Rage gave me the strength to walk; my muscles screamed, but I ignored them.

My breathing was still ragged, but my eyes never left Sophie, who was already giving instructions to another girl, as if nothing had happened.

I picked up my sword with an abrupt motion, its weight suddenly more tolerable. Every fiber of my being was tense, ready to prove that I was not the failure she implied. My Yoki, which I suppressed so fiercely, was a wave of cold beneath my skin, threatening to overflow with every beat of my heart.

Galatea looked at me. A very slight nod. "Don't do anything stupid," she murmured, her words devoid of emotion but laden with a sincere warning.

Her words snapped in the air, reminding me of the reality of my situation. I didn't have the luxury of immediate revenge. I had to survive, learn, and surpass their expectations. I breathed deeply, trying to calm the whirlwind of cold and rage that stirred within me.

I rejoined the other recruits, the heavy sword back in my hands. Instructor Noëlle had us resume the exercises. My movements were still far from perfect, but the fury I felt gave me unexpected strength.

Every swing, every parry, was executed with a new intensity. My sore muscles seemed to ignore fatigue, driven by this glacial determination.

I could feel the Yoki of the other recruits around me. Faint glows, hesitant energies. But Galatea's was a bright beacon next to me, powerful and stable. And Sophie's and Noëlle's... They were flames, overwhelmingly intense, almost palpable. the "warmth" of their Yoki was a striking contrast to the cold that resonated within me. It was as if I perceived not only their strength, but their very essence.

I wonder how others perceive my Yoki? It seems every Claymore has a unique Yoki signature... I quickly brushed these thoughts aside, emptying my mind.

I wouldn't forget Sophie's attack. But I would make sure it served a purpose. Every blow I struck at the dummy was a little more precise, a little more powerful. My body, despite its size, gradually adapted to the deadly dance of the sword. The anomaly that I was would become a strength.

As the training neared its end, Sophie and Noëlle gave us a quick demonstration.

Noëlle was the first to move. A flash. Her sword came down with astonishing speed, aiming for Sophie's head. But Sophie, massive and rooted, did not yield. She barely pivoted, her own body serving as a shield, and her Claymore intercepted with a dull, powerful thud. The clash of metal echoed in the courtyard, a deafening testament to Sophie's brute strength.

I observed their fighting styles. Noëlle was focused on agility and speed, whereas Sophie was on strength.

Noëlle didn't stop. She bounced back, performing several backward somersaults with disconcerting agility to evade Sophie's counterattack. It was with a single, heavy, devastating strike, loaded with bone-breaking power.

"Are you done with your acrobatics?!" Sophie yelled, annoyed, to which Noëlle replied with a laugh.

The apprentices' eyes were riveted on them, mouths slightly agape. No one dared to make a sound. It was a deadly dance, a living lesson in combat. Pure agility against relentless force. Blades glittered, metal sang, and the ground sometimes trembled under the impact.

I watched them with insane intensity. Noëlle was a mirage, Sophie a seismic event. Their styles were so distinct, so far from my own current clumsiness with the sword. Beside me, Galatea followed every movement with disconcerting ease. Her body barely tensed, her silver eyes analyzing every strike, every dodge.

The sparring lasted no more than a minute. A final resounding metallic crash vibrated the air as Sophie managed to block a quick attack from Noëlle, holding her back, their two blades crossed just centimeters from their faces.

"So, brute? Not so slow, huh?" Noëlle whispered, slightly breathless, a mocking smile on her lips.

Sophie chuckled, her own breathing barely forced. "Still not strong enough to put me down, dancer."

I gently tugged on Galatea's sleeve, inviting her to lean in slightly so I could tell her the nonsense emerging from my mind. I whispered as low as possible into her ear, "Do you think they... uh, form some kind of duo? They seem to know each other really well. Maybe they're more than just friends..." My voice became conspiratorial at the end.

Galatea stiffened slightly, her head turning towards me with calculated slowness. She shook her head, barely perceptible. "Lysia... Focus on the training." Her voice was low, a silent warning, but a hint of stifled laughter made it vibrate.

"I bet my dinner meals they often go on missions together..." I whispered back, a smile on my face.

Galatea pursed her lips, her silver eyes narrowing slightly in a mix of frustration and amusement. She stared at me for a moment. Finally, she couldn't hold back a small, mocking sniff, an almost inaudible sound. She shook her head again, "You talk too much, Lysia. Focus."

The two warriors separated, sheathing their swords with the same sharp click. They resumed their initial postures, cheeks a little red, but amusement still present in their eyes. They had given a lesson far more eloquent than any speech.

"The lesson is over," Sophie announced. The apprentices, momentarily speechless with admiration, began to move again, with a little more inspiration in their eyes. I, meanwhile, stared at my sword, then my hands, a whirlwind of new ideas forming in my mind. The pain in my ribs was still there, but it was eclipsed by the vision of what I could become.

The end of the day finally arrived. We were directed to communal showers, austere rooms with bare stone walls where water flowed from thick iron pipes. The water was glacial, a brutal shock to our sore bodies, but I forced myself to endure. Under the piercing spray, I removed my training outfit, a thick, rigid fabric, to examine my wounds. My body was a map of bruises and scrapes. Purple bruises spread across my forearms, souvenirs of repeated sword impacts.

On my ribs and abs, the marks of the guard's kick were even darker, deep bruises that radiated a dull, constant pain.

A bleeding tear along my thigh as the consequence of a poor parry. The wounds healed quickly, that was the effect of Yoki, but the pain remained.

 

I slightly gaze  to Galatea, who was standing a few steps from me under another shower jet. At twelve, she was already taller, more slender. Her body was starting to stretch, to assert itself, and I noticed, with a hint of childish confusion, that the line of her breasts was beginning to round. A new, different shape that my own ten year old body didn't yet know. My blood rushed to my face, a sudden blush of embarrassment, and I quickly looked away.

I scanned the other girls around me. Most were younger, some barely children, others just a little older. Their bodies all bore similar marks, but there was something more. On almost all of them, without exception, stretched a long, still red and freshly closed scar, a vertical line extending from the sternum down to the lower abdomen. The mark of the operation, the breaking of their flesh to welcome the Yoma essence. They sometimes touched the scar with an unconscious gesture, or rubbed it under the water, as if it itched.

I frowned, growing increasingly perplexed. I stared down at my own body, where that scar should have been. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. My skin was smooth, intact, as if I had never been opened, never touched by a scalpel. I touched the skin just above my sternum with my fingertips, where I could feel my heart beating with a strange force, a dull vibration that only I could perceive. My skin was warm, without the slightest bump, without any sign of past stitches. It was as if my body had rejected the very idea of that scar.

It was then that I felt her gaze on me. Galatea, without even fully turning, seemed to have sensed my unease. Her Yoki aura, which I was feeling better and better, vibrated with attentive curiosity toward me. I suddenly felt shy, embarrassed under her piercing gaze that seemed to question me, trying to read my thoughts. I instinctively tried to discreetly hide myself with my arms, pressing my elbows against my sides, as if my arms could mask the mystery of my smooth skin.

Galatea, whom I perceived through the wet strands of my hair, finally came closer, her Yoki slightly appeasing mine, though I didn't know why. She leaned in slightly, her warm breath on my ear, and lowered her voice so only I could hear her, a confidential whisper in the noise of the water.

"Your Yoki... it's strange, Lys—" But before she could say anything more precise about her observation, my childish mind, a mix of embarrassment and defiance, reacted with aggression. I recoiled slightly and blurted out, a little too loudly for my own bravado: "What do you think you're doing, pervert?"

Galatea, surprised for a moment by my retort, chuckled softly, a low, mocking sound that resonated in the din of the showers. An almost adult laugh, tinged with amusement. "Me, a pervert? You're the one whose eyes were glued to my body, you know." Her small arrogant smile formed on her lips, but there was also a glimmer of satisfaction in her green eyes, as if she had found a flaw in my usual facade.

I rolled my eyes, but the pang of embarrassment had lessened. I sighed and let my concern show slightly, my voice returning to its deeper tone. "Does it hurt?" I asked, looking back at the long scar that stretched from her sternum down to her lower abdomen. My eyes deliberately stopped at the beginning of that scar, not daring to look lower.

Galatea shrugged, her own Yoki stabilizing, a sign that she wasn't lying. "No, not anymore. The pain has faded with time. But if that's the excuse you need to keep admiring me, go ahead. I won't judge," she said, resting a nonchalant hand on her hip, her smile widening a little.

"In your dreams, mouse," I said, then decided not to pursue her obvious provocation and finished my washing. I scrubbed vigorously, trying to wash away the dirt and fatigue, but the coldness of the water seemed to accentuate another sensation. An internal coldness, different from that of the water, began to settle, a freezing sensation rising from my gut, where the Yoki resided. A coldness that wasn't unpleasant, just... there, as if it had always been a part of me.

After the shower, I quickly got dressed and headed to the refectory. The meal was always the same. I ate in silence, my sore muscles craving rest. The other girls were just as exhausted, and the atmosphere was one of silent fatigue.

Once in the dormitory, darkness fell quickly. I lay on my mat, but the internal cold I had felt in the shower had intensified. My entire body was wracked with uncontrollable tremors. I was so cold.

It was a deep shiver that came from my bones. The pain of my injuries, amplified by this supernatural cold, was intense, leaving me both stiff and unable to find a comfortable position.

I clenched my teeth, trying to ignore the sensation, to convince myself it was just fatigue. But the trembling wouldn't stop, and the pain made me gasp silently.

Suddenly, I felt a movement beside my mat. Galatea, without a word, slipped under my blanket. Her body, strangely warm for a Claymore, brought immediate and unexpected warmth against mine.

"What are you doing, go away," I mumbled, my voice trembling from the cold and surprise. "I-I'm fine." Pride stung me; I didn't want to show this weakness.

But Galatea didn't move. She nestled closer, her body acting like a furnace. Her Yoki, which I could now feel, seemed to try to calm mine; she enveloped me in a soothing warmth that contrasted with the biting cold devouring me.

"You're shaking like a leaf and your teeth are chattering, how do you expect us to sleep, plus your Yoki is agitated," she murmured, her voice tinged with exasperation, into my ear.

I sighed in defeat and snuggled closer to her, my back pressed entirely against hers. I could feel my cheeks heat up as I felt her chest pressed so firmly against my back while I tried to remain calm... I felt her mocking smile against my hair and blurted out, "Shut up, Galatea."

She exhaled, and her arm slipped around me, pulling me a little tighter, drawing me against her. I let out a slight whine when her hand pressed on a wound, but the pain was soon forgotten in the warmth of her body, which was... like hot blanket, and despite my resistance, relief overwhelmed me.

"Turns out your tree height can be useful," I mumbled, already feeling the trembling calm, the warmth chasing away some of the pain.

Galatea reacted with a small, dry laugh, barely a sound. Lightly shifting her chest, her thumb brushed one of the deep bruises on my stomach, where the guard's kick had landed. The sharp pain that followed made me wince, but her voice, more biting, left no room for doubt. "My 'tree' height is useful, Lysia. Unlike your tongue, which gets you punished and bruised."

I turned slightly, finding myself nestled against her neck, and looked up. "Oh yeah? And yours, then?" I exhaled, a childish challenge in my voice.

Galatea's eyes widened slightly, and her arm, still wrapped around me, tightened slightly. A spark of anger and pain, due to the force she exerted on my injuries, shot through me, and I huffed toward her face. "Do that again and I'll push you off this bed," I murmured, my voice low and threatening, although the effort cost me and forced me to take deeper breaths that worsened the pain.

Galatea didn't respond immediately. I felt the slight trembling of her body as a silent laugh shook her. Her silver eyes lowered to me, their mocking gleam still present.

"Focus on your breathing instead." She made no move to push me away, on the contrary. She held me a little more firmly, her warmth persistent. "Now, sleep. I didn't mean to hurt you, I'm sorry."

I didn't answer, but I let myself relax against her, the silence settling, broken only by our regular breaths. The cold didn't disappear completely, but it was bearable now, contained by Galatea's warmth.

---

Chapter 5: i know what you are...💅💅

Notes:

ok so fast update bc i am busyyyyyyyy and i am not sure if this week i could post it this week soooooooooo there we are.

hope u enjoy it xoxo (if there is toooooo much grammatical errors or anything tell me i really rush it sowwyyyy)

The next morning, daylight barely filtered through the dormitory openings. Just before the usual shrill whistle of a guard about to rip us from our sleep, I felt Galatea gently withdraw from my side. With almost imperceptible discretion, she slipped onto her own mat, leaving behind only a slight displacement of air and the lingering warmth of where she had been.

The apprentices' sore bodies began to stir moments later, a cacophony of groans and resigned sighs.

I felt strangely calm. The throbbing cold of the night, which usually bit to the bone, had dissipated. Galatea's soft, comforting warmth still permeated the mat and my skin, like a second invisible blanket that had repelled the nocturnal chill. My muscles and ribs still protested, but the icy sting had receded, making the pain bearable. I straightened up, stretching my limbs with a grimace, feeling my body less rigid.

Next to me, Galatea rose with her usual grace, as if she hadn't spent the night serving as a warming pad for a trembling child. Her silver gaze fell on me, and I knew she would retort.

"So, little one. Did you sleep well? Weren't you too cold last night on that cold floor?" she asked, her voice neutral but a hint of amusement in her eyes.

I raised my eyebrows, adopting my most innocent look, a small mischievous smile stretching my lips. "I slept very well on my mat. And you?" My voice took on a falsely concerned inflection, my head slightly tilted. "You look a bit disheveled, did you have a nightmare?"

Galatea brushed her white hair with a quick, minuscule gesture, a thin line forming between her eyebrows, betraying a fleeting irritation she immediately suppressed, her lips barely pinching. Her silver gaze settled on me, a piercing glint in her eyes. "I dreamed of a turbulent baby Yoma curled up against me. It tended to hog all the space and be extremely clingy, as if I were its teddy bear." Her voice was soft, but the jab was sharp, and she gave me an amused smile.

"Say what you want," I retorted, getting up to put on my training clothes. "But you seem grumpier than usual..." I moved closer, my finger lightly brushing her bangs to adjust them. "Did I keep you from sleeping last night?"

A pang of guilt clutched my stomach. The idea that she might have been tired, even a little, because of my presence, bothered me more than I wanted to admit. We had to be at our best for the day's training, and I didn't want her to be at a disadvantage because of me.

Galatea sighed, then gave my arm a short, dry tap. "Your presence is a permanent problem, Lysia. But at least you were silent last night. That's something." She began to prepare, her movements fluid and efficient.

I discreetly stuck my tongue out at her as she looked away, a last little act of silent rebellion so she wouldn't have the last word. I was sure she'd see me anyway.

The following days were a blur of pain, sweat, and incessant repetitions. The acrid smell of the packed earth, soaked with our efforts and persistent humidity, mixed with the metallic taste of fatigue in my mouth. Each night ended in the same exhausting cycle. tirelessly repeating the importance of control over our Yoki if we didn't want to become monsters. Each instruction resonated like a hammer in our heads, pounding into us the constant threat of transformation.

My arms burned, my legs trembled, but I didn't give up. I trained relentlessly, my electric blue eyes fixed on every movement of our instructors and every detail of Galatea's sword handling.

Fatigue didn't seem to affect me for the moment, as if a cold, inexhaustible source, a constant vibration within me that I didn't yet understand, kept me alert, ready to absorb the next challenge, where others collapsed.

Galatea, for her part, continued to excel. She absorbed every lesson with disconcerting ease, her movements becoming even more fluid, more devastating. She was perfection. Her presence, her excellence, were both a motivation and a constant challenge for me.

One afternoon, as I watched Galatea train, the Yoki within her manifested in a way I was beginning to discern. Her aura was calm, powerful.

Sophie observed us with an ever-sharp eye, her occasional smiles still as unpredictable. Noëlle, meanwhile, was more predictable. I felt like they were watching me more closely than before, a glint of analysis in their eyes whenever I improved a movement, or when the blade came a little more alive in my hands. It was a strange sensation: constant pressure and a feeling of being under a microscope, but also a hint of pride, even if it made me uncomfortable.

The incident with Sophie seemed to have marked me. The other recruits looked at me with a mix of fear and curiosity. They no longer dared to approach, but their gazes spoke volumes. "Little Blue Eyes" became my nickname. A somewhat annoying moniker, constantly reminding me of my difference, but since it was mostly uttered by Galatea, often with a hint of amusement, I tolerated it. Not the best, but not the most humiliating, just a fact.

While the other apprentices exhausted themselves trying to master the power of the Claymore, I felt my body, despite my small size and persistent injuries, capable of meeting my demands. I tried to focus on speed and agility. Inspired by Noëlle during her fight against Sophie, I tried to compensate for my lack of strength and the disproportionate weight of the sword with faster movements, dodges, clumsy pirouettes, exploiting the sword's weight to my advantage. My initial attempts were often unbalanced, my blade cutting through the air with an uncertain whistle, but I already felt the promise of future fluidity in these still uncertain gestures. It was a challenge, but it seemed more suited to my nature.

As I completed a hesitant cartwheel, my gaze met Galatea's. She was there, a few meters away, watching. Without a word, her serious expression remained, but she granted me a quick, almost imperceptible nod. It was a minimal gesture, a fraction of a second, but in the deafening silence of the training, it was a rare sign of recognition from her, a silent validation that, in my eyes, was worth all the congratulations in the world.

As I exhausted myself stringing together rapid movements, I felt my own Yoki begin to bubble, to tremble, threatening to overwhelm me. It was the same uncontrollable cold as last night after training, an instability that took my breath away and blurred my concentration. Tingling, like icy needles, ran through my skin, rising from my limbs. I clenched my teeth, striving to contain it, to push it back, but it threatened to overflow. Suddenly, a subtle, familiar warmth spread beside me. It was Galatea.

She had imperceptibly moved closer, her body now standing barely a step from mine, and I clearly felt her energy, deliberately projected, trying to calm and stabilize me, her Yoki mingling with mine. It was a soothing presence, an invisible anchor that seemed to envelop my own wavering Yoki, constraining it, gently repressing it. The intense cold calmed, the trembling subsided, and I was able to regain my concentration.

I turned to her, my eyes wide with surprise and recognition. " that...was you?" I whispered, my voice barely audible, still a little breathless. "How did you... ? It's like last night... you managed to calm my Yoki." The realization struck, clear and obvious. "Thank you..." The word sounded strange to my own ears, but it was sincere.

Galatea looked at me, her face impassive. Only a slight inflection at her lips, almost a contained smile, betrayed her satisfaction. She didn't respond directly, content to resume her exercises with newfound perfection, but the bubble of subtle warmth beside me persisted.

I couldn't tell if it was her Yoki or my own feelings. This ambiguity, between her Yoki mastery and Galatea's simple presence, made this comfort all the more precious and, strangely, unsettling. I was lost between gratitude and confusion.

After five days, Noëlle and Sophie disappeared. Without a word of farewell, without an explanation. It was the norm in the Organization: Claymores came and went, tools sent where needed. Their absence left a void, a kind of silence after the storm, especially after the intense demonstrations they had given us the day before.

They had gathered us in the courtyard, the air charged with palpable tension. Sophie, an impatient smile on her lips, and Noëlle, a serious look, had shown us what true Yoki power was. They had let their aura overflow, just a little, just enough for us to feel the pressure, the overwhelming power.

Their bodies tensed, their muscles swelled, their silver eyes turning golden with a slit pupil, like those of felines... My breath caught. So that's what my own eyes had looked like yesterday when I first released my Yoki? A shiver of fear and fascination ran through me as I thought back to the rage that had fueled me, but seeing this controlled transformation, so close, was both terrifying and, strangely, like a promise of power. This glimpse was enough to make some of us tremble.

Reactions varied, reflecting each one's psyche: some apprentices let out stifled cries of fear, others wept silently, faces pale, while a few remained stoic, their gazes devoid of emotion. But despite these differences, one thing remained constant: our gazes fixed on the blood flowing, each drawing their own lesson.

Without a word, and with frightening speed, one of the guards drew his sword. His movement was mechanically efficient, devoid of any hesitation. The blade came down with a dry hiss. A distorted, barely audible scream was stifled by the blow. Éloïse's twisted body collapsed to the ground, severed in two. Blood spurted onto the earth, mingling with the dust. The guard returned his sword to its scabbard, his face impassive. "That's what happens when you lose control," he said in a neutral voice, devoid of all emotion, as if he had just cut down a training dummy. He motioned with his chin to Éloïse's lifeless body with the tip of his sword before sheathing it. "Resume training. Tomorrow, you will kill your first Yoma."

The lesson was brutal, unforgettable. The image of Éloïse's severed body engraved itself in my mind.

That evening, the horror of the day gnawed at me. The fear of Éloïse, of what she had become, but also that nagging question about my own Yoki, so different, pushed me to my limit. I couldn't keep silent any longer. I finally asked Galatea gently, as she lay on the mat beside me.

"I was thinking..." I said, sitting up slightly. Galatea, whom I had felt tense at my movement, let out an "Oh really?" tinged with malice, as if mocking my ability to "think." But her amusement died almost immediately, replaced by silent attention, as if she had suddenly perceived the seriousness of my question beneath my hesitant voice.

"My Yoki," I continued, ignoring her teasing, my voice a mere whisper in the darkness. "When I... when I use my Yoki, what does it look like? My eyes? What color do they turn, golden?" Curiosity mingled with a hint of apprehension. I had seen the transformation of others, the golden eyes, the bubbling Yoki... yet I wasn't sure if I also looked like that.

Galatea stiffened slightly, her own Yoki seeming to focus on mine. She took a moment, then her low voice resonated.

"Your Yoki is... quite cold, like a bone-chilling cold, like frost spreading over water..." She paused, and I felt her silver gaze settle on me, even in the gloom. "It has a... silent, but sharp vibration, like the distant sound of ice cracking." "As for your pupils... they are like ours, only the color remains that same blue... but more vivid, almost electric, like ice reflecting the sky." I nodded, assimilating this information. A new thought struck me, and a pang of worry gripped my stomach. Blue... another anomaly. A sigh of annoyance escaped me. Not only was I already strange by nature, but even my own transformation was out of the norm.

"Wait... when you... help me, when you synchronize our Yoki, does my cold affect you? Does it hurt you?" I leaned slightly towards her, my hand brushing her mat in a panicked gesture, my heart pounding. Galatea let out a slight breath, an almost imperceptible sound. "No," she simply replied, her voice low. "Your Yoki doesn't hurt me. It's just undisciplined like you, and 'synchronization' takes a lot of energy, which leaves me drained. It's a bit like pulling on the leash of a dog pulling on the other side..." she said mischievously. I rolled my eyes. A dog? The analogy was annoying, but an unexpected warmth spread through me at the thought of her exhausting herself for me, even if it was to help me control myself.

It was even amusing, because despite this "leash," Galatea remained attached to the "dog" that I was. "Right, yet you seem more motivated than anything to keep that mongrel close..." I winked at her, savoring her own little jibe. Galatea let out a small, crystalline laugh, a sound so rare it made me look up, stunned. It was light, pure, and contrasted so much with her usual aura that it completely disarmed me. "Perhaps." Her voice suddenly became softer, almost honeyed, an unusual mischief dancing within it. "Perhaps your eyes charmed me. Especially when they light up like that... It's a nice change from the somewhat common golden." She gently tapped my cheek. "Blue-eyed Lysia suits you perfectly." she said, and finally gave me an affectionate, yet decidedly teasing, tap between the eyes. I felt an embarrassing warmth rise to my cheeks. My usual arrogance crumbled in the face of this unexpected compliment, especially from her. I stammered, searching for a comeback, but nothing came as I completely forgot the origin of our confrontation. Galatea laughed as I decided to turn my back on her.

"We need to sleep to be ready tomorrow!" I blurted out, trying to end the conversation with a last shred of dignity.

An amused sigh escaped Galatea. Then, I felt a movement beside me. She slipped from her own mat to mine, lying down right behind me. Her familiar warmth diffused against my back, a soothing contrast to the cold that inhabited me. "Indeed," she whispered very close to my ear, her voice both deep and soft. "And you need all your energy. You'll be even more effective if you're nice and warm."

A shiver, unrelated to the night's cold, ran through me as I felt Galatea's weight cuddle against my back. Her hand on my hip was an unexpected anchor, a foreign yet so welcome warmth in the usual solitude of my mat. My mind, desperately trying to escape the conversation and the truth of my own blue eyes, suddenly found itself trapped in this forced intimacy. "Nice and warm," she had said. It was an easy excuse, a pirouette to justify a deeper need, and I felt my cheeks flush in the darkness. A part of me wanted to protest, to move, to reclaim my space, but another, more silent and deeper part, surrendered with an almost imperceptible sigh. In this world of blades and monsters, this small bubble of warmth, this contact, was disconcertingly tender. It was both terrifying and... soothing. A new facet of our bond had just been established, one that transcended words, battles, Yoki. Silence fell again, this time filled with a new warmth and unexpected tenderness.

---

part 1 of the chap : 

Part 2 :  (i write they live but i mean their live but iam too lazy for change it now ) 

 

Chapter 6: Haircut

The morning sun beat down on the training yard, still too strong for my liking. The heat of the East was already oppressive, even at this hour. I grumbled internally at the sweat beading on my temple. The air was sharp, dry, but heavy with the studious silence of the apprentices. The guards, impassive, supervised us from a distance. My own sparring with Galatea was underway. Her attacks were measured but precise, aimed at pushing me to my limits. Yet, I felt... elsewhere. The beast within me had been silent since the incident the other day, but the shame and guilt of my outburst still gnawed at me. I just wanted the day to end.

"Your movements are heavy, Lysia," Galatea commented, her voice sharp but devoid of anger. "You're not taking our sparring seriously."

I didn't answer, blocking a strike with a faint clang. My own blocks were more about brute force than technique, my body responding with an inertia I detested. She was right. I was holding back, not out of arrogance, but out of fear. Fear of it, fear of that strange sensation I'd felt since waking up, something seemed off... I was trying to contain my Yoki, to keep it at a neutral level, which made my movements less fluid. Every action required double concentration, fighting both Galatea and the urge to draw on my Yoki.

I knew Galatea, with her sensitivity, must have sensed my apprehension, my internal struggle. She sometimes glanced at me, as if searching for the right words, but she clearly didn't know how to approach the subject. So, she simply prodded me about training, a safer ground for her.

My gaze drifted towards the rest of the yard. Around us, the other apprentices trained in silence, silver figures crossing and clashing in a macabre dance. They were the "new faces," the survivors of the latest promotions; from my generation, only Galatea and I remained. And it was strange. For the first time in a long while, I observed with an almost clinical curiosity these new faces who might not be here tomorrow.

"Look at that one," I murmured to Galatea, my voice low and almost inaudible to the others. I pointed with my chin to a young girl with short hair neatly pulled back, a few strands clinging to her forehead, and an impeccable posture.

She was barely thirteen, but each of her blade strikes was crisp, direct, relentless. Not a hesitation, not an ounce of emotion. Her Yoki, which I perceived as cold and steady, was just as unadorned. "She's... super disciplined already, a dedicated soldier. She always strikes in the same place... That's an offensive, right?"

Galatea effortlessly blocked my counter-attack, her gaze following mine towards Jean. Her expression remained neutral, but I felt a slight irritation in her Yoki, not towards me, but perhaps towards my nonchalance in talking during a sparring match. "She's promising," she replied dryly. "And yes, an offensive, probably. Jean's discipline would do you a world of good, Lysia," she stated, a barely veiled reproach in her voice.

I ignored the remark and tried to memorize her name, my gaze sliding towards another, more graceful figure. Flora, if I remembered correctly... her Yoki was bright, warm, despite its apparent coolness. Her movements were a blurry whirlwind of speed and grace. She dodged blows with disconcerting ease before counter-attacking with contained fury. A fatal beauty in the making... "Flora... she moves fast. Her movements are so... beautiful and... she's beautiful too, isn't she?"

Galatea didn't answer immediately, parrying my blows with unsettling ease. A slight frown appeared on her brow. Her Yoki had an imperceptible jolt, a hint of what strangely resembled annoyance, though it was instantly suppressed. She gave me a piercing look... a spark illuminating her beautiful silver eyes, before regaining her concentration. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if my comment had destabilized or perplexed her. Then, an imperceptible sigh escaped her before she regained her focus. A glimmer of curiosity replaced the annoyance in her golden eyes, and she, too, began to observe them with me, but in a more distant way.

"Probably the fastest of our generation," she admitted in a softer voice. "But the beauty of movement isn't everything, Lysia. I advise you to focus on her Yoki, not her face."

A small smirk played on my lips. I felt the barb, as thin as a blade, and I couldn't resist, always quick to tease when it came to Galatea, I couldn't help but take the bait. My gaze slid to her for a moment, an amused glint in my eyes. "Oh, don't worry, Galatea," I murmured, my voice a caress of malice, looking her straight in the eyes. "Beautiful faces don't distract me as much anymore... after dealing with them so often."

Galatea looked at me, her golden eyes barely widening. A flash of an indefinable emotion crossed her face before she regained her composure, almost instantly. Her Yoki, which I felt, had an infinitesimal tremor, like a dissonant note quickly stifled by her will.

"Resume your training, Lysia," she said in a voice drier than expected, her blade resuming its movement towards me. "And don't get distracted." The tone was firm, but there was a nuance, a barely perceptible breath that was not anger, perhaps annoyance.

And that annoyance immediately translated into action. Galatea's Yoki signature intensified, her eyes turning gold, a wave of contained but palpable power spreading around her. Her blade, which a moment before traced measured arcs, became a series of brutally forceful blows, each strike delivered with a will to make me yield.

I retreated, forced to dodge rather than block, the metal whistling dangerously close to my face. Every attempt to parry left my arms numb, the shock traveling up to my shoulders. My own Yoki, still under forced control, remained calm. I was nothing but a shadow, trying to escape Galatea's silent fury, breathless, muscles aching.

It was then that my gaze, seeking an escape or distraction from Galatea's intensity, fell on Miria. And there, something unexpected caught my attention. Miria wasn't fighting like the others. Her movements... they were different.

Galatea's blade, which I hadn't seen coming and was about to strike just above my collarbone, stopped dead, barely a measurable breath from my skin. The air vibrated with restrained force, and her Yoki, usually so contained, gave a jolt of frustration. She stared at me, her golden eyes cold and hard, her face taut with obvious annoyance.

A wave of shame engulfed me. Not sensing this attack, not anticipating it, was an unforgivable fault. I hadn't even had time to react. Worse, my arrogance had led me to disrespect Galatea. I deserved her anger and ended up lowering my head, unable to meet her piercing gaze.

"Excuse me, Latea," I murmured, my voice barely audible, my throat tight with shame. "I shouldn't have... I wasn't... focused," I said, looking up at hers and sighing. It was as I avoided her eyes that my own gaze, instinctively seeking a distraction from my own discomfiture, swept the courtyard and was captivated. My attention was seized. Miria.

"I hope that facing a Yoma, you'll be able to show more concentration." A moment of chilling silence followed, during which only my breathless panting broke the calm. Her gaze then turned to the object of my attention, and I felt her Yoki, even if it still bore the trace of her exasperation, pierced by a nascent curiosity as she too observed.

Miria. More discreet, she moved with calculated caution. She didn't charge headlong, but waited, observed. Her attacks weren't the most powerful, nor her dodges the most spectacular. Her Yoki was... strange. Less aggressive than that of other offensives, even not aggressive at all. She was different... Her movements were less spectacular than Flora's, less robotic than Jean's. She didn't charge, didn't flee. Instead, she moved with a calculated economy of motion, her sword describing slow circles, as if measuring the air itself. She always seemed to anticipate, seeking the weak point, the invisible breach. Her Yoki was a constant flow, without aggressive peaks, but with a stability that commanded respect. She was a strategist, turning sparring into a chess game rather than a mere skirmish.

"And her," I said, frowning, a little hesitant, my voice a little more breathless after Galatea's assault and reprimand. "She's... weird. She's cautious. Almost timid. Her Yoki isn't as aggressive. Maybe a defensive? More for survival and regeneration, right?"

Galatea released her Yoki, her eyes returning to silver as she planted her sword in the ground and said, "You observe quite well for a lazy one... But you're wrong about her."

"How so?" I stared at Galatea.

"She's cautious because she thinks," Galatea explained, a mix of amusement and seriousness. "Her Yoki may be less noisy, but she's an offensive, Lysia. Look how her attitude changes when she finds the breach..."

"Offensives, like you, and the other three, or even Noëlle and Sophie, seem more focused on attack; their killer instinct is superior to self-preservation... but the weak point..." Galatea let her voice soften, and her gaze fell for a moment on another apprentice, further across the yard. Sitting apart, an apprentice, arm bandaged and face pale, visibly in pain, her Yoki fluctuating with difficulty. "See that recruit over there, for example," Galatea murmured, her gaze piercing. "She's an offensive. She took a terrible hit yesterday, you must not have paid attention, but her regeneration is struggling to keep up. If she were a defensive, she'd already be up..."

I followed her gaze, a shiver running through me at the sight of the other girl's pain. My own arm gave a phantom ache, a memory of the cuts that healed so slowly on me. The contrast was striking. "I see... our bodies are a little slower to repair, then?"

Galatea paused briefly, her gaze lost for a moment in the void, a reminiscence crossing her eyes. "You remember the incident when Noëlle and Sophie were still here... You were so clumsy with that sword... it carried you away with it..."

Shame clenched my throat, an old discomfort rising to the surface. I winced, remembering how I struggled with the blade. "Yes... I remember," I murmured, my face flushed.

A faint smile touched her lips. "You accidentally cut my arm quite deeply during a sparring. I saw you panic, your Yoki almost flared, terrified. But thanks to my regeneration, the wound was almost closed even before the end of the training." "That's the advantage of defensives; the survival instinct also seems stronger..."

I looked at her. "Hmm... I guess all three of them will become single-digit numbers, what do you think? Those three..."

Galatea raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly. "Most likely."

"I just hope their future territories aren't among ours, then..." I murmured, a hint of malice tinged with a touch of regret in my voice. I looked at her, a teasing smile forming on my lips. "Imagine, Galatea, if one of them, or even all three, got the territories bordering ours! We'd hardly cross paths anymore..."

A smile stretched Galatea's features, replacing her sharp expression. "Certainly with your current efforts," she retorted, her voice low and teasing, filled with a clear challenge, "I'm not sure you could follow me as a single-digit number... You might be thirty, barely. You'll have to climb the ranks to find me again, Lysia." She finished on a falsely sad tone, an exaggerated sigh accompanying her words, as if to emphasize the tragedy of my future incompetence.

My blood ran cold. The jab was obvious, her teasing cutting, and even though I knew she was trying to egg me on, my pride was stung. The heat of shame transformed into a flame of determination. Thirty? Never! I wasn't going to let her distance me so easily. Her mocking smile made me want to prove her wrong more than anything.

I lifted my head, my gaze, suddenly lit by a stubborn flame, defying hers with new intensity. A smile more fierce than playful stretched my lips. "Oh, don't worry, Galatea," I retorted, my voice low and soft, "You'll have your place just below me... as my number 2." My gaze locked with hers.

Galatea raised an eyebrow, her lips pinching to hold back a smile that threatened to burst out. A fleeting blush crossed her immaculate cheeks. She shook her head, a small muffled laugh escaping her throat.

"Still as brazen, Lysia," she murmured, her voice regaining a teasing tone but with unexpected softness. "Me number 2... under you, huh? Your arrogance knows no bounds... or your desires."

She then took a light step towards me, reducing the distance between us. Her gaze darted into mine, a burning, magnetic glint dancing within it, making the double meaning of my phrase absolutely clear.

Her voice lowered, almost a hoarse whisper that made me shiver, each word resonating directly in my mind. "If you're strong enough to get there, then maybe... in a few years I'll be well under you..."

She finished with a knowing wink and an enigmatic smile that promised a thousand things. Her Yoki, at that precise moment, enveloped me in a soft, enveloping warmth.

I was completely taken by surprise. My heart skipped a beat, then pounded in my chest. Heat rushed to my cheeks, much more vivid than the eastern sun, leaving me speechless. My own Yoki, usually so difficult to contain, wavered, betraying my confusion. I didn't know where to look, or what to say.

She regained a more neutral expression, but with the corners of her lips refusing to lose their amusement. "Training's not over."

My cheeks were still burning, my Yoki wavering under the effect of her last retort. Concentrate... I told myself.

My mouth was dry as annoyance and embarrassment battled in my mind, and a new impulse seized me, an urgent need to re-establish some form of balance. My gaze fell on my sword planted in the ground, then on hers, a few steps away. An idea, audacious, almost crazy, sprouted in my mind.

Before she could even fully react, my arm relaxed, my fist propelling towards her stomach in an instinctive, rapid movement. At the same instant, a tiny, but distinct, pulse of Yoki emanated from my body.

It wasn't an uncontrolled release, but a voluntary flash, a silent signal that marked the resumption of the fight, but on an unexpected terrain. This pulse, quick as lightning, was solely intended to capture her attention.

Galatea was caught off guard. The amusement on her face instantly vanished, replaced by a slight frown. Her Yoki, usually so fluid, stopped dead. Her eyes widened slightly. My hand, however, didn't touch her. Her own body reacted instinctively, with a barely perceptible micro-movement of evasion, but she didn't block, content to observe my unarmed attack.

"What the...?" she began, her gaze fixed on my fist stopped a few centimeters from her stomach. She hadn't retaliated, just narrowly dodged. It was an opening, an unexpected breach. My sword, and hers, remained planted in the ground, unused. I took advantage of her astonishment to articulate my thought.

"The rule, Galatea, is not to get distracted, isn't it?" I whispered, an insolent smile stretching my lips. My Yoki, calmed by the audacity of my gesture, finally stabilized.

A suspended silence hung in the air. The other apprentices continued their sparrings, but for me, the world had narrowed to Galatea and me. A fraction of a second passed, then another. Then, slowly, a smile formed on Galatea's lips, much softer and more authentic than her usual mocking smiles. Her golden eyes, which had been hard a moment earlier, softened, imbued with a glint of amused challenge.

"You're right, Lysia," she replied, her voice regaining its usual melody, an almost playful tone. "Concentration is paramount."

Without another word, she clenched her fists and took a fighting stance. Her body relaxed, and with disconcerting agility, she mimed a blow, a simple brush of her hand on my shoulder, so quick and light I barely felt it. It was an invitation, a silent "touch me if you can." She had just accepted my challenge without a sword, with disarming grace and confidence.

My heart leaped. The embarrassment that had held me a moment ago turned into a rush of pure adrenaline. It was a game, and Galatea had just made it exciting. My eyes sparkled with the same mischief as hers.

"Good," I declared, my voice full of rediscovered joy. "Then, let's start over."

I got into position, my movements fluid again, my fear evaporating under the excitement of the challenge. We moved around each other, silent shadows in the yard. No blades, just our bodies, our reflexes, and the reading of our Yoki. Every dodge was a breath, every feint a dance. Galatea was a wall, her parries invisible, her defense impenetrable. But I was agile, slipping under her arms, trying to find the slightest flaw.

My Yoki, still under control, guided me. The goal was no longer to beat her, but to touch her, even just once. Hers, surprisingly, remained calm, without the usual peaks of strict training. It was... soft, amused.

The few closest apprentices began to observe us, intrigued by our silent, unarmed sparring. It was unusual, and the tension, though slight, intrigued them. They slowed their pace, their own training muted to watch us.

A few minutes passed, intense and rapid. I attempted a feint to the left, sharply turning right, aiming for her flank. Her body turned with disconcerting ease, and her hand, like an arrow, came to rest delicately on my forehead, stopping me dead.

"Touched," she whispered, her smile widening. Her voice was soft, triumphant.

"Almost! " I retorted, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead. My breath was short but my mind clear. I prepared for another attempt, when, in a flash I didn't even see coming, Galatea appeared just behind me.

Before I could react, her powerful arms wrapped around my waist, and she effortlessly lifted me off the ground. I found myself suspended, my face against her shoulder, my feet dangling in the air. Surprise left me speechless for a moment.

"Hey! Let me go! " I exclaimed, annoyance suddenly rising, breaking the game. I struggled in her arms, feeling my cheeks flush under the gaze of a few apprentices who had seen the scene. It was humiliating!

Galatea let out a small amused chuckle, her grip unshakeable despite my movements. "Too slow, Lysia, " she teased. "Always too easy to catch... "

With a sharp movement, I managed to free myself from her embrace, landing back on my feet with a little more force than necessary. I was frustrated and a little ashamed. My eyes met hers, and I still saw that look of affectionate mockery.

Without a word, Galatea turned to our swords, still planted in the ground a few meters away. In a fluid movement, she seized hers, then, with disconcerting agility, threw mine towards me. The silver blade spun through the air, and I caught it by the h hilt with a sharp reflex, the cold steel immediately bringing me back to seriousness.

"Come on! " she called out, her voice charged with a clear challenge. "Let's finish this. "

My blood ran cold. The game wasn't over; it had just changed levels. The humiliation of being lifted and Galatea's teasing had ignited a new flame within me. My Yoki, though under control, vibrated, but this time, with a hint of fierce determination. I took my stance, eyes fixed on Galatea. She was there, sword in hand, her smile gone, replaced by intense concentration.

The combat resumed, but this time, it was different. There was no longer any restraint on my part, but Galatea's playful spirit persisted, subtly, in the fluidity of her dodges and the measured precision of her ripostes. Every blow was delivered with intent, every parry with disconcerting finesse.

Our swords clashed with a deafening clamor, sparks flying with each contact. I attacked with fury, my speed tested by Galatea's impeccable parries. She was a wall of steel, but I sought the breach, the weak point, driven by the burning need to prove my worth.

I lunged, my blade whistling through the air, aiming for her shoulder. She blocked, but I followed up with a quick and unexpected move, a reverse strike I had secretly practiced. My blade, instead of reaching her torso, deflected, and I felt the metal slide through something soft.

Galatea froze. A deafening silence fell over the courtyard. I looked at my blade, then her hair. A thin strand, silver, had fallen onto her shoulder, cleanly cut. A piece of her bangs...

My gaze darted between the fallen strand and Galatea's head. Her usually impeccable bangs were now unevenly cut, one side distinctly shorter than the other, asymmetrical and strangely... ridiculous.

Ridiculous... The image was so absurd, so far from Galatea's usual appearance, that I couldn't hold back. A frank, mocking burst of laughter escaped me, loud and clear in the silent courtyard. I pointed at her, a taunting smile stretching my lips.

"But look at that, Galatea! " I exclaimed between bursts of laughter. "It's awful! " Then, reality hit me full force. I had done that.

Me.

She will kill me.

 

The cut strand on the ground and Galatea's outraged look instantly extinguished my laughter, my mouth snapping shut.

I bit my lip, "Oh, Galatea! I... I'm so sorry! I... I didn't mean to... "

Galatea said nothing. Her expression was frozen, at first a mask of pure surprise. She slowly brought her hand to her bangs, her fingers brushing the missing spot, as if she couldn't believe it. Her gaze fell on the piece of silver hair.

I felt her Yoki waver for an instant, a hint of what strangely resembled... consternation, before she regained iron control. Her golden eyes, which had sparkled with mischief a moment earlier, darkened slightly. She was visibly troubled.

I braced myself for the worst, expecting a stinging reprimand, or for her to return my attack a thousand times stronger.

Then, after a long moment where only our breaths broke the silence, a slow sigh escaped her. Her gaze returned to me, and I saw an internal struggle in her eyes. Embarrassment and a hint of vexation were undeniable, but also... a glimmer of... affection?

"Not bad, " she finally murmured, her voice a little more strained than expected. She lifted the cut strand between her thumb and forefinger, her lips pinching slightly. "Very interesting, Lysia. I didn't feel you coming with that one. "

Finally, genuine amusement seemed to overcome everything else.

She looked me straight in the eyes, her smile, this time, was less forced, illuminated by a mocking joy. "My bangs, hm? You have a knack for making an impression... and for faces. " She let the strand fall to the ground with a more casual gesture, as if sweeping away the annoyance with a flick of her hand...

"You'll have to do much better than that to cause me real trouble. And besides... It's... a new style. Thank you. " The last words were spoken with thinly veiled sarcasm, but also a hint of humor.

She raised her sword, pointing it at me with a challenging look. "Your movements are improving. But you still have a long way to go if you want to win. "

I let out an amused breath and lunged forward, my sword raised, ready to resume the assault.

Just as our blades were about to clash again, a clear, composed voice, coming from the edge of our training space, interrupted us.

"Galatea! "

We stopped, our swords frozen in mid-air. It was Flora. She stood a few steps from us, her posture impeccable, her gaze fixed on Galatea. Her expression was respectful, but her request was unequivocal.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, " she began, respectfully nodding towards me before turning a direct gaze to Galatea. "Galatea, if you have a moment... could I ask you for a sparring match? "

I smiled and planted my sword in the ground, observing as Galatea responded. Flora was always exquisitely polite. I liked her... Her wavy silver hair, which always seemed wet, and the way she carried herself, so dignified and measured, strangely reminded me of Galatea; she was strikingly beautiful, much like Galatea herself. There was an elegance in her movements, a deceptive serenity. She could have been Galatea's hidden younger sister.

As Galatea turned to reply, I gave her a small, mischievous backhanded tap on the shoulder. "Come on, Galatea, I'd like to see that... " I murmured with a wink, savoring her slight discomfort.

Galatea shot a brief glance at me, an imperceptible frown crossing her face before disappearing, replaced by a perfectly controlled expression, then turned back to Flora.

"Of course, Flora, " Galatea said, her voice returning to its usual tone.

I stepped aside, preparing to observe their fight, when another voice, harsher and more arrogant, broke my thoughts.

-------------------------------------------

to summarize : 

Notes:

hey hey HELLOOOW
what sup ?
I am sorry, i love Galatea but...her hair...always make me feel's like someone just cut through it or prank her xdddddd
so i needed to make it happens
xoxoxo

Chapter 7: The Echo of the Heart

 

"Hey, dwarf !"

I turned around abruptly, feeling the cold breath of steel brush my cheek, narrowly avoiding a mark. My eyes met those of Ena, a slightly older apprentice with short-cropped hair that accentuated her harsh features. Her cold, gray gaze swept over my body with an ill-placed curiosity, a small sneer stretching her thin lips. She held her sword with a nonchalance that betrayed an excessive confidence, and her Yoki , powerful and direct, carried an undeniable arrogance.

"Are you deaf or something?" she spat, her tone full of contempt. "I called out to you several times, but you were too busy admiring sparrings instead of training?"

I gritted my teeth, my own Yoki vibrating with rage. The unexpected attack and that provocative tone had caught me off guard. I settled for a tired sigh. "What do you want, Ena?" I planted my sword in the ground, leaning back against it with a bored air.

Ena's sneer widened, her eyes fixed on me. "What do I want? I want to see if you're as strong as the others say." Her gaze slid from me to Galatea, who was sparring with Flora, and a grimace of disgust distorted her features for a moment. She clearly couldn't stand Galatea. "You seem to swear by her alone." She took a step forward, indicating my sword with her chin. "A sparring match. You and me. Now. A real one."

I slowly blinked, then let out a deep sigh, half-exasperated, half-amused. I began to rise slowly, never breaking eye contact, my words dragging. "You come here, demanding things when I don't even know you, and you're not even decent enough to offer me your hand to help me up?"

Ena's sneer wavered, then disappeared. She was visibly caught off guard. Her expression, usually dominated by arrogance and contempt, was tinged with confusion, almost embarrassment. She clearly hadn't anticipated this turn of events. Her gray eyes, at first cold, betrayed a hint of surprise. She expected a fighting response, not a reproach about manners. I gently bit my cheek to keep from laughing.

"Wh... what are you talking about?" she managed to articulate, her face showing clear confusion. Her sword hung limply, pointing towards the ground, a sign of her momentary disarray. "You can do it yourself! Or is that something you can't even do without your watchdog, you midget?" The insult sounded hollow, almost automatic, devoid of its usual force. Her hand, by reflex, automatically reached out to me, in a silent offer of help.

I was already on my feet. I looked at her, an amused smile stretching my lips. Her face froze, realizing her gesture, and a slight hint of red rose to her pale cheeks. She retracted her hand as quickly as she had extended it.

"Let's go then," I said, grabbing my sword.

Meanwhile, a few meters away, Galatea continued her sparring with Flora. The clash of their swords echoed. But even in the midst of their duel, I felt her Yoki waver very slightly, a barely perceptible sign of her irritation. Her quick, furtive gaze landed on us for a moment, then returned to Flora. She clearly didn't appreciate Ena. Her blows against Flora seemed to become more incisive.

Ena glared at me, the confusion and embarrassment swept away by a new wave of annoyance. My nonchalant acceptance visibly irritated her. Her features hardened, and she tightened her grip on her sword. "I'll make you regret that nonchalance," she growled, her Yoki intensifying, heavy and aggressive. "I'll show you what a real fight is."

My smile faded, replaced by cold concentration. A familiar feeling of coolness spread through me as I used my Yoki . This wasn't going to be the same kind of fight I had with Galatea. Ena was the opposite. I took my stance, my sword raised, ready for her attack.

Ena lunged at me like a wild beast. She had no finesse, just brute strength and blind rage. Her sword came down in a powerful arc, aimed at my head without the slightest hesitation. It was a blow meant to break, not to feint. I felt the power behind the attack, but also its predictability.

I didn't oppose my strength to hers. Instead, I dodged by sliding to the side, a fluid movement that allowed me to avoid the blow and get to her flank. Her sword plunged into the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust as I let out a small laugh and a mischievous wink. Ena, furious at having missed me, pivoted sharply, her Yoki exploding in a raw surge. She sent a backhand swing at me, trying to hit me with her blade.

"Mistake," I said coldly.

I used a quick movement to deflect her blade just enough, my own sword tracing a swift arc towards her arm. My blow grazed her forearm, leaving a thin red trail on her sleeve.

Ena gasped in rage, her eyes wide with surprise and humiliation. She expected to dominate me, not to be outmaneuvered and touched so easily. Her Yoki flared even more chaotically, a sign of her loss of control.

"You...!" she began, her voice trembling with anger, as she prepared to launch another disorderly attack. I stuck out my tongue at her and prepared to dodge.

That's when I felt my breath catch. For an instant, my chest tightened, the air refusing to pass. Then, without warning, my heart skipped a violent beat. A dull, unexpected pain pierced me, disconcerting me for just a fraction of a second. My Yoki wavered, a strange and unexplained sensation that froze me.

That was all Ena needed. Her eyes lit up with a vicious glint. Seeing my hesitation, she changed her trajectory, her sword lunging again towards my head with a murderous intent. I didn't have time to react; the persistent pain had me rooted to the spot. The whistle of her blade grew closer. My throat tightened.

 

MOVE... MOVE

MOVE MOVE MOVE !!!, echoes furiously in my head.

 

But before it reached its target, a wave of Yoki surged over her. Her blow, deflected with surgical precision, hit the ground right next to me, kicking up a spray of dirt.

At the same instant, a sharp, metallic clang, louder than all the previous ones, echoed through the courtyard. Galatea had just thrown Flora several meters away, her sword still held high. Her Yoki , until then contained, now flared violently.

Despite the throbbing pain in my chest, I managed to force my body to move. Taking advantage of Ena's confusion, I placed my sword under her throat, the point of the steel pressing just enough to make her feel the threat without harming her. My left hand, trembling, clenched against my chest, an instinctive attempt to contain this unexplained pain.

Ena's sneer had frozen. Her wide, gray eyes stared at me, rage still simmering within her. Humiliation and confusion overwhelmed her. She gasped, then, with a sharp movement, she released her sword, letting it fall to the ground. She accepted her defeat.

I withdrew my sword, my gaze not leaving her. My left hand remained pressed against my chest, the pain not having subsided. A feeling of guilt, as if I had cheated, washed over me. I held out my hand to her. "Can we do this sparring again?" I said in a hoarse voice.

The familiar glint returned to Ena's eyes, and a sneer, though slightly forced, stretched her lips. "Pfft, of course we're doing this again," she replied, her regained arrogance barely masking the echo of her past confusion. She ignored my hand, getting up with a bound. "Next time, you won't be so lucky."

She picked up her sword without a glance at me, her features hardening again, but her gaze lingered for a moment too long on my Yoki . Then, she walked away with a quick step.

My hand was still clenched against my chest. The sharp pain had faded, but a strange echo lingered, a gnawing sensation. My Yoki still seemed disturbed. I moved away from the center of the area, looking for a hiding spot. I found a deep crevice formed by massive rocks, a recess that would hide me from the guards and the other apprentices. There, my sword laid beside me, I could try to understand this pain.

Although hidden, this spot gave me a direct view of the training area. Seated, I closed my eyes, focusing on my breath to calm my heart. The echo of the pain didn't disappear. I reopened my eyes, watching Galatea and Flora.

Their sparring continued, a ballet of blades. Galatea, despite her previous irritation with Ena, had regained her perfect control. Her blows were precise, powerful, but always controlled. Her domination was overwhelming.

I closed my eyes to concentrate fully on my own Yoki . I let my mind dive within me, searching for the origin of this sensation. My Yoki was agitated without reason. There was a subtle vibration, a dissonance that didn't match its usual texture. It emanated from my heart.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the sensation faded. The echo died, the phantom beat disappeared. My Yoki regained its usual fluidity, as if nothing had happened. Frustrating. Worrying. Inexplicable.

My internal monologue was abruptly interrupted by the silence. I sat up. Flora was bent over, visibly exhausted. Galatea stood straight. After exchanging a few words, Flora walked away.

 

I watched her, expecting her to rejoin the group. But instead, her gaze turned directly to my hiding spot. For a fraction of a second, I had the impression that her silver eyes met mine. I could feel her Yoki sliding towards mine.

Then, with a characteristic fluidity, she moved. Her silhouette vanished in the distance before reappearing. She advanced with remarkable discretion, weaving behind the rock formations, staying out of the guards' sight. As if following an invisible thread, she traced a direct path to my isolated position. My Yoki had remained stable, and I sincerely thought I had been discreet.

Yet, there she was, at the entrance to my crevice, her calm absolute. Her eyes, which a moment ago had shone with pure gold, had returned to their usual silver color, and she had concealed all Yoki emission. She stared at me with an intensity that left no room for denial. I felt both surprised and a little embarrassed.

"Your sparring was incredible, Galatea," I began, my voice a little weak. I sketched a slight smile. "And... thank you. For Ena."

Galatea didn't smile. Her face was impassive as she leaned against the wall. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze scrutinizing mine, then swept over my slumped posture.

"Thank you," she said in a calm voice. Her eyes narrowed. "What interests me, Lysia, is what happened with Ena. You are capable of so much better. You normally outclass her; her Yoki is disorderly, her technique crude. I don't understand how you could have faltered to the point of almost being decapitated by such a brute." Her voice grew colder on the last words; a hint of disdain for Ena was clearly perceptible.

The silence was heavy, broken only by my steady breathing. The surprise of her biting question left me no escape. I inhaled deeply, a barely audible sigh escaping my lips.

"I... I don't really know," I began, my hand clenched against my chest as if to anchor the memory. "During the fight, just before... before she launched her blow, I felt something. An intense pain, here." I tapped my chest.

"As if my heart had been hit and skipped a beat, but in a way... foreign. It completely destabilized me. That's why I missed the parry." I looked at Galatea, hoping she would grasp something in my confused explanation. "Then, the pain passed, but an echo remained. A bizarre sensation in my Yoki , like a dissonance. And when I tried to concentrate on it, just before you arrived... it disappeared. It's as if it never existed."

Galatea, who had listened without blinking, frowned slightly. A hint of curiosity, mixed with perplexity, replaced the anger in her silver eyes. She took another step, crouching to be at my height.

"An intense pain in your heart?" Galatea asked, her voice growing deeper, almost a whisper. "And a dissonance in your Yoki ... describe it."

I hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words to describe the inexplicable. "It wasn't exactly cold or hot," I explained, my gaze lost in the vague. "More... an overwhelming pressure, as if my heart wasn't big enough to contain something immense that wanted to expand within it. And at the same time, a disturbing lightness of my own Yoki , as if it were being sucked away or jostled." I stopped, trying to remember. "It wasn't a weakness. Rather... a sensation of intense strangeness. As if something that wasn't part of me, but was still within me, was shaking my Yoki . It really came from my chest, from my heart."

Galatea remained silent. Her brow stayed furrowed, betraying deep thought. The atmosphere became heavy with unanswered questions.

"A foreign force... in your heart," she finally murmured, more to herself than to me. Her voice was tinged with curiosity and perplexity. "That's not supposed to happen. Our Yoki is supposed to circulate throughout our body. Such a localized dissonance could be dangerous."

She looked at me again, her gaze intensifying. "Have you felt this before? Even in a small way? Have you had other symptoms, strange dreams, unusual hunger or thirst?"

I shook my head. "No, never. And I'm not turning into a Yoma , Galatea... This is the first time I've had this."

Galatea pursed her lips. "I must admit," she said in a more measured voice, "that I myself felt... something. A strangeness more unusual than your Yoki already is. It was fleeting, barely perceptible, but distinct from what I usually sense from you."

I rolled my eyes. "I'd really like to understand the origin of this 'event.' Fancy a quick sparring match again?"

Galatea observed me for a moment. "Our absence will eventually be noticed." She swept her gaze over the narrow passage of the crevice. "It's perhaps a phenomenon that manifests when you push it to its limits; we could test it in the field." She straightened up in a fluid movement and held out her hand to me. "We must go back. Now."

I accepted her hand, getting up in turn. My gaze traveled up her arm and stopped... at her horrible bangs. They were still asymmetrical, so badly cut, a capillary disaster in the otherwise perfect context of her appearance. A small laugh escaped me, and its presence spread a wave of relief that soothed my anxiety.

Her offer of a new sparring match was a tacit confirmation that she took my words seriously. We moved with the same discretion Galatea had used to find me, weaving through the rocks and shadows until we rejoined the others. No one seemed to have noticed our absence.

The rest of the training session unfolded without incident. Despite my efforts, despite the intensity I put into every movement, that strange pain, that dissonance, never manifested again. My Yoki remained stable, fluid, without the slightest bizarreness. It was as if the event had never happened. Frustrating. Worrying. Inexplicable.

---

(Last chap and this was originally one big chap but i cut it)

Chapter 8: The secrets of the Organization

 

Three years passed. Three years of deafening routine, grueling training, and relentless sparring. The camp was still the same, austere and brutal. The faces of the young recruits changed, their bodies hardened, but some faces remained familiar.

I was no longer a novice or a child, but a young warrior of thirteen. My body had reached a more stable stature, and even though I could still hope to grow, the reality was that I had grown very little in recent months. At 5'1", the idea that my height might already be fixed made me despair, because I found myself desperately small compared to others. My small size annoyed me all the more because Galatea still enjoyed denying it, thanks to the 35 cm difference between us, pointing out that to her I still seemed just as small.

It must be said that no one could match her height. Those three years seemed to have accentuated her beauty in a way that took my breath away, even after all those years together. I couldn't help but stare at her, which only fueled her arrogance.

But I was determined to wipe that arrogant smile off her face by staring at her bangs, which still looked like I had cut them myself.

Her beauty had not gone unnoticed in the dormitories. I had often seen apprentices trying to be sweet or getting close to her with excessive politeness. And one day, I had caught a young guard, newly integrated into the camp, attempting a clumsy flirtation, only to be rebuffed with the most polite coldness I had ever seen.

I never saw him again; I guess the organization doesn't approve of its guards making advances toward their weapons.

This provoked both my amusement and my deep disgust.

“You should be happy, Lysia,” she said to me one day, a mocking smile on her lips as I compared myself to her. Slightly higher than my reach, forcing me to stand on tiptoe if I wanted to get it. So I decided to ignore her and walk past.

“You're really cute... The Yoma will underestimate you, thinking you're a child, and you can take advantage of that in battle!” The word “cute” was said with a hint of affectionate derision.

Galatea, who was waiting for my reaction, chuckled softly.

As the urge to punch her in the face electrified my veins, I took a deep breath to try to calm myself down. But the urge was irresistible, and in the blink of an eye, I turned around and kicked her in the shin.

The blow landed with a thud. It was a precise, low kick, intended to surprise her more than actually hurt her, even though the force of the impact would have brought down any human.

Galatea let out a whistle of surprise, more amused than pained, and took a step back, absentmindedly rubbing her shin.

“Ah! The little yoma finally shows himself!” “Ah! The little yoma finally shows himself!” she teased me, her arrogant smile not wavering an inch. I decided to ignore her and continue on my way without a word.

We never found the cause of the mysterious pain. It never appeared again. It remained a secret between the two of us, an unsolved mystery that Galatea continued to observe out of the corner of her eye, attentive to the slightest fluctuation in my aura, but without success. Life had resumed its course, punctuated by discipline and combat.

I had progressed, of course. My handling of the Claymore had become more fluid, my posture more grounded. However, I had quickly learned to rely as little as possible on my Yoki. Beyond 30% release, the effort to control it became so complex that I feared exhaustion or, worse, the loss of my own consciousness.

I was able to better exploit and control it after much pleading with Galatea.

**Flashback **

“Come on, Galatea, show me!” I followed her like my shadow after sparring. "How do you make it so I don't feel anything? Explain it to me! Galaaaaaaaaateaaaaaa, please!"

"You don't love me, you hate me so much that you'd rather I turn into a Yomaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa and die than teach me... I pressed my head against hers and rubbed it gently, like a cat. “You're so cruel to me!”

Galatea froze and sighed, the sound of her patience at breaking point.

“Let go of me, Lysia. You're being ridiculous,” she replied, her curt tone unable to hide her amusement.

I adopted an even more dramatic tone. “Go ahead then, stab me with your sword while you're at it, at least I won't be a hideous monster because of my lack of control!”

Galatea broke free from my embrace with a sudden movement, causing me to slide across the floor and fall on my backside. Her gaze became serious, tinged with frustration.

“You're being dramatic for no reason, Lysia,” she interrupted.

“You're being dramatic over nothing, Lysia,” she interrupted. “And besides, do you remember how the last lesson ended? You asked me to help you, I gave you an exercise, and instead of doing it, you fell asleep in the middle of it.”

 

She was right. My nonchalant attitude had put her off. She had realized before I did how serious my control problem was, but my lack of seriousness had gotten the better of her. I bit my lip and sighed.

 

“Anyway, your problem isn't effort, it's that your Yoki is a chatterbox,” she blurted out, her usual arrogance taking over. “You let it escape non-stop, it's like your tongue, it never stops. That's why I can ‘read’ your intentions before you even lift a finger: your energy literally screams it at me.”

 

I frowned. “I ‘run’? But I don't feel anything! I don't even use it!”

 

She sighed. “Exactly. And if you want my help, start by polishing the sword,” she said, resuming her walk as I rolled my eyes. 

 

That evening, I tried to concentrate and “meditate” as she had asked me to do the first time, trying to focus on my yoki. But after a while of feeling nothing, annoyance and anger got the better of me. I opened my eyes, annoyed by this failure, and met Galatea's gaze. 

 

“You lasted about twenty minutes,” she said as she lay down, and I did the same.  I tried several times after that to achieve what only Galatea knows.

She finally gave in, exasperated by my persistence and convinced by my efforts. She sat with me in the courtyard, away from the instructors and other apprentices.

 

“Yoki,” she explained, her finger tracing invisible lines in the dust. “It can be likened to a flow, a bit like blood. It flows with varying intensity, like blood when it is pumped.”

 

She looked at me, a rare moment of seriousness piercing her usual sarcasm.

 

"Think of it as an underground current that constantly flows through your veins, your muscles. Most warriors try to block it when it rises to the surface. But blocking it is like clogging a vein; it builds up, it vibrates, it becomes uncontrollable, and it alerts every Yoma or warrior with sensitivity. For you, it's your normal state."

 

“Nice,” I muttered. 

 

She had touched my temple. 

 

"Stay focused. Instead of blocking it, you have to retract it. Change the flow. Think of a dam; you don't stop it, you direct it toward the source. You call it back to the center of your body, you let it condense around your energy core, deep within you, until the circulation on the surface is almost zero. Like water. Without waves. "

 

The exercises she gave me next were torture. She demanded that I sit in deep meditation for hours while she threw little jabs of her own Yoki at me, just strong enough to alert me, forcing me to maintain the retraction even under surprise. I moved, I got annoyed, and my Yoki escaped immediately.

 

“Failed,” she sighed. “All you have to do is move and you lose your concentration, and your Yoki bursts like fireworks. Start again.”

 

But the more Galatea pushed me, the more her own mastery refined. I watched her practice: she managed to extend her perception over greater distances, then retract it almost instantly. She trained on my constant energy leakage, making me her personalized training ground. 

 

Sometimes she notified me of the cheerfulness of certain others, other times of what they seemed to be doing.

 

Thanks to her unwitting surveillance and instruction, I had learned to mask my Yoki well enough to blend into the ambient noise of the camp. My masking wasn't perfect: there was still a faint signature, and if my emotions ran high, the Yoki ran high too. But it was good enough to fool the guards and inexperienced warriors. For experienced Claymores, or Claymores who were naturally more sensitive to Yoki, such as Galatea, I remained detectable, which she never failed to remind me of.

——----End of Flashback—-------

 

One of those nights, as I was honing my fighting skills in the long-abandoned training yard, a new thought, a simple, irrepressible desire, crept into my mind. A sudden fascination with the unknown. The Organization's headquarters was a labyrinth filled with mysteries. Unexplored corners, different smells, cold drafts that seemed to rise from the depths and found a strange resonance within me. A simple desire to go and see, to understand what lay behind the closed doors and inaccessible corridors.

 

Instead of returning to the dormitory after training, I let myself be guided by this new curiosity, by this growing intuition that the Organization was hiding much more than it was showing. She slipped out of the marked areas, using her new agility and ability to mask her Yoki to slip into the shadows. She discovered hidden service passages, secret doors, stone staircases that descended deeper and deeper underground, far from the warriors' quarters. The air was colder, heavier, permeated with a smell of dust, mold, and a lingering metallic bitterness, like that of dried blood mixed with copper.

 

I made my way through narrow tunnels and dimly lit storage rooms, avoiding the few guards I encountered. My steps were silent and agile. Then I heard noises. Not the clanking of armor or the voices of instructors. Faint sounds, muffled moans, indistinct whispers. Guided by this inexplicable attraction, I approached an area.

 

Gigantic silhouettes in the darkness, it was difficult to make out their shapes clearly, but their contours were massive and distorted. They were motionless, as if frozen, but the air around them vibrated with a heavy, suffocating energy. A Yoki so powerful that it made me stagger—these didn't seem to be ordinary Yoma.

 

The first creature was a colossal head, a skull almost fleshless in places, its gaping eye socket where a cold rage still seemed to burn. Thick pipes and massive chains were embedded in its gray flesh, metallic in places, as if it had been fused to machinery.

 

It was connected to complex mechanisms, wires, and conduits that seemed to pump the very life out of this frozen beast. Its mouth, split open, revealed crushed fangs, and yet the aura of power that emanated from it was such that my knees nearly buckled.

 

A little further away, another figure stood, more slender but just as monstrous. It was a twisted, mutated body, made of exposed muscles and protruding bones, from which countless pipes and cables also extended, anchoring it to unknown systems. Hard protuberances, resembling armor or scales, formed here and there on its gnarled skin.

 

Its head was an abomination, with no discernible face, just hollows for eyes from which emanated a ghostly glow. It was held aloft by thick mechanical attachments, like a gigantic puppet waiting for movement.

 

These creatures were not the Yoma I had imagined, nor even the ones the instructors had spoken of.... They seemed... older, and their Yoki, though dormant, pulsed with overwhelming power, a coldness that resonated deep within me.

 

My own Yoki began to vibrate in response, a strange resonance, almost a recognition. Although I felt fear, I could feel deep within me a... kind of attraction mixed with recognition?  

 

My eyes, even in the almost complete darkness, sharpened. I could make out massive chains, thick cables embedded in the rock that held these colossal forms in place. And beyond the creatures, there were... things. Stone tables, strange instruments made of cold metal and what appeared to be polished bone. And everywhere, suspended or placed on supports, were ribbons of flesh, purplish-black, as thick as my arm.

 

They pulsed with a faint energy, their surface glistening with a strange moisture. They were fragments of the Yoki energy of the two creatures. 

 

I approached, instinctively drawn to one of these creatures. The Yoki emanating from it was concentrated, dense, abnormally pure. It was familiar, yet strange. My finger brushed against the viscous, scaly tissue. It was cold, so cold, and yet a subtle warmth seemed to emanate from it, strangely comforting... 

 

A fleeting vision crossed my mind: huge, monster-like bodies, but deformed, as if torn apart, fighting men in armor. An ancient pain, not my own, shot through me, then faded away. I instinctively stepped back, bumping into one of the walls.

A few steps further on, my gaze fell on some scrolls lying on a table. Complex diagrams were drawn on them, symbols I didn't understand. Indecipherable handwritten notes and anatomical diagrams were sketched on them, showing human bodies merging with elements from these creatures, all surrounded by strange signs. It was like a macabre recipe for creating claymores.

 

As I was about to turn the page, I sensed the air change... a sharp draft from human movement passed by. A slight crunch of gravel under a boot. My heart skipped a beat. A guard. I had been too absorbed. 

 

Without thinking, my survival instinct took over. I flattened myself against the ground, my small size allowing me to slip under the shadow of one of the tables. I held my breath, my senses on high alert. The guard passed by, his heavy footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence. I remained motionless for several long minutes, until the sound of his boots faded into the depths of the tunnel.

 

My escape was hasty, a mixture of panic and apprehension. I retraced my steps, my instinctive movements bringing me back to the surface. The bitter smell haunted me, and images of those grotesque creatures, those ribbons of flesh, those strange scrolls, swirled in my mind.

 

I slipped back through the familiar corridors, the air in the dormitories, usually heavy with the breathing of sleeping apprentices, seemed strangely light and familiar. I slipped between the mats as quietly as possible.

 

I found Galatea asleep, her profile clear and calm in the dim light. Without a word, without hesitation, I slipped under her blanket and snuggled up against her. Pressing myself against her back, my arms and legs wrapped around her body. My face buried in her hair, my breath muffled against it.

 

Galatea stiffened for a moment, perceptibly, then relaxed, not moving, seemingly accepting my oddity. Her Yoki, calm and stable, spread gently, like an anchor in the storm of my thoughts.

 

I said nothing. My mind was a whirlwind. The Yoma, we were told, were pure evil, stupid monsters. But these ones, down there... they were different. Gigantic, yes, but so strangely connected to the Claymores, like those ribbons of flesh from which emanated that familiar Yoki. And the scrolls... such complex drawings, so... intentional. Did the Organization create the Yoma? Was that possible? And if so, why? To fight us?

 

I contented myself with breathing in her clean, metallic scent, like cold stone and freshly forged iron, but with a strange hint of winter flowers, discreet and unexpected, a fragrance that seemed to float on the ice. It had become the most reassuring scent in the world. Coupled with the steady beating of her heart, which calmed mine. 

 

The warmth of his body was a bulwark against the insidious cold that had seeped into me from the depths. I had never had so many questions, nor such an overwhelming feeling that the world I knew seemed so much bigger.

 

The days stretched out, long and monotonous, filled with pain and relentless training. Eloise's execution had cast a chilling shadow over the courtyard, a constant reminder of what awaited us if we faltered. The fear of the Awakening was palpable, a dull anxiety that added to the physical fatigue. 

 

But for me, this fear was compounded by another, more insidious one: the fear of what the Organization might be hiding.

 

I knew that the Yoma were monsters, a threat to humans, and that the Claymores were there to protect them. But how... how did they use such horrible creatures to create us? How could these giants I had discovered be linked to the Yoma we were supposed to destroy and to us? 

 

I tried to silence the incessant voice in my head and held Galatea even tighter against me, at which point she finally sighed softly.

“Easy there. If you try to break my ribs, I'll consider it cowardly and shameful revenge for the beating I gave you today.” She hadn't moved to get out of the way, and added, “I didn't think you'd resort to that to win.” 

I sighed softly, annoyed by her taunts, and finally let go of her completely and moved back a little to pull myself up higher. My fidgeting must have piqued her curiosity because she ended up sitting up slightly to see what I was doing, but I motioned for her to lie back down. She raised an eyebrow but complied, but before she was fully lying down again, I slipped my left leg under her and my right leg just under her arm and pulled her head against me, resting my head on top of hers. As I felt the vibrations of her laughter against me, I slowly fell asleep. 

But the images kept coming back.

 The muffled screams. The shadows.

 And that thing in the darkness... that presence that should never have existed.

I swallowed.

 Then, without really moving, I whispered softly, “Galatea...”

She stirred slightly, without opening her eyes. “You should sleep.”

“I... I saw something last night.”

Her breathing stopped for a second.  Her eyes opened,  two pale flashes in the darkness, meeting mine without the slightest trace of fatigue. 

I glanced at the others, rolled up in their blankets. No one was moving.

So I continued, my voice almost trembling:

“After my training, I... I decided to venture out a little and ended up somewhere in the basement... avoiding the guards and everything... there were rooms, and... pieces... not bodies, but not Yoma either.”

I felt her fingers tighten slightly against my arm, urging me to speak even more softly.

“It was alive, Galatea. Or it was. I swear.”

She looked at me for a long time, without any apparent emotion, then, still in a very low voice:

“Why on earth did you even go there? I really struggle to understand what goes on in your little head that made you think for a single moment that it was a good idea,” she finally said in an exasperated whisper.

I wanted to protest, but she shook her head imperceptibly.

"Whatever it was... forget it. The most important thing is that no one saw you." 

I felt her hand close briefly around my wrist, almost like a silent oath.

“It's not our job to understand. We are their weapons, not their confessors. Our job is to exterminate the Yomas and protect people by doing research to find out whether or not the organization are children of the heart.” 

I bit the inside of my cheek, and a long silence followed as the gray morning light filtered through the cracks in the wall. For a moment, I thought she had fallen back asleep. Then she added, even more softly.

“I don't blame you. Curiosity is the only human thing we have left. But be wise enough to know when to keep it to yourself.”

I remained motionless, my heart pounding. 

She was already closing her eyes again, as if the conversation had never taken place.

Over the next few days, I tried to forget, putting all my willpower into it.

The mornings always began in the same pale light, with shouted orders, aligned footsteps, and the sharp clash of training blades. I obeyed, I carried out orders, I breathed in unison with the others. When our instructors walked between the rows, I kept my back straight and my gaze empty, as I had been taught.

Galatea said nothing. Not a word about our nighttime exchange, not a look that might have betrayed her knowledge. But sometimes, when our blades clashed, I sensed a slight insistence in the way she disarmed me, as if she wanted to remind me, without words: keep quiet.

So I concentrated. On the blade, on my breathing, on the familiar pain in my muscles.

 On everything except that.

But at night, when everything went dark, the memory came back. I could still smell the dry blood and diseased skin, and I felt that haunting sensation deep inside me, that familiarity with these things. 

The weeks passed, and I was convinced I would succeed. The routines had a numbing effect: wake up, train, eat, rest.

And in the rare moments of respite, Galatea would annoy me. Always upright, calm, unshakeable. Part of me envied that strength, that lack of doubt. But sometimes she would catch my eye, and I had the impression that she knew. That I was always one step away from returning to those repulsive basements to try to find answers. 

One evening, training went on until nightfall. Fatigue enveloped me, but in this fog of weariness, the same thought kept coming back, stubbornly, like a splinter under my skin. 

Was this hallucination more than that? The idea gnawed at me. I tried to stifle it, to reason with myself, to remember Galatea's words: It's not ours job. 

I got up quietly, taking care not to brush against Galatea's mat. Her eyes were closed, she seemed to be asleep, so I thanked my lucky stars and crossed the dormitory, the corridors, and the courtyard, avoiding any noise I heard on my way.

The air was cold, the full moon whitening the flagstones, each of my steps echoing too loudly, and I cursed myself. 

I didn't know exactly where I was going; my memories of the place seemed vague and inaccessible. But my body seemed to know, as if the place was drawing me in, despite myself.

I walked through empty corridors, rows of closed doors, until I found myself in an older, almost forgotten part of the building. The walls were damp, the air colder. A deep silence reigned here, but this place seemed different... as if I had come to the wrong place?

 

Then, a faint glow. At the end of a dark corridor, a faint light filtered through a poorly fitted door. My curiosity overcame my caution. I approached silently, my heart pounding, and peered through the gap at the bottom.

 

The room was a jumble of old fabrics, broken crates, and rusty tools. But what caught my eye was a group of figures huddled in a corner. Faint whispers and muffled moans rose from there. As I got closer, I could make out shapes. Children. Frail figures, their bodies twisted, their faces marked by disease and a strange distortion.

 

One of them had a deformed hand, the fingers fused together like tentacles. Another, a little girl with a blank stare, coughed incessantly, her skin abnormally pale. Their Yoki... I could barely sense them, faint, broken resonances, like broken strings...

 

And yet, amid this tableau of decay, some seemed almost... normal. A young boy, thin, with dull hair, but a surprisingly intact face. A little girl sitting with her knees against her chest, showing no visible deformities, just extreme paleness and a lost look in her eyes. 

 

The smell was strong here. Not the smell of Yoma, but a smell of decay, of suffering so intense that it made me nauseous. It was the smell of blood that did not flow, of flesh that did not heal, simply of rot.

 

These children... They were neither Yoma, nor humans, nor even Claymores like us. They were failures... Broken souls, cast aside, kept alive for some unknown reason, or simply forgotten. Reality hit me hard.

 

I took a step back, then two, my breath catching in my throat. The image of those bodies was already haunting me. A shiver of pure horror ran through me, much colder than my own Yoki. This was the other side of the coin, the fate reserved for those who could not withstand the transformation...

 

My gaze lingered on one of them. A child curled up, his body half-hidden under a scrap of cloth. His eyes. Those eyes were not empty like those of a corpse. They stared with an abnormal clarity, with a sadness so deep that it pierced me. There was consciousness in them. A soul. It was a child, aware of its own hell. 

 

The fact that some still seemed so human, without deformation, but locked up here like the others. ...was worse. It meant that the Organization... I blocked my thoughts, not daring to entertain any more theories.

 

My stomach contracted painfully. Acid bile rose in my throat, my hands trembled, clutching my head as the macabre image played over and over in my mind, the moans echoing in my ears.

 

Panic rose, overwhelming, distorting the air around me. I couldn't breathe, suffocated by horror, fear, and cruel reality.

 

I had to get away, flee from this vision that was eating away at my soul. I turned around, ready to run, to disappear, and bumped into someone as I looked up after seeing Galatea's silver eyes and threw myself into her arms.

 

The air in the dormitory was still warm with sleep.

 The slow breathing of the other apprentices filled the space, steady, almost soothing.

 I hadn't slept. Not really. I had just stayed curled up against Galatea, listening to the quiet rhythm of her heart beneath her breastplate.

But the images kept coming back.

 The muffled cries. The shadows.

 And that thing in the darkness... that presence that should never have existed.

I swallowed.

 Then, without really moving, I whispered softly:

“Galatea...”

She stirred slightly, without opening her eyes.

“You should sleep.”

“I... I saw something last night.”

Her breathing stopped for a second.

Her eyes opened, two pale flashes in the darkness, meeting mine without the slightest trace of fatigue.

I glanced at the others, rolled up in their blankets. No one was moving.

So I continued, my voice almost trembling:

“After my training, I... I decided to venture out a little and ended up somewhere in the basement... avoiding the guards and everything... there were rooms, and... pieces... not bodies, but not Yoma either.”

I felt her fingers tighten slightly against my arm, urging me to speak even more softly.

“It was alive, Galatea. Or it was. I swear.”

She looked at me for a long time, without any apparent emotion, then, still in a very low voice:

“Why on earth did you even go there? I really have a hard time understanding what's going on in your little head that would make you think for a single moment that this was a good idea,” she finally said in an annoyed whisper.

I wanted to protest, but she shook her head imperceptibly.

 “Whatever it was... forget it. The most important thing is that no one saw you.” 

I felt her hand close briefly around my wrist, almost like a silent oath.

"It's not our job to understand. We are their weapons, not their confessors. Our role is to exterminate the Yomas and protect people by doing research to find out whether or not the organization are children of hearts." 

I bit the inside of my cheek, and a long silence followed, the gray morning light filtering through the cracks in the wall. For a moment, I thought she had fallen back asleep. Then she added, even more softly.

“I don't blame you. Curiosity is the only human thing we have left. But be wise enough to know when to keep it to yourself.”

I remained motionless, my heart pounding. 

She was already closing her eyes again, as if the conversation had never taken place.

Over the next few days, I tried to forget, putting all my willpower into it.

The mornings always began with the same pale light, shouted orders, aligned footsteps, the sharp clash of training blades. I obeyed, I executed, I breathed in unison with the others. When our instructors walked between the ranks, I kept my back straight and my gaze empty, as I had been taught.

Galatea said nothing. Not a word about our nighttime exchange, not a look that might have betrayed her knowledge. But sometimes, when our blades clashed, I sensed a slight insistence in the way she disarmed me, as if she wanted to remind me, without a word: keep quiet.

So I concentrated. On the blade, on my breathing, on the familiar pain in my muscles.

 On everything except that.

But at night, when everything went dark, the memory came back. I could still smell the dry blood and diseased skin, and I felt that haunting sensation deep inside me, that familiarity with these things. 

The weeks passed, and I was convinced I would succeed. The routines had a numbing effect: wake up, train, eat, rest.

And in the rare moments of respite, Galatea would annoy me. Always upright, calm, unshakeable. Part of me envied that solidity, that absence of doubt. But sometimes she would catch my eye, and I had the impression that she knew. That I was always one step away from returning to those repulsive basements to try to find answers. 

One evening, training went on until nightfall. Fatigue enveloped me, but in this fog of weariness, the same thought kept coming back, stubbornly, like a splinter under my skin. 

Was this hallucination more than that? The idea gnawed at me. I tried to stifle it, to reason with myself, to remember Galatea's words: It's not our role.

I got up quietly, careful not to brush against Galatea's mat. Her closed eyes seemed asleep, so I thanked my lucky stars and crossed the dormitory, the corridors, and the courtyard, avoiding any noise I heard on my way.

The air was cold, the full moon whitening the flagstones, each of my steps echoing too loudly, and I cursed myself. 

I didn't know exactly where I was going; my memories of the place seemed vague and inaccessible. But my body seemed to know, as if the place was drawing me in, despite myself.

The corridors became older and narrower. The smell changed to dust, mold, something old and alive at the same time. 

I walked through empty corridors, rows of closed doors, until I found myself in an older, almost forgotten part of the building. The walls were damp, the air colder. A deep silence reigned here, but something was wrong... it wasn't the same place.

 

Then, a faint glow. At the end of a dark corridor, a faint light filtered under a poorly fitted door. My curiosity overcame my caution. I approached silently, my heart pounding, and peered through the gap at the bottom.

The room was a jumble of old fabrics, broken crates, and rusty tools. But what caught my eye was a group of figures huddled in a corner. Faint whispers and muffled moans rose from there. As I got closer, I could make out shapes. Children. Frail figures, their bodies twisted, their faces marked by disease and a strange distortion.

 

One of them had a deformed hand, the fingers fused together like tentacles. Another, a little girl with a vacant stare, coughed incessantly, her skin abnormally pale. Their Yoki... I could barely sense them, faint, broken resonances, like broken strings...

 

And yet, amid this picture of decay, some seemed almost... normal. A young boy, thin, with dull hair, but a surprisingly intact face. A little girl sitting with her knees against her chest, showing no visible deformities, just extreme paleness and a lost look in her eyes. 

 

The smell was strong here. Not the smell of Yoma, but a smell of decay, of suffering so intense that it made me nauseous. It was the smell of blood that didn't flow, flesh that didn't heal, simply rot.

These children... They were neither Yoma, nor humans, nor even Claymores like us. They were failures... Broken souls, cast aside, kept alive for some unknown reason, or simply forgotten. Reality hit me hard.

 

I took a step back, then two, my breath catching in my throat. The image of those bodies was already haunting me. A shiver of pure horror ran through me, much colder than my own Yoki. This was the other side of the coin, the fate reserved for those who could not withstand the transformation...

 

My gaze lingered on one of them. A child curled up, its body half-hidden under a scrap of cloth. Its eyes. Those eyes were not empty like those of a corpse. They  stared, with an abnormal clarity, with a sadness so deep that it pierced me. There was consciousness in them. A soul. It was a child, aware of its own hell. 

 

The fact that some still seemed so human, without deformities, but locked up here like the others... it was worse. It meant that the Organization... I blocked my thoughts, not daring to entertain any more theories.

 

Panic rose, overwhelming, distorting the air around me. I didn't understand what I was seeing. But part of me knew that I should have, of course, after all, what happens if the operation to become a Claymore fails? But what if the test subjects survive? I was a hypocrite, I forgot so quickly...

 

I wanted to go back to bed and forget about it; after all, there was nothing I could do for them. But my body refused to obey; my eyes remained fixed on them, as if I were trying to make sure they really existed.

 

I took a step back, then two, my breath catching in my throat. The whispers continued behind the door. 

 

Faint.

 

Pleading. 

 

I finally found the strength within me and turned around, ready to run, to disappear, and collided head-on with something solid that didn't even seem to react to my impact. As I looked up, I came face to face with Galatea's cold, clear, familiar silver eyes staring at me sternly, not moving, not even breathing.

 

As I was about to open my mouth to explain, I heard a noise coming from the door behind me. My heartbeat drowned out everything as I stared at Galatea. 

 

She didn't need to say anything else. Her hand closed around my forearm, firm and icy.

I understood: we were leaving. Now.

The door creaked. A sliver of light revealed a face, or what was left of it. Eyes too big for a child's face, but empty, dull, and a guttural whisper that was no longer human. But before we could really see it or be seen ourselves, we were already out of the hallway. Galatea grabbed me under her arm and we slipped out of there without making a sound. She dragged me into a side hallway, then through another door, narrow and hidden under a crumbling section of wall. She forced it open with a flick of her wrist.

We emerged into a half-collapsed service duct. Galatea rushed in, pulling me after her. The air was stifling, saturated with dust and humidity.

We crawled a few meters before emerging into a wider corridor, which I recognized as the storage area.

Galatea finally stopped. Her breathing remained steady, mine was ragged.

“Do you want to die?” she asked simply.

I shook my head, unable to answer.

Her silver eyes pierced me with anger and mercilessness.

“Then what you saw... doesn't exist. Understand? You ask no more questions, you search no more for I don't know what, and we NEVER talk about it again.”

I nodded, not daring to say anything. 

She let go of my arm, then said in a lower voice:

 “You're sleeping next to me tonight. And you're not moving.” Her order brooked no discussion.

 The walk back to the dormitory was conducted in religious silence. I walked behind her, her shoulders stiff and tense.  It was the first time I had ever seen her truly angry.

But I understood. The Organization did not forgive curiosity, let alone insubordination.

When we reached the mats, Galatea settled down without a word. I hesitated, then cautiously slipped in next to her. She didn't move, and the silence stretched on.

 

“I'm sorry...” I whispered softly, almost to myself.

She didn't answer. But after a moment, she turned and pulled me close. So I closed my eyes, trying to forget those faces behind the door. After all, there was nothing I could do for them. 

It wasn't my job.

Not my fight.

I just need to stay focused on my job. 

---

Notes:

ok ok so i was out for a looooooooooong time sorry u can fight me i understand BUT ! always remember even if it take time for me to update i will NEVER NEVERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR abandon this.

xoxoxoxo
(u must know thats in my head i has 3 others memes but i dont wish to bother u guys so i hope u imagine them urself :P )
LETS ME KNOW WHAT U THINK AND UR THEORIES

Chapter 9: The weight of dawn

Two days had passed since my escapade, and everything was back to normal. I was training

with renewed ferocity, especially now that I was facing Galatea.

 

Our blades clash, but our eyes never leave each other. Galatea no longer smiles, unlike me,

whose smile only grows wider. She listens to every vibration of the metal, every breath,

every beat in the air is a note she reads.

I can feel her, in the silence between two impacts, focused on my Yoki, she pierces through

me.

 

So I blur her, releasing just enough Yoki to saturate the space between us, like a fog of sand

that makes the air tremble.

Galatea closes her eyes to block out the visual distraction and focus entirely on the yoki. But

I feel her in the tension of my wrist, in the shadow of my footsteps. I know how she moves. I

know how she breathes.

 

So I strike.

 

The sword whistles, but my target is no longer there. For a moment, I really thought I had

her, but I only cut through a mirage. Then she reappears behind me. Her Yoki brushes

against me, cold and soft, like a hand on the back of my neck.

"Always too predictable," she whispers.

I grit my teeth. She's trying to throw me off balance.

 

Once again, I feel her influence sliding into my veins, a call, a subtle pressure on my nerves,

a foreign rhythm trying to control mine. I recognize it. I've been through it before, but not this

time.

 

I reverse the flow. My Yoki tightens around me, dense, choppy, ready to bite.

I don't want to suffer these little tricks anymore. Our blades cross again, the shock rumbling

through my arms.

 

Galatea advances, fluid, terrifying in her mastery. Every blow she strikes, every dodge,

seems already planned. I follow her, yet as if in an old dance. But over the years, these

movements have become predictable. So I strike a blow that breaks our beautiful dance,

which she nevertheless manages to dodge, minimizing the impact.

 

Her eyes open wide, and for the first time, I see a flicker of concern in her gaze. Then she

changes, and a breath of air sweeps through the room. Her Yoki rises like a torrent, flooding

the floor and cracking slightly under her feet, and the air twists.

I decide to follow her example, exhaling calmly, my hands clenched on the hilt of my sword

as I give her a cheeky wink. I watch her face transform, her features sharpen, her smile

breaking into a grimace revealing sharp teeth.

 

As I think back to what she had told me about her contempt for using yoki, which makes her

"ugly." But I don't have time to tease her. Because the blows are raining down, her speed

having increased as well.

Each impact resonates in my arm like thunder. I parry, I bend, I straighten up, my breath

becomes fire. I feel her invading everything. Her pulsations become the very rhythm of my

heartbeat. And in this turmoil, I find my own cadence.

One step, pivot.

 

I feign a fall. Her blade comes down, straight, perfect, and that's when I slide to the side.

A breath's distance, and my sword rises, tangential, grazing her thigh.

 

A thin scarlet trail instantly appeared, even though the wound was only superficial. Galatea

looks down at the mark. She sighs, almost amused, before lunging at me. I only have time to

raise my sword, the shock running through me to my ribs.

 

Brute force informed me that she had stopped playing. Her blows became heavy, precise, mechanically beautiful.

 

Each impact made the stone beneath our feet vibrate. I stepped back, pivoted, letting her

Yoki brush past me like a burning wind. She dominated me in power, but I was faster and

smaller…

 

I slide under her guard, my foot scraping the ground, and strike with an upward arc.

She parries, of course, but my blade scrapes her hip and a spray of blood splatters her

tunic.

 

"You think you're clever?" she growls in a hoarse voice.

 

"No, I am," I reply with a beautiful smile.

 

I leap back, laughing despite the pain pulsing in my arm. Her size makes her maybe majestic, but also less flexible.

 

I take advantage of this, circling her like a flame, one step, a roll, a pirouette. Her sword

slices through the air a hair's breadth from my face, cutting a strand of my hair.

 

“I'll give you a new haircut if this keeps up...” I whisper as a smile spreads across my lips.

 

Galatea, meanwhile, is no longer smiling at all, her features tense with effort, her face

contorted under the pressure of the Yoki she is struggling to contain, and yet she remains

beautiful. Beautiful in this fury... which leaves me no time to even admire her.

 

She feints, I dive. Her blade grazes my shoulder and my flesh splits, hot. I bite my lip, the

pain sharpening my lucidity. I roll forward, leap onto her left side, both hands on the hilt.

She blocks, the vibration tearing at my wrists.

 

The shock makes me cry out, but I use the momentum to my advantage and pivot, propelling

myself backwards, taking advantage of the twist to deliver a heel kick to her face.

Her blood splatters the floor as her gaze rises, golden, incandescent.

 

"I guess you know how to be more than just a little brat after all!" her voice rings out, full of

teasing.

 

I just wink at her as a response. 

 

She charges, throwing me backwards. The impact throws me against the wall. The stone

cracks behind my back, I suffocate, the air blocked in my lungs, my legs tremble, I feel that a

few ribs have taken the brunt of the assault. Everything is blurred, loud and hot, but I refuse

to stop.

 

It explodes, like a sharp, controlled snap; a shockwave that hammers the stone and makes

my veins vibrate. My own energy screams through my limbs, electric. The power is

intoxicating, but I make sure to keep a tight grip on it. I feel the yoki wriggling.

 

She blinks, a moment too long. I rush at her, dodging a step to the left, a quick pirouette. My

blade passes just under her guard, but she blocks again, too late, my sword sliding along

hers. I decide to lunge forward between her legs and grab her from behind, wrapping my

arm firmly around her neck and head.

 

This locks us in a tight position, giving her no angle to use brute force. Surprised by the hold,

her arms try to strike me, attempting to break my guard. But I take advantage of her size and

tighten my arm, leaning over her ear.

 

"So Galatea... what are you going to do now?" I whispered softly in her ear, a smile touching

my lips as I blew gently on her ear.

 

A low laugh rolls in her throat. It's not her usual laugh; this one is deeper, more hoarse,

almost intimate.

 

"I could... break your arm," she whispered, her voice tinged with amusement. "Or I could

slam you violently against the ground or a rock... but..."

 

I feel her Yoki fluctuate, hesitating between threat and caress. For a moment, I think she's

going to send me flying with a backhand, but no. She freezes. Her back arches slightly under

my grip. Her scent fills my senses and I tighten my arm a little more, just to see. She lets out

a breath that is half-strangled and half-laugh.

 

"I'm not sure what you're playing at, Lys, but..." I listen intently, focused entirely on her. I paying no attention to her neck tensing, her muscles rolling under my arms…

 

With a sudden movement and brute force, she breaks my grip and reverses the situation. I

find myself pinned against the stone, her hand around my throat, not enough to choke me,

just enough to keep me under her.

 

I let out a groan of annoyance, plunging my gaze into her golden, burning, almost feline

eyes, and all my retorts die in my throat.

 

"Impertinent. Insolent. And devilishly..." She stops, the words lost, her pupils trembling for a moment before she turns her head away.

"...exhausting," she finally blurts out with an annoyed sigh, as if to chase away something

else.

 

As I smile, "I didn't know you were going to praise all my qualities in such a position, but

please continue." I whisper, my voice slightly muffled by her grip as a hoarse laugh escapes

my throat, vibrating against her hand. I gently  place my hands on her hips and tap tap her as she raises an eyebrow.

 

Before she can ask the question, I take advantage of her relaxation and push her back,

sitting up, but she pivots with the momentum, her legs sweeping mine as she pulls me tightly

against her. We collapse together in a chaos of a few blows and breaths, rolling on the floor.

 

When we stop, I am on top of her, my hands pressed against her wrists.

 

Her gaze pierces me, golden and calm. "You really don't know when to stop," she says.

 

"Not when it's you, I guess." The words come out before I can hold them back.

 

I feel her muscles tense beneath my grip, and I release even more yoki and press her wrists

down even harder. A tense silence follows.

 

"Are you going to sit there for long?" She raises an eyebrow, ironic.

 

"Maybe. The show's not bad. I think I'll savor this rare moment." I smile, baring my fangs slightly.

 

She lets out a hearty laugh. 

 

"Insolent to the end."

 

"I guess we have that in common," I say, completely releasing my grip, my hands resting just

on her wrists as I retract the yoki. She blinks, taken aback for half a second as I get up

before she can respond, holding out my hand, a smile playing on my lips.

 

"Draw?"

 

"You just got lucky."

 

I laugh softly, wiping the blood still dripping from my lip with the back of my hand.

 

"Lucky?" I raise an eyebrow, feigning innocence.

 

"If that's what you want to believe, I won't argue with you."

 

She shakes her head, a slight smile playing on her lips, as she grabs my hand and slowly

stands up, with an almost feline agility despite her fatigue.

Then she dusts off her tunic. "You've really made progress in controlling your yoki."

 

"Hmm," I let out an affirmative hum, then can't help adding, "You rely too much on your ability to control yoki... what will you do when that's no longer enough?"

 

"The day when it's no longer enough?" she repeats, her voice calm but sharp. A soft, mocking laugh escapes her.

 

"Then I'll improvise... like you, no doubt, and if I have to, I'll resort to my yoki." She tilts her head, her golden eyes shining, turning silver again and filled with an amused

gleam.

 

"But don't worry, little one. When you're born with so much grace, you always find a

solution before you're dirty or dead."

 

We went to retrieve our swords, and I lost myself in my thoughts about what I had seen.

Ironically, I no longer felt that visceral need to find those strange creatures. Although they

and those children remained constant question marks in the back of my mind.

 

I ended up following Galatea to the dormitory to polish our Claymores in the rare quiet of the

room, the steady rubbing of stone against metal the only sound.

 

"Stop fidgeting, Lysia," Galatea said without looking up from her blade. Her voice was so low

that it almost blended into the murmur of the metal she was polishing.

 

I freeze, my muscles tense.

 

"I'm not fidgeting." My voice comes out sharper than I intended.

She smiled, but it wasn't a kind smile.

 

"You're clenching your jaw and you're quiet, for once. That's never a good sign." 

 

I look at her, a little stung, but I end up looking away and shrugging my shoulders. Silence

falls again, heavy, punctuated only by the sound of stone rubbing against blade.

 

She moves a little closer, her blond hair sliding down her face.

When she speaks again, her voice is so low that I might have thought it was an illusion, if her

lips hadn't moved.

 

"What you saw... they're not Yoma, nor are they failed experiments that we throw into the

woods. They're Offspring."

 

I look up abruptly.

Her words are cold, too calm.

 

"When we prepare to undergo the operation to become warriors, we naively think it's all or

nothing: either the transformation is successful, or the Yoma flesh graft kills us."

I nod slowly.

"But sometimes..." she continues, pressing harder on her blade, "...the body resists poorly. Too weak, or... not compatible."

 

A shiver runs through me. The air seems heavier. I say nothing, too aware of the metallic taste in my mouth.

 

"Then the transformation stops halfway through."She looks up, and in the pale light of the dormitory, her silver irises seem darker.

"Which causes the deformities you saw: fused hands, empty eyes, split skin."

 

I feel my heart beating faster.

An image comes to mind the creatures we had encountered, their faces deformed, their

moans barely human.

 

They were afraid.

 

They... looked like us.

 

Galatea continues, her tone calm but tinged with a subtle tremor.

"They are too broken to become Claymores, but too resilient to die. So we keep them alive.

To work. Or... to test other things."

 

A shiver runs through me, but my thoughts race, searching for order, for meaning.

 

Someone has to bear the brunt of failure.

 

Nothing is created without sacrifice, right?

 

"Maybe it's necessary," I say in a low voice, almost to myself.

 

Galatea turns her head slightly toward me, intrigued.

 

"If the Organization wants to find a way to make us stronger, more stable... then it's...

normal, isn't it?"

 

The words burn as I say them, but I continue, stubbornly.

 

"If these... things can help us understand what's wrong, then their suffering won't be in vain.

It could... save others."

 

I find myself clutching the whetstone, my fingers white. I don't know if I'm trying to convince

her, or myself.

 

Galatea says nothing. Her gaze remains fixed on me, calm, too calm. Then she gives a

small, sad smile.

 

"Always looking for the light in the mud, huh?" she whispers.

I shrug, a little ashamed.

"It's better than believing their sacrifices are in vain."

 

Silence falls again.

 

I rub my blade mechanically, without looking at it, while thoughts swirl around in my head:

duty, compassion, doubt

 

Then, without really thinking, I let slip "Thank you."

 

Galatea barely looks up, a slight smile playing on her lips.

 

"For what? For ruining your mood?"

 

I shake my head and smile. "For the answers."

 

She tilts her head slightly, feigning exasperation.

 

"You know, Lysia... your damn curiosity is going to be the death of you."

Her tone is meant to be stern, but the amused gleam in her eyes betrays the real concern

behind the jab.

 

I raise an eyebrow, feigning provocation.

 

"What about you? You're no better."

 

Galatea pauses, then sighs, a discreet laugh on the tip of her tongue.

 

"Hmm. Maybe you're just a bad influence." She pauses for a moment, thinks, then adds, almost to herself:

 

"...Or maybe I was like that before you came along."

 

Our eyes meet and silence returns, comfortable this time.

The steady rubbing of stone against metal fills the room, like a shared heartbeat—calm,

precise, familiar.

 

"We should get back to it," she says in a neutral tone as she stands up, picks up her

Claymore, and heads for the exit.

 

I stand still for a moment, watching her silhouette recede.

 

Her pace is measured, but I sense, from the way her yoki vibrates faintly, that something

within her seems agitated.

 

I finally follow her.

 

Outside, the afternoon light beats down on the training ground. The sand is hot under our

boots, the air thick with dust and iron.

The instructors bark orders, blades clash, and the recruits' cries echo in an almost

reassuring monotony.

 

I line up with the others, but without conviction. My movements are mechanical, precise but

empty. Each sword stroke seems hollow, without echo. A few meters away, Galatea

resumes her role with calm perfection, focused, her movements fluid and controlled.

Nothing in her attitude betrays conversation or fatigue.

 

I can't pretend so well. I think about these things that could have been my sisters in arms in

another life. Yet part of me still refuses to see the evil in them. Maybe they're right. Maybe it

takes monsters to contain other monsters.

 

The sand crunches under my boots as I take a step back. The guard glares at me, but I don't flinch. My blade rests against my shoulder, lazy, almost

casual.

 

I shrug, a smirk on my lips.

 

"Pause," I whisper, before anyone has time to protest. Then, in a falsely serious tone, I add:

"I've drawn too much on the yoki... I can feel the beast within me."

 

The conversations freeze. Some faces tense up, others turn pale, and some, those who know me a little too well, just

roll their eyes.

 

I hold back a laugh, but a spark of amusement still shines through in my voice.

As I walk past Flora, I growl low, a guttural, almost animalistic "Rawrrr... RAWR," rolling my

shoulders as if I'm about to lose control.

 

Flora doesn't flinch, her eyes remain fixed on me for a moment, assessing me without

tension or fear. Unlike her training partner, who jumps, letting out a muffled curse, while

behind me, I hear someone sniggering despite themselves. I turn my head halfway, giving

them a sardonic look.

 

"What? We have to watch for the signs before the transformation, don't we? It's

prevention..."

 

Galatea, a few feet away, sighs deeply without even turning around.

I see her roll her eyes, but the slight tremor at the corner of her lips betrays the laughter she

is stifling.

 

I lean against one of the stone pillars lining the courtyard and watch the others continue. The

screams, the blows, the sound of metal... it all seems so distant to me. The wind brings me the smell of damp earth, and, in the distance, the cry of a crow.

 

The world seems to be turning without me. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the sun warm my skin. A moment of calm, stolen from the midst of the din.

 

And then, as if the lightness of the moment were a mistake to be corrected, the silence

suddenly freezes, a different presence, dense, calculated even before his voice breaks it.

 

"Lysia." The name falls like a coin on marble.

 

I don't need to look up to know that a man in black is standing there, as if the air had made

him appear.

 

Black coat, tilted hat, and the polite smile of a man who knows he's selling you something

you'll never buy.

 

"I realize we haven't been formally introduced." His voice is smooth, like a wiped knife. He tilts his head very slightly.

 

"Rubel. I represent the Organization."

No "pleased to meet you." No outstretched hand, as one might expect from the

Organization.

 

"I must say, you have quite an imagination." He says it as casually as one might comment

on the weather. His eyes, at least what I can see of them behind the glass, rest on me

before sliding over to Galatea.

 

"I hear you give... work... to the instructors. And the guards. And pretty much anyone else

who has the misfortune of crossing your path." A thin smile stretched across his lips.

And I realize that I'm standing up only when he stops two meters away from me and clasped

his hands behind his back.

 

"You're progressing quickly, Lysia." He tilted his head slightly, as if analyzing a painting.

"Too fast, some would say."

 

My heart skips a beat. Galatea doesn't speak, but I feel her yoki tighten like a hand around a

blade.

 

Rubel continues, perfectly composed.

 

"It reminds me of someone. A former student of the Organization." He takes his time, letting

the name hang in the air like a rumor. "Riful. She was No. 1 at an age when others were still

learning to hold a sword upright."

 

My fingers clench against the fabric of my tunic. Rubel smiles so slightly it could have been a

breath:

 

"Same precocious talent. Same... ease."

 

I feel my shoulders straighten further, my chin lift, and my lungs fill without my deciding to do

so.

 

Rubel nodded, as if I had answered exactly what he wanted to hear.

"That's why you'll leave tomorrow at dawn. Alone." The silence tightens and my heart races. "An incursion to the northwest. Complete eradication."

 

I can't help but tilt my head, a faint smile playing on my lips.

 

"Understood."

 

Rubel took half a step back, as if validating me with an invisible gesture.

I nod, feeling the adrenaline rush through my veins to the point where I have to restrain

myself from jumping for joy.

 

Rubel takes half a step back, just enough to signify that the exchange is over. He looks at

me for a moment longer, then turns on his heel and walks away silently.

Silence falls once more.

 

But it no longer has the same shape.

 

Only then do I realize that my heart is beating too fast, too hard. A shiver runs down my

spine, and I have to force myself not to laugh, to jump up, to run northwest. A feeling of

victory and envy washes over me.

 

Galatea approaches silently. She watches me. For a long time.

 

"That's not a good sign, you know that?" she says simply.

I turn my head toward her.

 

"Why is that?" A smile comes to my lips, almost insolent.

Galatea lowers her eyes slightly, as if searching for words.

 

When she speaks, it's not judgmental. It's tiredness.

 

"Just don't die." She takes a quiet breath. "If they're sending you alone now... it means they

expect a lot, and the yomas aren't... forgiving. They'll tear you apart without hesitation."

 

I just shrug, as if she were talking about rain.

 

"As long as he looks the other way while I pick up the pieces, I'm fine with it." I reply and

wink at her.

 

Galatea closes her eyes for a second. When she opens them again, I see a mixture of

exasperation... and perhaps concern.

 

"You say that as if it were a game."

 

I smile. "Maybe it is, and if it is... I hope I win."

 

She stares at me for a long moment, her silver eyes shining in the fading light.

 

"You say that too easily," she finally whispers. "As if living or dying doesn't matter to you."

 

I look up, a little surprised by the softness in her voice.

 

The wind lifts a strand of her hair, which the light touches with an almost unreal glow, her eyes so bright... And, just then, in a fleeting moment, something crosses my mind.

The brutal thought that if I were to die tomorrow... I would do so regretting her. I would cling

on with everything I had in me to at least be sure that it was she who finished me off.

 

"It's not that I don't care, far from it..." I whisper. "We all know what we signed up for the day

we more or less 'agreed' to be part of the organization."

I twirl my sword with my fingertips. "Dying is part of the contract. But that doesn't mean I'm

going to offer my head to the first Yoma that comes along."

 

A brief silence. Then Galatea lets out a low, almost bitter laugh.

 

"Typical of the Offensive. Always convinced that rushing headlong into danger is a form of

courage or heroism."

 

I feign indignation, my hand on my heart. "What! You dare to insinuate that I am not the

gallant knight I think I am?! That young women and men will not throw themselves into my

arms, shouting my name, their eyes full of admiration?"

 

Galatea smiles but still feigns a headache, pressing her hand to her temple.

 

"Oh, poor us... and to think I believed you had grown up, that you had finally let go of that

ridiculous little illusion of playing the hero." She pauses, a smirk on her lips. "Well...

technically, at your height, only children under the age of seven could physically hang

around your neck."

 

I let out a fake hurt sigh. "Cruel. So that's your true nature..."

 

She shrugs, an amused gleam in her eyes.

 

I take a step closer, looking mischievous.

 

"I didn't know you wanted the lead role as Prince Charming, you could have told me!" Then, with a theatrical air, I deliberately lean back, simulating a dramatic fall.

 

"Catch me, noble savior! Valiant warrior, protect me from these monstrous Yoma!" My voice

sounds higher pitched than I had intended, almost ridiculous.

 

Galatea barely has time to roll her eyes before she catches me with a sure movement, her

hand pressed against my back.

 

"You're hopeless," she whispers, a weary smile on her lips.

An annoyed click of the tongue rises behind us. I turn my head just in time to meet the

incredulous gaze of another apprentice, Nerina, a recruit who isn't too bad but looks too

serious for her age.

 

Her short-cropped blond hair and upright posture make her almost caricatured in her

discipline.

 

"Are you done with your childish games?" she says curtly. "Some are still trying to improve while others... are playing princess."

 

I give her a big innocent smile.

 

"Oh, Naima! Being serious won't make you any more competent, you know! But I'm sure if

you ask nicely, the noble warrior Galatea might grant you the honor of catching up with you

too," I finally say, wrapping my arms around Galatea and clinging to her as if she had really

just saved me.

 

Galatea raises an eyebrow.

 

"Please, Lysia, don't recruit any more victims. One is more than enough for me."

 

"Victim?" I exclaimed, feigning outrage, grabbing Galatea's cheeks and gently pinching

them, bringing her face closer to mine.

 

"You mean the future number one and your indispensable comrade!"

 

Nerina snorts, clearly on the verge of rolling her eyes, "You two... you're really weird." Then

she walks away stiffly, and I stifle a laugh that Galatea does not share.

 

Her arms are still around me, solid and immobile.

 

"You attract trouble with disconcerting ease," she finally says, her voice just above my

temple.

 

I look up, feigning innocence. "Someone has to liven things up a bit, right?"

 

Her gaze drops to me, impassive, but I see the corner of her lips quiver, an almost

imperceptible smirk.

 

"There are other ways to exist than provoking others every five minutes, you know."

 

"And you're one to talk..." She breathes softly, a sound halfway between laughter and

weariness. Then, slowly, she puts me back on the ground.

 

Galatea doesn't respond, and we stare at each other for a moment longer, during which I

force my smile even wider, then she gently sets me back down on the ground.

I smile again, but my heart isn't really in it anymore. She continues to look at me without

responding. Her silence weighs on me. "You know, your lack of confidence in my abilities is

starting to feel like an insult at this point."

 

Galatea blinks slowly, as if trying to hold back a response before it slips out.

 

"It's not a lack of confidence," she finally says, in a calm tone,  looks down for a moment, then looks back  at me.

 

"It's... caution. Something you don't seem to possess."

 

I shrug, feigning nonchalance.

 

"Well, it's just a mission. The first of many that will follow."

 

She stands still for a moment, as if she wants to reply, but changes her mind. Then she turns on her heel, her shadow sliding across the floor like a trail of ink. As she walks away, her shadow glides across the floor like a trail of ink.

 

I remain alone, the evening wind creeping between the stones. And suddenly, I catch myself thinking that this could be the last time I see her leave, and what remains of my heart seems to twist at the thought.

 

I watch her walk away, the evening wind biting my skin through my tunic.

And suddenly, I catch myself thinking that this could be the last time I see her leave. For a

moment, my heart sinks not out of fear, not really, but out of a strange, bitter dizziness.

I blow the thought away, shrug my shoulders, and decide to continue training alone to clear

my head.

 

Tomorrow will be my day. I have to prove that I too deserve to be called a Claymore, and

maybe then I can repay the debt to the one who saved me.

Night fell long ago.

 

The dormitory is silent, disturbed only by the creaking of wood and the wind rushing under

the tiles. I stare at the ceiling without really seeing it. The shadows move slowly, like silhouettes my mind invents to keep me from sinking into the void.

 

Around me, the others are asleep or pretending to. Perhaps they too are trying to forget a fear or are haunted by something. I close my eyes, but the silence only amplifies the turmoil in my head. Only pierced by the inquisitive silver gaze that seemed to be trying to read me.

 

I let out a long sigh as quietly as possible and sit up, my body suddenly too hot, too heavy.

The blade rests against the wall, ready, polished to perfection, a silent reflection of an

anxiety I don't want to name. My fingers tremble as I brush against it.

 

It's strange to think that we often die with this object, which over the years becomes an

extension of ourselves. How ironic that it also becomes our tombstone when we pass away.

The very fact that I don't have it within reach right now makes me feel deeply uneasy.

My yoki pulses, discreetly, nervously, like my heart, which is racing for no reason. I hate

myself a little at this moment.

For what might be described as fear and for this foolish desire to prove right now that I am

worth something.

 

For this damn desire to stay here, by his side, which contradicts the very reason I wanted to

become a Claymore.

 

The worry, the fatigue, that vague and persistent fear that the morning will change

everything. My gaze falls on the window in the dormitory, small and with old, rusty bars.

Drawing subtly on my Yoki, just a whisper, I felt my muscles stiffen, my strength increase

slightly. I applied constant, silent pressure, and with an almost inaudible creak, one of the

bars gave way, then a second.

 

I slipped through the opening, my small size being an unexpected advantage. The cool night

wind caressed my face. Even inside the Organization, the air smelled of damp earth and

wood. But here, outside, there were other smells: the sweet scent of pine trees, the

freshness of wet leaves, and, very faintly, the acrid stench of creatures lurking in the

distance.

 

I found myself in a small backyard, lined with dark trees. The walls of the enclosure were

high, but not impassable for a Claymore.

 

I climbed nimbly, my fingers and toes finding invisible footholds in the rough stone. Once at

the top, I sat on the wall, my legs dangling over the edge.

The sight took my breath away. The full, bright moon illuminated a dense forest that

stretched as far as the eye could see. Gentle hills outlined the horizon, and further away, I

could see the twinkling lights of a small, sleeping village.

 

This was the world that had been stolen from us.

 

No... the world I had chosen to protect… It's beautiful. So beautiful that it hurts.

 

I close my eyes for just a moment…

 

I know I should be proud after all. I'm finally going to serve, finally prove my worth. Yet...

pride has given way to a hollow feeling in my chest, as if a Yoma itself had just sunk its

claws into my chest.

 

I want to stay here, just a little longer…

 

I remain there, frozen, unable to look away. I should sleep and not be sentimental. It doesn't

suit a warrior who, tomorrow, will be on the battlefield, accomplishing what she was born to

do, what she has trained so hard and suffered so much for. But regardless of the indignation

or shame, there is a strange emptiness. This tension in my chest cannot be overcome.

I stare at the moon, high and arrogant, just like her eyes.

 

I click my tongue, annoyed by my own thoughts. As if my mind were only capable of focusing

on her, over and over again. I guess annoyance and affection really are inseparable when it

comes to her.

How could I have become so attached... we're supposed to be weapons... soldiers ready to

die for the good of humanity, to protect them...

I let out a breath that could have been laughter if it hadn't been so shaky.

 

 "Talk about a Claymore..."

 

I lose myself in my thoughts, absorbed by the night sky, when a light breath brushes my

neck. My body reacts before I even know I'm moving.

I pivot, stabilize myself, and strike. My closed palm aims for a throat. The impact never

comes.

 

An arm blocks mine with precision and control. The contact is light, almost delicate. As I

meet Galatea's gaze.

 

She had been standing behind me for... how long?

 

I didn't feel her.

I didn't hear her.

I didn't notice her.

A failure.

Clearly.

A failure that stings.

 

Crouching, as if she had been there for a long time. I didn't hear her, didn't sense her.

 

"I was sure I was alone."

 

That's all I can say.

Not a reproach.

Not an excuse.

Just the fact.

 

Galatea nods her head. Her eyes catch the light, as if the moon had decided to shine only

for her, and she slowly lets go of my arm.

 

"I know."

 

My ego screams, but I force my face to remain neutral as I watch her. Her sword lies beside

her, abandoned naturally. Mine is far away, too far away, but I don't really regret my choice,

even though my pride points the finger at it.

 

I sigh, annoyed. "I let myself go."

 

Galatea sits down, without closing the distance between us.

 

She doesn't close it.

She waits.

 

"It happens," she says in a neutral tone.

 

"You knew I would do this, didn't you?" My voice is too low. Too close.

 

She smiled very slightly. "Your yoki. And the window." Simple logic.

 

I snicker, a breath. "Nothing escapes the Eye of God." The title falls between us. A well-

polished blade.

 

She accepts it. Of course she accepts it.

 

"We shouldn't be here," she finally says, but without conviction. She makes no move to

return. She just stays there, beside me, gazing into the night.

 

That remark suddenly made me angry. I was tired of her "motherly" tone, watching over me

every moment. I had finally found a moment of peace and freedom, and here she was again,

treating me like a child she had to watch over.

 

I turned my head toward her, my gaze hard with anger. "You can leave if you want," I said,

my voice sharp.

 

Galatea froze, her silver eyes betraying genuine surprise. She clearly hadn't expected such

hostility from me.

 

"I didn't ask you to come," I continued, more quietly, as if that would change anything.

The wind blows between us.

 

She doesn't move away.

Obviously, as if what I was saying was beneath her.

 

"You can stop following me like a..."

I cut myself off and took a breath, feeling her gaze on me, giving me the time I needed to

recover.

 

Then I breathe out, expelling all the air from my lungs, to prevent my throat from closing up.

Galatea doesn't stop, angry, just... surprised, her eyes widening ever so slightly, but I see it.

I clench my teeth. I hate this reaction.

 

Mine.

Hers.

All of it.

"I..." No, not like that..."I just wanted to..." The words break off.

Ridiculous.

 

His silver gaze seeks mine, but I look away, staring at the forest, where nothing is staring

back at me, and breathe slowly.

 

"Do you remember the first day?" My voice is low, raspy.

I feel my throat closing up, my chest too small, as if my ribs were no longer wide enough for

everything bubbling inside.

 

"I couldn't stand you. You did everything too well. Too fast. Too... you."

 

The words come out half-whispered, half-shouted. Galatea tilts her head and I see her lips

stretch into a smile, as they do on the rare occasions when she manages to disarm me.

 

"Too much me, huh?" she says, a hint of amusement in her voice."That's an elegant way of saying I annoyed you deeply." The corners of her lips turn up, just enough to be genuine.

 

"I didn't expect such elegance from you..." I snort, a strangled laugh escaping my throat despite myself.

 

"Yeah. You annoyed me. A lot." I focus on my heartbeat. "You still annoy me."

It might have been funny if it didn't hurt so much. My breathing seems to falter, so I stare at

the floor, my fingers trembling despite myself as a throbbing behind my eyes begins to itch.

"I didn't want you to leave me behind."

 

The words come out without permission.

Shaky.

Vulnerable, not brave.

Ridiculous…

 

"I know." Two words and everything inside me tenses up, seems to crack, as I turn to her.

 

"No." The voice is low. Raspy. It trembles. "You don't know. You... you can't know." My breath is short. I don't look at her face for fear of breaking down. "I'm leaving tomorrow. And... maybe..."

 

I feel my teeth clench so hard it hurts.

My throat closes up.

The word won't come out.

Die? Wake up? Never see her again?

 

So I say something else. Something smaller. Something weaker, but still true.

"What if I'm not ready?" 

 

Silence.

 

Galatea approached without me even seeing her move, our shoulders brushing against each

other. And I heard her whisper, "Look at me."

 

I looked up immediately, her pupils illuminated by a blue glow that I finally understood must

be due to my own eyes. I hadn't even felt the change, shame struck me in the chest, so I

closed my eyes and tried to calm down.

 

"Lys. Breathe." She inhales slowly, waiting for me to follow her. For me to settle down next to

her. After a few minutes, she speaks, her voice low, tight with controlled emotion.

 

"I'm not really sure what you believe or what's going on in your little head. But if you weren't

meant to survive, you wouldn't be here anymore." She ends up tapping her finger against my

forehead as if the action could help me understand better. She puts both hands on my face,

forcing me to look at her. "If you don't breathe enough, your brain will..."

 

But I guess I already have too little air and my brain has already stopped working because,

without thinking, I grab her collar and pull her toward me with a sharp tug.

 

My hand grabs her collar and I pull her toward me with a sharp tug.

 

Our lips touch in a sharp, controlled, almost brutal gesture.

It feels more like a blow than a kiss.

 

A collision.

A mistake.

Galatea freezes against me.

 

It is not a moment suspended in time. As my grip becomes more desperate and I dare not

open my eyes for fear of her gaze. Galatea doesn't respond, but she doesn't push me away, her hands resting on my shoulders.

 

Right there, I finally pull away, breathless, and she looks at me. A thousand words rush

through my mind, but none of them make it past my lips.

 

"I..." Before I can finish my sentence or even think about what I wanted to say, Galatea slaps

her hand over my mouth and pins me against the cold stone wall.

 

The gesture is sharp, controlled, and brutal, so I freeze, her forearm against my collarbone,

her warm palm sealing my lips. Panic overwhelms me, and I realize that I had closed my

eyes in anticipation of a blow that never came as I reopened them.

 

So I wait patiently for the pain, but it doesn't come. So I slowly open my eyes and see that

she is listening, her gaze turned away, tense and analytical.

Then I understood. I held my breath, trying to locate any potential danger, and only then did I

hear it.

 

That's when I hear the guards' boots clattering, heavy and slow. Their deep voices in the

warm night air. A patrol walks along the parapet, just below us.

 

Fragments of voices rise up, carried by the wind:

"I swear, those girls disappear at night..."

 

"As long as we don't find the bodies in the morning, I'm fine with it. The Organization

doesn't pay us to worry."

 

"Tss. They'll all end up as meat for Yoma anyway." The laughter that follows is dry, worn, without empathy.

 

I feel my jaw clench, my fingers tighten against the stone until they turn white as I think of

all those who sacrificed themselves for these bastards. I want to smash their skulls against

the ground or feed them to the Yomas.

 

Galatea says nothing at first. She simply turns to me, her fingers tightening slightly over my

mouth, just enough to keep me inside myself. Then she leans in, her breath brushing my

ear, warm, steady, still.

 

"Calm down. Not now." Her voice isn't angry. It's almost pleading.

 

So I swallow the burning in my throat and keep quiet.

 

The guards finally walk away, their laughter dissolving into the night as silence falls slowly

and thickly. This thick silence makes me feel like I'm being strangled.

 

Her hand leaves my mouth gently, as if afraid of breaking me or moving it. My mouth retains

its warmth, yet even though her hand is no longer there, I still can't utter a word to fill the

void that seems to have settled between us.

 

"Galatea?" My voice sounds fragile, and I hate myself for it.

 

But she immediately turns her back on me, her shoulders tense and her fingers clench into

fists so tight that her knuckles turn white. 

 

And I feel like a sword has been plunged into my chest as I search for her gaze, which

refuses to meet mine.

 

"Let's not talk about it anymore." Her voice is flat. "Let's go home." Her voice is too controlled

to be honest.

 

I don't have time to get up. She grabs me by the waist and lifts me up as if I were a package being moved.

 

"Hey—!" The sound betrays me, too loud, too small, and my gaze fixes on her.

 

"If you struggle, you'll make noise." Her tone is dry, neutral, but her jaw is trembling.

 

So I say nothing more.

I don't do anything else.

 

I let myself be carried, curling up and staring at the horizon. And then, without warning, she

jumps. My arms wrap around her before I can decide not to, and she says nothing, but her

grip tightens around me.

 

The wall disappears beneath our feet, the air slaps our faces, and the landing is perfect.

She doesn't let go of me, and I realize that my arms are wrapped around her neck as if my

life depended on it.

 

She looks down at me but doesn't meet my gaze, and when she looks up again, a breath of

laughter escapes her. Without joy.

 

"...I forgot how easy you are to handle."

 

She tries to put me down but stops short. Because I won't let go of her. Shame pierces me.

I pull away from her with a sharp, almost violent movement, as if it could erase what just

happened.

 

She doesn't comment, doesn't smile, and says nothing more as we separate and head for

the open window, passing back through the small gap in the bars. Back in the dormitory, the

heavy silence of the sleeping Claymores envelops us.

 

I close my eyes.

I shouldn't think.

I should sleep!

 

Tomorrow, I'm leaving.

 

But my throat still burns and my lips still tingle.

I should have... No. I shouldn't have.

 

I don't even know what I wanted. What made me think it was a good idea?

 

I roll over onto my side, the sheet sticking to my hot skin. My heart is beating too hard, too

fast, too hard again.

 

Why did I do that?

 

I press my fist against my lips, where his had touched. As if I could erase the trace. As if I

could punish myself.

 

Idiot.

Idiot.

Idiot! I feel so stupid.

 

I clench my teeth until it hurts, the kind of pain that's supposed to stop you from thinking, but

nothing works, my thoughts continue to rush around while my body is motionless, as if I were

inert.

 

I can still see her look, her silence. The way she walked away.

I should have apologized.

I run a hand over my eyes. They sting.

 

I hate this. I hate myself for acting without thinking, for being so pathetic right now. I hope she hates me enough to ignore how agitated my yoki must be.

 

I would have preferred her to hit me. She should have done it, I deserved it. So maybe it's

better this way, maybe we won't see each other again, so maybe she'll forgive me one day...

---

I hope it hurt you as much as it hurt me xdddddddd 
You didn't tough they will just cuddle and idk what did you? its CLAYMORE.
xoxo don't forget to comment

Chapter 10: The mission

I don't know when I fell asleep, only that a cold hand closed around my shoulder.

My body reacted before my eyes even opened: a violent jolt as I sat up, a sudden tension in my muscles, my survival instinct screaming. When I opened my eyes again, I saw Rubel less than an arm's length away.

If it had been a Yoma... or anything else on a mission... I would have been dead. Dead in my sleep.

Ridiculous. Unforgivable. Shame washed over me so quickly that I felt like I was suffocating.

Rubel says nothing. He hands me my armor, the polished steel catching the last of the night, a pale blue glow, and nods for me to follow him. I sit up and grab my claymore as I pass.

Once outside, the air is sharp against my skin, still warm from sleep. The moon slowly retreats behind the stone walls. The sun is not even a promise on the horizon. Everything is black, silent, frozen, but I proceed to put on my armor piece by piece. The metal doesn't seem as heavy as I had expected.

“Head west.” His voice falls like a guillotine. "About half a day's walk “ He points vaguely in the general direction. ”The Yomas have come too close. They must be eliminated before dawn. You will act alone."

Simple. I nod and start to leave without looking back, but he interrupts me one last time, wishing me luck with a conspiratorial smile, and I nod mechanically.

The road is long, monotonous, silent.

Giving me time to think... Too much time to escape my thoughts.

The black sky begins to turn purple.

Then crimson.

The night gradually loses its intensity, but in my head, it remains intact.

Each step revives what I would like to forget.

Every detail comes back too clear, too burning.

I had ruined everything... I kick violently at a stone lying on the path. I had crushed that fragile bond.

Why? An impulse! A pitiful weakness... I hate myself so much that it becomes physical, a tension in my throat, a knot in my stomach.

I should think about the mission, the terrain, the Yoki I will soon feel.

But no. My mind always returns to her.

To her hands... her low voice, I feel my face flush as I try to stop myself from screaming, but a squeak escapes me anyway as I curse myself inwardly. So I focus on the moment when everything broke, when I ruined everything.

I clench my teeth.

Ridiculous. I ended up running to distract myself and finish my mission more quickly, but after several minutes of running and the incessant clanking of my armor, I gave up.

“What exactly were these suits of armor created for... to make us visible from miles away?” I let out an annoyed sigh as I continued walking.

After two hours of walking, I begin to sense yoki. So I focus entirely on the mission. On the path, there are torn animals, broken bones, guts spilling out, and torn-up earth. They were close.

Then I heard a noise, no, a growl.

Without thinking, I drew my Claymore, and in an instant I rushed towards the nearest yoki I could sense, jumping over a rock, and found myself behind a Yoma, its claws glistening with blood as it turned around. I didn't let it finish its movement. The blade whistled through the air, and the first one lost its head before it even understood what was happening. As I turned my attention to the other two, my Claymore at the ready.

“You're getting too comfortable...” I hissed, focusing on the hatred I felt for these creatures, which was a better companion than useless reproaches. The fury, far from paralyzing me, sharpened me. It was an opportunity to channel it, to direct it. An opportunity to let off steam.

The two Yomas advanced toward me, their eyes lighting up with a predatory gleam. One of them, the larger one, let out a hoarse laugh from his throat. They rose, their claws lengthening, their muscles tensing.

I didn't give them time to coordinate their attack. My Claymore whistled through the air, and I sprang into action.

With surprising speed, even for me, I dodged their attacks with ease. My feet slid across the rocks, and I began a series of pirouettes and feints. As I prepared to attack the next one, a shiver ran through me. The air vibrated as I sensed two more Yoki... heavier, thicker. So I put as much distance as possible between myself and the four Yomas.

Five, there were five of them, damn it.

The two new Yomas had a stronger, more oppressive Yoki, and their forms, though still misshapen, were clearer, and their eyes seemed more intelligent. They were... stranger. Something about them screamed anomaly.

Five, there were five of them, damn it.

The two new Yomas had a stronger, more oppressive Yoki, and their forms, although still misshapen, were clearer, and their eyes seemed more intelligent. They were... weirder. Something about them screamed abnormality.

Damn, damn... I can feel my Yoki stirring because of my confusion and stress, but I manage to keep a cool head and watch them. One of them has disproportionate limbs and arms that look like sharp blades, a twisted smile appearing on his grotesque face.

"Well, well, a little Claymore... fresh out of the cradle. Have you come to warm us up?" His voice was a guttural growl, filled with mockery and primitive hunger.

They charged together. Their claws and blades sliced through the air. I dodged, deflected, and slid as best I could, but a claw grazed my nose, enough to split it open, and blood ran down my face. I gritted my teeth; I could have avoided it if I had concentrated more.

I leaped back, finally creating some distance. Instinct took over, and I rushed at the creature, fast and feline, my Claymore already raised. The Yoma, that serpentine thing with movements too supple to be natural, let me approach. I swung my sword in a precise arc, aiming for the neck.

It dodged.

Its head twisted to the side with unreal speed, a sharp crack of vertebrae. The air vibrated and my attack cut only air.

Then the creature struck back immediately. A scaly mass swooped down on me. I had only a breath to realize that I was too slow, far too slow. Its tail was about to hit me, surely breaking my bones in the process. My yoki surged up at once, burning in my veins before I even realized what I was doing. I spun around. The blow passed so close that I felt it lick my stomach.

My blade responded before I could think, and this time, my Claymore was nothing but a blur of silver as its blood splattered me and I dodged a treacherous attack from behind. A small smile stretched my lips when his body collapsed in two, his Yoki dissipating into the night. A small smile stretched across my lips, a silly smile. Only three more, I thought, feeling almost lighthearted.

The strange Yoma with oversized limbs and blades instead of hands lost its twisted smile, which turned into a grimace of fury, and roared, “You little bitch! You'll regret this!” It charged, followed by the other two Yomas. I didn't dodge this time. I ducked under the giant's arm and rushed towards the standard Yoma that was trying to crush me, and in the same movement, my Claymore made a horizontal slash, cutting his stomach and splitting him in two before he fell. I felt pride swelling inside me.

Then I walked slowly towards the talking Yoma, slowly, almost theatrically.

“Your turn,” I whispered, confident of my victory.

It lunged, a hoarse roar escaping from its throat. Its massive form was a threat. I struck its shell. With all my strength, the impact was excruciating, my Claymore ricocheting off its shoulder, the sharp metallic sound tearing through the air.

Instead of slicing through, the Claymore ricocheted off his shoulder, leaving only a superficial scratch. His skin was much harder than the others', more resistant than usual.

I froze for a split second, trying to eliminate the unpleasant vibration in my arms that had spread from my Claymore to my arms. Just one.

Its long, sharp claws shot out in a flash and dug into my side, tearing through my uniform and flesh. Pain exploded as my breath caught in my throat and warm blood instantly flowed from the wound. I was thrown backwards, hitting the rocky ground so hard that I lost my vision for a second. A second in which I could have died.

I struggled to my feet as quickly as possible, my legs shaking.

The world swayed like a boat in a storm. The slightest movement pulled at the wound, sending waves of pain through my ribs. The smile was long gone, and with it my stupid arrogance.

Only one thought remained: I was stupid.

A rumble. A breath.

I rolled to the side just before his gigantic arm pulverized the ground where I had been standing. The vibration traveled up my bones. I wanted to pivot to counterattack, but my side screamed in pain. The wound was already slowing me down. Every breath tore at me from the inside. It was becoming difficult to hold my sword properly.

Its shell... impossible to penetrate head-on. But it bent at the joints. Barely, but enough for a precise blow to get through.

My pupils burned. My fangs sharpened. My wounds quivered under the influx of energy.

I placed my left hand against my side, forcing my yoki to concentrate around the tear. The heat rose through my nerves, painful, aggressive, almost unbearable. But the bleeding slowed.

I could do it. I had done it before.

Three Yomas already. It wasn't that hard.

I could do it, only two more to go. I circled around him, dodging his attacks more out of reflex than actual will. Every movement was torture. I could feel blood running down my side, warm and sticky. My muscles ached.

A hiss and he attacked.

I raised my Claymore, but it was too late. Distracted once again, I was caught off guard.

My blade and the rest of my body took the impact, which ran through me from my fingertips to my toes. My heels dug into the ground, cracking the rock beneath me. My arms trembled under the pressure, my bones vibrated, my teeth chattered as I growled under the inhuman effort to hold back this beast from crushing me. And in that brief moment, as I struggled not to be crushed... the other Yoma took advantage.

A low gurgling sound behind me alarmed me. I turned my head just in time to see a second Yoma lunging at me, its jaws wide open, ready to rip my throat out.

I had no time left.

I planted my foot in a crack in the ground. The anchor was brutal, even dangerous, but I had no choice. When the Yoma's mass pushed, I felt my ankle scream under the pressure, a sharp twinge, almost a crack.

I gritted my teeth. There was no time to check the condition of the tendon, so I pivoted my pelvis with a tiny movement. But with the force he was exerting, the pain shot down my leg, almost taking my breath away. His push continued to crush me, but in a flash of lucidity, I let go of the Claymore.

The resistance he expected disappeared, and he collapsed forward, tipping into the path of the other Yoma who was leaping to mow me down. As I threw myself to the side, my ankle burned. The two masses collided with a sound like breaking rock. The second one screamed, its chest crushed under the weight of the other's attack, its momentum broken. I no longer had a sword. An icy shiver ran down my spine as panic set in, something I couldn't afford.

I threw myself forward, my ankle protesting so violently that black spots danced before my eyes. The Yoma, its blades embedded in its colleague, raised its head and opened its mouth as if to grab me. I placed my hand on his face, or what was close to it, away from his fangs, and with my other hand, I dug my fingers into his eye socket.

The flesh gave way. A strangled cry escaped him and he reared back, disoriented, a mixture of rage and panic. He shook his arm erratically, trying to stab me, but I propelled myself away from him. I grabbed it, the cold handle anchoring itself in my hand, and a feeling of familiarity washed over me. The blinded Yoma spun around, searching for an enemy that was no longer there.

I grip my sword tightly but my fingers trembled. I wanted to charge. I gritted my teeth, I want  to end it now, but my body... refused. My vision blurred, and I suddenly collapsed onto one knee, the blade planted in the ground to keep me from falling completely. A small grunt escaped me, involuntary and shameful.

My hand fell on my side, and I immediately regretted it. The wound... it had opened up much more than I thought. My entire thigh was covered in blood. My white pants no longer had any trace of their original color. The sticky heat clinging to my skin disgusted me. My ankle throbbed in time with my heart, swollen and hard, each beat like a hammer blow.

And my face... I ran two fingers under my nose, the wound was no longer open, it had healed, but a trail of dried blood ran down to my chin. I wiped it away with a slow, almost mechanical gesture. I didn't take my eyes off the Yoma. Ever. Even with my blurred vision. Even with my heart pounding through my body like the hooves of a horse at full gallop.

He was still struggling, furious and blinded, his arms whipping the air and plowing the stone with raw rage, he continued to growl.

 

“Bitch...” he growled. “Cowardly attacks... petty vermin tactics... you think you can kill me now? I'll destroy you.”

 

I simply sat up slowly. One hand on my knee, the other gripping the hilt of my Claymore, still fixed on him, without a word. I had no energy to waste on responding, and I didn't care about honor in the face of a beast, especially after having to face several opponents. I took a deep breath, as deep as the pain would allow.

I analyzed his movements. His oscillations. The way his weight shifted. He had become more unpredictable. More violent but less precise. Less stable.

A weak point... I needed a weak point. My body screamed that it was suicidal but I need...my eyes didn't leave the spot where I had wounded him... if I drove my sword into one of those gouged-out eye sockets, then it would be over... I would have won.

I slowly release more yoki, my face is racked with spasms and my skin feels tight. I know I've exceeded 30%... 35% or at last i hope it's only 35%. I take a breath, calming my yoki and trying to restrain it as the pain subsides, compressed by the power of the yoki that was surging in burning waves beneath my skin.

I put a hand on my side, the wound closed calmly, not cleanly, not completely, leaving raw flesh exposed. The pain remains sharp, but at least I am in better shape to fight. I don't have the luxury of waiting for the wound to heal completely, as the Yoma lunges at me at that very moment. Its howl pierced my eardrums and its arm sliced through the air, its claws seeking my throat. But with the yoki inflaming my nerves, the world slowed down, I pivoted, every cell in my body burning with excess, and I was already far from its sharp blades.

My Claymore described a perfect arc.

The tip pierced the ruptured eye socket, sinking deep into the skull with a sickening crunch. I felt the bone resistance give way, then sticky warmth splattered my cheek. The Yoma let out a torn, animalistic scream that shook the forest. Naive joy overwhelmed me at the victory. In a final spasm, its other arm lashed out in a gesture as desperate as it was brutal, its claws tearing into my back.

A long, deep gash opened up, spurting my blood in hot jets onto the rock. I screamed despite myself, my knees buckling under the shock. The pain make me lose sight for a brief moment  But my hands did not let go of the Claymore. Filled with rage, I gathered my yoki in my arms until I felt my muscles vibrate and swell beneath my skin, and in a moment of pure rage and raw willpower, my blade cut off its head.

The Yoma collapsed in one piece, and so did I. My leg, which had been leaning against his shoulder to keep my balance, gave way at the same moment his body lost its balance. There was no transition, no resistance, just gravity, brutal and simple.

The world spun, the shadows shifted, and I found myself crushed against his still-warm chest, my sword still embedded in his skull.

A sob escaped me.

I couldn't breathe.

I had no strength left, yet I struggled to retrieve my claymore. My arms were shaking too much to pull it out. My back was burning, the open wound seemed to pulse, beat, breathe on its own. Blood flowed down my back, into my belt, soaking the ground beneath me.

But I quickly gave up on the idea of retrieving it. My body refused to make any more effort and collapsed, so I stayed there, panting, my cheek resting against the scaly skin of the corpse, my eyes blurred, the taste of iron in my mouth. Silence fell heavily, interrupted only by my breathing. The unbearable pain was everywhere.

In my tended side, which burned.

In my lacerated back, which throbbed with every heartbeat.

In my leg, my ankle, which was on fire as if boiling oil had been poured on it.

A tremor ran up my arms, then my throat.

I tried to draw yoki back to my wounds, just a little bit. Just enough to slow the bleeding. Nothing, or rather a meager trickle, ridiculously insufficient for everything that was happening to me. I guess my fear of awakening him outweighs my desire to survive. I grit my teeth, a groan tearing through my chest.

Why wasn't I healing faster? Why... why wasn't I a defensive... ?

I could almost imagine, with brutal jealousy: a defensive would have already closed its wound, the blood would have stopped flowing. But me...

For me, every heartbeat was torture, every breath sent a wave of burning pain. In theory, these wounds aren't fatal, I'll pull through... but I have to get back to the organization quickly... I try again to push my yoki towards my wounds, completely focused on my yoki as cold air escapes from my lips.

I was suffocating, struggling not to lose consciousness, digging my fingers into the ground to keep from slipping further into darkness as the control around my yoki seemed to flutter uncontrollably.

The shadows dancing around my field of vision were then driven away by a shrill roar tearing through my skull. My vision instantly regained clarity as my heart seemed to beat randomly. I put my hand on my chest and squeezed it violently, checking my surroundings for an opponent, and jumped up without seeing anything, remembering the time during training when my heart had raced in the same way, but before I could think about it. I feel all my strength leave me and fall face first to the ground, losing consciousness.

********

Not far away, lurking in the shadows of a rocky ridge overlooking the scene of carnage, Rubel crouched and watched. His eyes, usually mischievous, sparkled with undisguised satisfaction. He had witnessed every movement, every strike, the icy fury that had driven the young recruit, who still had no number.

He didn't flinch, even when one of the Awakened almost crushed her. Only a slight smile, that ironic crease that was permanently etched on his face.

“Interesting.”

Of course he wouldn't intervene; he was only there to observe her, and what a show she was putting on! She far exceeded his expectations.

“Two Awakened, and still alive without awakening...” he murmured, almost admiringly. “And with so little experience... I understand better why this mission was assigned to her...”

When she finally collapsed, her eyes rolling, her body exhausted but already healing, Rubel stood up. “That will be enough for today.” He did not linger.

He did not need to see any more to understand that she would live and that she would be useful, so he disappeared into the rocks as if he had never been there.

 

*************

 

First, I feel the ground vibrating beneath me. No... not me. Not my legs. Not my muscles. They are too long, too heavy, too powerful.

And when I look at them... my arms are not my arms.

A dull thud echoes through my shoulders as a sword attempts to pierce my scale armor. Fever rushes through me and burns as I feel frost spreading across my scales, strengthening them. Every movement causes destruction.

What the hell is going on? Have I awakened? I stare at my reddish claws.

I breathe no, I exhale a deep, icy breath, too deep, rumbling from an immense chest, moving shadows around me... No. Not shadows.

My kind. A feeling of serenity that does not belong to me envelops me when I look at them. Gigantic silhouettes walking straight ahead with a determination that destroys all men who stand in their way.

I want to speak, to ask, to understand, but a ferocious roar comes out of my throat instead of words.

Have I awakened ? Have I awakened ?! Fear gnaws at me, mingling with a fierce joy that is not my own.

Emotions overlap it or mine to the point where I no longer know who is afraid, who desires, who wants to kill.

I look at my reddish claws, thick and too heavy to be mine.

All around, the little humans panic, their armor clanking like hollow carcasses in the chaos as I continue to kill them. They have no faces. Real faces, they all seem to look alike, they are all targets. Insects, intruders, a THREAT to MY territory.

My claws slash, tear, break. Every human scream strikes my ear like a note that is too high-pitched. It turns my stomach, but... there is also a part of me that likes it. That revels in the power and possibility of being able to punish them.

Then the image literally cracks. A crack runs across the sky, the horizon twists, and I feel like my skull is going to explode.

I have shortened myself, my limbs becoming closer to those of a humanoid, but not human. Just... another form of it. The wind bites my face and I feel my jaw clench as I look at the hills, the forests engulfed in smoke, burned. A beastly growl escapes my mouth and I feel my fangs clack together at the sight.

A weight settles on my shoulder, not violent, not hostile. A large, thick, gray hand, a presence... familiar and warm. I turn my head and come face to face with an older beast.

It eyes scrutinize me with tender concern.

A concern that is not human.

A mixture of respect and protection.

" ▄▄▌ ▄▄ ▄▄ ▄ ▌▄ ▄ █ ▄ 〓▌" The sound assaults me as if spoken in my own mind, in a deep language, full of vibrations.

I don't understand the words, but I think I understand the emotion behind the concern.

It tells me to back off, that I'm still too young. A third voice echoes in my head, clear and tired, yet filled with anger.

I frown, or he frowns, I can't tell.

Anger rushes through me, brutal. I step away from him, a hoarse growl coming from deep within me. Icy mist escapes from my mouth, a freezing breath.

Then everything breaks again.

The humans return, heavy armor, thicker, shiny, some with blades mounted on spring mechanisms, others with cables wrapped around their arms.

They advance in formation, but it doesn't matter, I'll kill them all.

A sharp noise rings out, like a steel wire being pulled across my mind. Someone is screaming not a human, a child? These insects must have captured a child... Before I even have time to think, I feel us rushing toward the source, destroying everything in my path and gradually moving away from the chaos of battle.

But then, the ground beneath my feet collapses.

A trapdoor, an artificial floor.

I fall into a deep pit and feel rock and metal digging into my scales as I fall, trying to scratch the metal with my claws.

A violent shock runs through my bones as I let out a beastly scream of fear and rage.

I try to get up, but chains wrap around my arms.

Weights.

Hooks.

A metal net soaked in burning substances is thrown over me. I blow frost instinctively, but a steel plate closes over my mouth, preventing me from screaming. I choke, I suffocate, I strike again.

Above, human silhouettes watch me calmly. One last shot and silence falls, but something someone screams in my mind, seemingly trying to find me as I try to warn them, but everything goes black.

*************

I struggled on my feet, every muscle aching as if it had been torn apart. The sunlight hit me in the face, too bright, too white, as if it were piercing a void still present in my mind. I blinked several times, trying to focus on the real world, stable, solid. Noon. The sun was at its zenith...

No... that was impossible... wait... When I started the fight, dawn had already broken... how long had the fight lasted? When did I lose consciousness? Whatever, I guess I stayed there for several hours. I tried to think back to my strange dream, but dizziness struck me. Trying to remember it made my vision blur, and immediately, a sharp pain pierced my chest. I doubled over, suffocating, my hand clenched on my chest.

My heart was beating erratically, one beat disproportionately strong, another tiny. Then it leapt against my ribs, as if it wanted to get out. Then... silence, a silence that crushed my insides. I bit my lip to keep from screaming. The pain was not that of an injury.

No, it was as if something deep inside was stirring even more in response to my attempts to remember. But I remember that distorted world, those hands that weren't mine, that deep voice, that worried look on my shoulder. A wave of pain exploded in my skull. I almost collapsed, one hand on the ground, the other pressed against my throat to catch my breath.

No ok just don't think about it, I understand. My yoki was agitated, quivering beneath my skin like an untamed beast that I managed to contain, but not to calm.

The corpses of the Yomas rotted in the sun. The fight had been over for a long time... but my body had continued to struggle while I was unconscious. My wounds had closed, too quickly, as if my yoki had worked alone, which was probably for the best. Fatigue washed over me like a wave, almost strong enough to knock me back to the ground. I tried to get up, but my cape had caught on the scales of one of the corpses and made me sway when I tried.

 

“Who came up with the idea for these crappy capes?” I grumbled and pulled it free, dust rising in a small cloud, and ended up wrapping it around my neck because of the cold that suddenly assailed me And despite the heaviness in my limbs, despite my heart beating wildly, despite the weariness creeping into every fiber of my being... I walked east toward the headquarters. Each step was too slow, and although at first my thoughts turned to the strange beating of my heart, I quickly stopped trying to think about it and focused on the path ahead.

A sigh escaped me. The mist that came out of my mouth caught my attention: white, dense, like in the middle of winter. I pulled up my makeshift scarf and decided to ignore that too.

The hours passed, the light changed. When the doors of the Organization finally appeared, my legs felt like they were made of stone. Rubel was waiting for me, standing straight and clean. His overly sweet smile welcomed me, while I just dreamed of collapsing into my bunk next to Galatea, despite the sharp twinge in my stomach at the thought. She might not want to see me, let alone have me so close to her and I'm not even sure I have the right to go back to that room.

 

“Ah, Lysia! The little heroine is finally back. Excellent work!” Rubel said warmly. I didn't have the energy for this drama, so I ignored him or at least, I tried to.

“There was... more than one Yoma,” I whispered. My voice was hoarse. “And two... were strange.” I felt my words falter. My head was spinning.

 

Rubel, on the other hand, was beaming. Too much so. "Strange, yes, and yet you're still standing. Well... more or less. Impressive. Do you know that this kind of creature causes trouble for much more experienced Claymores? At your age... it's remarkable."

I frowned, annoyed despite my fatigue.

 

“What were they? Their shells, their blades... and the way they moved... They weren't normal Yomas.” Rubel tilted his head slightly, his smile tightening. “You're right! They weren't. You destroyed two Awakened ones.”

 

The word hit me like a ton of bricks as the “special” yoma finally had an official title. I felt myself sway. Literally, my knees almost gave way. He continued, his voice almost gentle.

 

“This is what you become when you exceed your limit.”

 

I swallowed hard, trying to process the idea, which seemed so logical and yet repulsive. So that was where their extraordinary strength came from. I was cold and exhausted. I took a step to walk past him, but Rubel gently blocked my path, stopping me in my tracks without being abrupt.

 

“Oh, one more thing, Lysia. Thanks to your performance, I'm almost certain you'll get a single-digit number very quickly.” His tone became flattering, almost caressing, even though the fact that I still didn't have a number annoyed me. “Tomorrow morning, you'll receive your badge and will surely be sent to support the other Claymores.”

 

I breathed out a “very well” that sounded more like a sigh than a response. I wanted to leave, but he continued, and I could have sworn he was doing it on purpose to see me break down in front of him.

 

“And... a word of advice, between us.” His smile became thinner, more vicious. “Be careful who you trust, Lysia. The organization does not forgive indiscretions.”

 

No longer having the strength for even the slightest interaction, I stare at him blankly as he hands me a new set of clothes and walks away, satisfied with his effect. I stood there for a second, trembling, too tired to think clearly. The outfit under my arm seemed to weigh a ton. I headed straight for the showers to wash off all the disgusting blood on me, ignoring everyone in my path.

Once under the water, the heat surprised me so much that I let out a muffled groan. Steam continued to escape from my lips, still giving the impression of being shower vapor. The dirt, dried blood, dust, and sweat slowly ran down my legs, washed away by the water.

I glanced at my side. All that remained was a large reddish patch, the skin still sensitive. As for my back... I tried to look, turning my head as far as I could, and a flash of pain shot through me.

“Damn...” I growled through clenched teeth and  finally saw the scar, long, swollen, an unhealthy pink. Healed, but not really, not yet.

 

I dressed in simple clothes, wrapped my cape around my neck to hide the mist still escaping from my mouth, and picked up the rest of my armor, which I held under my arm. An apprentice approached me, Flora, I think, glancing quickly before focusing on the bread. She watched me politely, slightly concerned.

“Lysia? Are you... are you okay? Your mission...”

"I've seen worse, Flora. " I didn't give her time to respond.

I grabbed a piece of bread and left the room, walking slower than normal. I didn't eat it until I reached the dormitories. The room was empty. I sat down on my bunk, stared at the bread for a moment, then devoured it as if I hadn't eaten in days. My heart had finally stopped beating erratically, but it was an abnormal calm, almost cold like anemic. 

I rubbed my chest, not understanding, then let myself fall back. My Claymore was within reach, as always, and I fell asleep almost immediately.

 

--------------Galatea POV--------------

 

The dormitory was already echoing with whispers when I pushed open the door. High-pitched voices, poorly muffled, excited to the point of becoming unbearable.

I took a step forward as if nothing had happened, and there was a moment of silence that was too brief before the voices resumed immediately, like insects that are startled but never really scattered.

 

“...she came back covered in blood...”

“...do you think she's really asleep...?”

 

It was only when I saw Lys, slumped on her bunk, that I understood why they were chirping so much. She was fast asleep. Much too deeply, her quilt pulled up to her ears and where she had slipped, her cape was wrapped around her face like a veil. Was she hurt?

Continuing my quick inspection of Lys, I noticed the sweat on her temples, her breathing too short, too agitated, and although her body was apparently motionless, her fingers seemed to twitch under the quilt. I felt my heart... do a strange thing when I saw her condition, which I forced myself to ignore. I forced myself to look away and return to my own bunk.

Discipline first, control second, but I couldn't bring myself to submit to it completely.

As I sat down on my quilt, I heard one of the girls whispering as she got up, clearly determined to wake Lysia to satisfy her thirst for gossip. I stared at her, raising an eyebrow and questioning her silently. She immediately froze, petrified, before falling back onto her bed like a child caught doing something wrong.

I lay down and closed my eyes, focusing on Lys a few feet away from me. Her yoki, calm on the surface, was shaken by strange fluctuations, as if something was still pulsing. As if something had been deeply disturbed, and not as if its owner was asleep.

I opened my eyes and turned my head toward her, a tiny, almost imperceptible startle running through her. A shiver ran through her arm hidden under the blanket. She was trembling, of course she was trembling... she always did when she overused her yoki. Cold sweats and an icy body were the repercussions of her abuse of power.

A part of me, the part I carefully suppressed, wanted to get up, cross the space between our bunks, cover her better, help her regulate her yoki, anything to calm this strange chaos within her. It was dangerous, painful... terribly trying. Yet... I didn't get up to wake her, telling myself that she needed to recover... yet I knew that wasn't the real reason. The truth was... I wasn't ready.

Not ready to provoke a conversation that I dreaded as much as I thought about it. Not ready to face what last night had broken, revealed, and shifted between us.

I bit the inside of my cheek furtively. This hesitation was ridiculous, unworthy, and yet very real.

I stayed like that for a long time, motionless, my eyes closed, listening to the breathing of the other apprentices. I tried to focus on fatigue and sleep, but nothing worked. For some reason, my yoki seemed to be agitated, as if stimulated by Lys's but a sudden contraction of her yoki, finally broke my resolve.

 

Enough.

 

I reached out my hand, closing the few feet that separated our duvets, but before I even touched her shoulder, I withdrew my hand. I preferred to let my yoki spread out, a thin layer, precise, controlled like a needle's thread, mingling with hers to channel it, forcing it to regain its rhythm.

And it was immediate, her eyes opened, looking up like a claymore, her hand shot out, the blade already raised.

She stared at me without a word, then released all her yoki, which fell back in one go, like a wave sucked back to the shore. She breathed in and her pupils returned to normal, her blade resting on the ground beside her.

She said nothing, and I said nothing.

She simply lay back down, as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn't just been trying to decide whether or not to slit my throat in her instinctive awakening. As if the chaos of a moment ago had never existed. I had to bite my tongue to keep from making a comment. There was no point in reproaching her for a justified and coherent reaction. I noticed that her yoki... for the first time since my arrival, seemed to have a more coherent rhythm again.

As I slowly withdrew my own flow to let her breathe on her own, I heard her voice, almost muffled by fatigue.

"... Don't do that again. "

Then she fell asleep immediately. As if the words she had just spoken were the last thing her body would allow her to do. I remained motionless, sitting on my comforter, unable to take my eyes off her, with the strange feeling that, despite her request, I was right to have done so.

---

                                                     its fine 

 

Notes:

You thinks who its more usless lesbians Lys or Galatea?

Chapter 11: first DUO mission

A sudden jolt wakes me from my sleep. I roll onto my side, grumbling under my blanket. I had slept so little, and I would have killed for one more hour. I still had that metallic taste in my mouth, that cold sensation.

I buried my head in the pillow.

“They weren't Yomas. They're Awakened.”

Stronger skin... more cunning... stronger and clay-like...

No. Not now. I just want to sleep.

More dangerous when you encounter them... I see the image of their silhouettes... The way they almost killed me.

No.

I couldn't just close my eyes, not without warning Galatea. I grunted, sat up, almost choking on my own cape, which was poorly tied around my shoulders, then slid out of my bunk.

Every movement made me want to go back to sleep. I leaned over Galatea. I reached out my hand... hesitantly... then shook her shoulder slightly.

“...Galatea?” Her eyes opened slowly, and I couldn't help but feel something warm inside me as she stared at me, slightly confused.

“Lysia,” she finally said in a low voice, fully awake, “you should be sleeping.” 

Does she even sleep or she just fake it.

“I know,” I muttered, “I'm trying.” I sat down next to her without asking, my shoulders slumped, exhausted.

She raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.

I exhaled slowly, annoyed with myself, grateful for the fabric that muffled the cold air.

“On a mission, I faced five Yomas... don't look at me like that,” I whispered irritably, “two of them... were... weird... really powerful. I mean... nothing like standard Yomas, you'll see.”

Silence.

She analyzed my words. My gestures. My condition. As if she were reading directly into my guts.

“Are you hurt?” she finally asked. I blinked, taken aback.

I thought she would ask me about their appearance, their abilities, their yoki.

But no.

Her first concern... was me.

I smiled despite myself, even though the fabric covered my mouth, and shrugged.

“...Technically, no.” Then, with an amused sigh, “But I almost didn't make it.” I let my head fall back a little. “I understand the training with the log better now, you know...” I turned my eyes to her, mockingly, but not maliciously. “And I thank YOUR Yoma strength for preparing me rather well against these beasts. Even though you already broke my wrists because of my carelessness.” The corners of my eyes surely betrayed my amusement.

Her gaze softened slightly, but it was noticeable to me as a wicked smile stretched her lips, quickly erased by a frown.

“Why are you wearing that?” she finally asked, pointing to the cloth on my face.

I felt my body freeze for a brief moment. My heart, or what serves as my heart, beat strangely, as if the lie was hesitating to take shape.

Then it came out on its own, perfectly natural.

“My beautiful face was slightly damaged...” I said with a small dramatic gesture. “I wouldn't want you to remember anything other than the best version of myself.” The lie flowed too smoothly, almost too smoothly. So much so that I was surprised myself and had to bite my cheek to keep from bursting out laughing when I saw the look Galatea gave me.

A look of literal disbelief.

She stared at me as if I had just said, “I met a Yoma who complimented me on my hair.”

I raised my hands in exasperation.

“Don't look at me like that... your vanity must have rubbed off on me from being around you so much.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, the corners of her mouth stretched into a slight smile, not mocking, not kind, something in between.

“I see,” she said simply, in a neutral but deeply... meaningful tone.

She didn't contradict me.

She didn't ask any questions.

She didn't try to verify anything.

But I sensed, like a gentle pressure in the air, that she didn't really believe me.

“If you're so keen to preserve the best version of yourself, I suppose I have no reason to insist.” Her voice was smooth as she prepared to go back to sleep. Without thinking, I ruffled her hair and headed for my own bunk.

 

I woke up a few hours later and decided to train. The morning air was still biting.

The blade vibrated in my hand, each stroke reminding me of the previous day's, still too imperfect, too weak, even though the movement itself remained reliable.

I took one last breath, slowing down after cutting down my imaginary enemy.

"You seem in much better shape than yesterday, Lys! That warms my heart." I turned, suspicious, my gaze falling on Rubel.

Of course... always there. But it wasn't him that really made me twitch. At his side stood a Claymore whose yoki I had sensed from afar... I observed her; she was tall, impeccably upright. Her presence seemed reassuring and held

Rubel raised his hand and handed me a piece of cloth with my new badge on it, and Claymore followed suit, handing me the sword from her back. I realized that I hadn't even noticed she was carrying two swords on her back.

“Congratulations, Lysia. You have officially gone from apprentice to warrior. This now belongs to you,” he said as I hung the badge around my neck, making sure the scarf didn't hide it.

I took them back, nodding as a smile spread across my face.

“And since you have shown... how shall I put it... a keen sense of survival, we felt it would be wise to place you under the supervision of someone experienced.”

I snorted slightly amused, and he turned to the claymore at his side, who looked delighted.

“This is Hilda, No. 5. A remarkable warrior. One of the most disciplined of our generation. She has agreed to have you by her side.”

I raise an eyebrow, observing the woman in question. “Did she even have a choice?” I ask curiously, which makes Rubel laugh.

To my surprise, Hilda didn't seem offended, but rather amused. She took a slight, quiet breath and then stepped forward, just enough to be level with me.

“Yes, I had a choice,” she replied simply, with a soft, almost... warm smile.

I blinked. I was expecting one of those cold, rigid, slightly abrasive Claymores.

Not... this.

A light, calm voice. A presence that soothed rather than overwhelmed. I guess my assumptions had been petty.

Rubel crossed his arms with an air of satisfaction.

"Then you're in very good hands. " he said in a tone that was too soft to be honest before walking away, hands clasped behind his back, whistling.

The difference was immediate.

The air suddenly seemed lighter without him. Hilda turned to me, in a surprisingly relaxed posture.

“Lysia... may I call you Lys?”

I nodded.

“Very well. Lys, then.”

She looked at my new sword, then at my posture, as if she were already assessing my strengths. Nothing intrusive, just serious, attentive observation.

The road we were traveling wound its way between soggy fields, still marked by the night's rain. The mud sucked gently with each step, but our boots slid over it without ever really sinking in.

The air smelled of wet grass and turned earth—a smell I had only known in villages... just before panic broke out.

How long had we been walking? An hour?

Maybe two.

I had lost track of time as I watched Hilda's straight back and her perfectly steady pace. Too steady. It almost made me want to speed up, just to see if she would follow.

I sighed, annoyed with myself. So, of course, after a while of going over it in my head, I cracked.

"So... this mission. “ I said, catching up to her by half a step. ”An Awakened assassination, is that right?"

Hilda turned her head slightly, as one might do to listen to a child asking if lightning can strike them.

“Yes,” she said calmly. “We will confirm his presence, identify his behavior, and neutralize him.”

Neutralize.

She said it as if she were talking about pulling weeds.

Then, in a strangely gentle tone for someone announcing a possible bloodbath, she added:

“Don't worry about it. I'll be with you for your first hunt.”

I almost stopped in my tracks. First hunt?

The image of the two “different” Yomas from the day before flashed through my mind—too quickly, like a flash of white light behind my eyes. I felt my heart skip a beat, then another, that annoying irregularity that sometimes took me by surprise.

I hesitated to tell her.

To just blurt it out: "I already killed two yesterday. Well... I think."

But my throat tightened.

Why?

Because of the pain behind my rib cage? Or the fear of being seen as a liar? Or worse, an anomaly?

“You look like an old N1.”

I forced a smile that was a little too wide, a little too bright, like a bandage on a wound that hadn't yet healed.

“Hey, I'm not worried,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “Well... Just enough not to die stupidly.”

“And besides, I'm with Number 5,” I added, half-sincere, half-casual. “It should be fine.” Hilda glanced at me briefly.

Hilda looked at me briefly.

It was a calm gaze, but its depth almost made me stumble.

There was no condescension or joy, as I would have expected after flattering her ego. Just... genuine attention.

I cleared my throat, a little unsettled by that look.

“You know...” she continued softly, “being accompanied by Number 5 doesn't guarantee anything.” She smiled a slight, somewhat sad smile. “But I'll do everything I can to make sure we get back in one piece.”

“I'll do the same on my side.” I replied with genuine relief.

I clear my throat, a little unsettled by her gaze.

“You know...” she continues softly, “being accompanied by Number 5 doesn't guarantee anything.” She smiles a slight, somewhat sad smile. “But I'll do everything I can to make sure we get back in one piece.”

“I'll do the same on my side.” I smile genuinely this time, my mood lightening.

It would be fun to go on missions with Galatea... the thought crosses my mind, but I dismiss it as quickly as possible.

“How long have you been Number 5?”

I didn't think before I spoke. The words came out like a hiccup.

“A little over three years,” she replied calmly.

Three years...

She must have seen so many deaths.

Yomas, Awakened Ones, maybe even other Claymores...

“And... how does that feel?” She paused.

A mini-pause. Just long enough for me to realize that maybe it was inappropriate.

“Being a single-digit number, I mean,” I hastened to add, afraid that I might have upset her or brought back painful memories.

“Honestly? Nothing in particular. It's a number. It changes sometimes. And the work stays the same.” "

She looked back at the horizon. “But it's true that it's not always easy...”

I didn't know whether to be disappointed, impressed, or frustrated.

So I did what I always did: I went for it.

I took two steps past her and turned around to walk backwards, facing her, hands behind my head. An insolent posture, surely.

But I wanted to see her face, see how she spoke.

And see if she had any reaction other than her usual calm.

“Do you all know each other? The other single numbers, I mean.”

Hilda smiled slightly—a normal smile. Not condescending. Not mocking. Not cold.

“We're not companions from our apprenticeship, if that's what you mean. But yes, we know each other. From a distance. We sometimes work together. We recognize each other's emblems and numbers, as well as each other's strength.”

I continued to walk backwards, observing her every micro-movement.

Hilda moved forward with the almost floating calm that only very strong warriors possessed. Nothing betrayed her annoyance at being questioned, nor the slightest hint of fatigue.

The sun was beginning to set when Hilda slowed her pace slightly. She looked at the horizon, then at me. Her eyes, always so calm, seemed to be measuring something.

“If we continue, we'll reach the village late at night,” she said.

She turned completely toward me.

“We can push on to the end... or rest and face it tomorrow, knowing that night is not a handicap for us. On the contrary. The inhabitants have returned home, the streets are empty. Fewer witnesses. Fewer potential victims.” "

I nodded. Logical.

Then she added, more seriously:

“But that implies something else.”

Her gaze slid to the indistinct houses in the distance.

"An awakened one doesn't sleep like a human. He thinks. He observes. And he understands that hiding among them is protection. "

I frowned slightly. “You mean he could... be in the village?”

“In a house,” she confirmed bluntly. “Some retain enough intelligence to mimic human behavior.” She paused. "And enough strength to raze an entire neighborhood if they feel cornered. "

The images from the previous day came back to me despite myself—the aberrant power of these Yomas, the feeling of being overwhelmed, my heart pounding.

“So if we find him too soon... in a house...” I murmured.

“We risk provoking a violent transformation,” Hilda finished. "But if we wait too long, he may attack while we're watching. "

She finally looked at me. “An awakened one is closer to a strategist than a monster. Never underestimate him.”

I let out a slow breath, feeling the familiar excitement rising...

“I see,” I said with a thin smile. "So nighttime is our advantage. But only if we're smarter than him."

Hilda gave a small, discreet smile, almost proud.

The edge of the village finally appeared between the trees.

The houses slept, low silhouettes with dark roofs, huddled together as if to protect themselves from the night cold. A lantern still swayed faintly in a distant window. No voices. No footsteps.

The night was almost too quiet.

We slowed down in unison without needing to say a word. Our movements became lighter, more measured. Each step was placed carefully, to produce only the slightest rustle in the damp earth.

I let my yoki awaken just enough to probe.

Nothing.

Or rather... something. A vague sensation. A heaviness in the air, like a dull pressure that came from nowhere and everywhere at once.

I frowned, annoyed.

He's here. He has to be here. But impossible to tell where.

Or rather... something. A vague feeling. A heaviness in the air, like a dull pressure that came from nowhere and everywhere at once.

I frowned, annoyed.

He's here. He has to be here. But it's impossible to tell where.

Hilda stopped near a barn, one hand resting against the old wood. Her gaze slowly scanned the surroundings, too precise to be that of someone who couldn't sense anything.

“You feel it too,” she whispered. I nodded.

“Yes. But... it's blurry. As if his yoki were spread out. Dilated.”

Like a mist. An echo. Nothing clear.

Hilda exhaled slowly. “It's not uncommon among awakened ones who hide for a long time. They learn to disperse their presence. To not... let themselves be caught.”

Great.

I clenched my teeth, letting my gaze run along the brothels. None of them really stood out. No clear anomalies. No explosion of fear. No clear pulsation.

I didn't like it. The yoma clearly had an advantage over us. It might even know we were already there and be watching us.

With Galatea here, it would already be settled... She would have plunged her yoki right into the village, dissecting every breath of energy like you strip a prey. She would have known. I dismissed the thought with a silent sigh.

“I hate this,” I muttered, more to myself than anyone else. “We know it's watching us, but we don't know where from.”

Hilda nodded slightly. “That's exactly what it wants.”

We continued on, skirting the facades, avoiding areas that were too open. A door creaked faintly in the distance, buffeted by the wind. I immediately tensed, my hand on the hilt of my sword.

Nothing.

“No frontal attack,” Hilda continued in a low voice.

“Not until we locate the main source of his yoki. If we play this wrong...” She glanced at the sleeping houses. “...this village will be lost before we can even react.” "

I swallowed, my excitement replaced by something heavier, more serious.

“Okay,” I finally said.

“Then we watch. We track him down. And we don't let him decide when.”

Hilda looked at me, and this time there was clear approval in her eyes.

“Exactly, Lys.” The village remained silent.

But I could feel it. Somewhere, in the shadows, something had already noticed us. I tried to focus on the yoki, but a tiny tremor distracted me, too distinct to be the wind.

I froze immediately, all my senses on high alert. The flow of yoki tightened, pointed like an invisible blade toward the source.

There.

Behind a low house, near a collapsed shed, something was breathing slowly, uncontrollably. An irregular rhythm... almost frantic.

Finally.

I signaled to Hilda silently and slipped forward, hugging the stone wall. My heart was beating too hard, too fast, the same disordered beat I had hated since the day before, but as I got closer, the feeling changed.

It wasn't powerful, not enough, but it was there. I could clearly feel it.

I leaped forward, the blade leaving its sheath in a fluid, precise movement, ready to strike before my brain had even finished the thought.

“...please...”

My claymore stopped a breath away from flesh. A child, damn it! My eyes widened slightly.

He was curled up against the wall, too thin, too small, little more than a shadow. Wide eyes stared at me, shining with tears, his trembling mouth too open to call for help. His clenched hand would be an old, useless kitchen knife.

He didn't scream, though his trembling betrayed his fear, yet my arm remained frozen in the air, all my muscles screaming to finish the gesture I had begun.

“Lys.” Hilda's voice, low. Just behind me, it seemed to wake me up, and I abruptly withdrew my sword, the tip still vibrating, and took a step back. Then another.

“It's...” My throat tightened. “It's not him.”

Hilda knelt down to his level with calculated slowness, her sword still visible but lowered.

“It's okay... tell me, what are you doing outside...?”

"Dad said not to go out... but I heard... I thought it was a monster...“ he stammered. ”I was afraid it would hurt Dad again."

I clenched my teeth.

“Go home,” Hilda said calmly. “And lock the door. No matter what happens. Even if you hear someone screaming. Do you understand?” "

“Could you walk me home?” he asked, without taking his eyes off Hilda. She smiled at him and nodded.

The silence fell heavier than before. I stood frozen, then let out a shaky breath that I hadn't realized I was holding.

“I almost...” I whispered.

Hilda slowly straightened up and stared at me.

“Yes,” she said simply. “That must be exactly why he did it... He seems to want to use humans as background noise,” she continued. “As a cover, he must know the organization's rule that forbids us from killing them and chose to play a game with us.” 

“I'm sorry,” I finally said, in a low voice.

My body didn't relax.

Even when the tension seemed to ease, even when the child started walking in front of us, my shoulders remained stiff, my breathing too short, too high. As if every nerve refused to let go.

It's silly. I made a mistake, I almost killed a child. That's what I kept telling myself.

And yet...

There was that feeling. A dull pressure behind my breastbone, the same vice-like grip as the day before, as if my heart were pounding against a cage that was too small. My yoki was quivering for no apparent reason, not in violent spikes, but tense, condensed, ready to spring at the slightest misstep, as if in a state of hypervigilance.

I clenched my teeth.

In front of us, the child walked with quick little steps, occasionally glancing over his shoulder at Hilda, never at me. I suppose it makes sense not to look at the person who almost took your life.

“How long has there been a monster in the village?” Hilda asked calmly.

“I don't know...” he replied after a short hesitation. “Dad said that people had been disappearing for a few weeks and that we shouldn't talk at night.”

Hilda nodded slowly. “And your father? Where is he now?”

“At home.”

A pause.

"Well... I think so. "

I frowned imperceptibly. The answers were accurate. Too accurate. Not hesitant like those of a frightened child, but calibrated. Functional.

You're extrapolating, I tried to convince myself. Maybe he's just... mature for his age.

The words burned my tongue before I could hold them back.

"How old are you? "

He slowed down slightly, as if surprised by the question, then answered without turning around.

“Twelve.”

Twelve... He was indeed young and far too easy prey for a yoma.

“At that age,” I finally said, "you should listen to your father and stay inside. Going out alone at night is foolish. "

He stopped dead in his tracks, then slowly turned his head toward me for the first time. His eyes met mine, not shying away, not clouded, but curious.

“You don't look much older than me.” A pause. "And yet you're a Claymore. "

He was indeed a little taller than me, but not by much. Just enough to make the comparison sting for no good reason. I clicked my tongue in annoyance.

“This is the first time I've seen one so small,” he added, almost thoughtfully.

I felt Hilda's gaze fall on him, more sharply this time. " How do you know what a Claymore looks like?" she asked calmly.

The child blinked. An expression of almost... annoyance flashed across his face, as if he had just realized he had made a mistake.

“One came here once,” he replied quickly. “A long time ago.”

He shrugged, a vague, childish gesture.

“She looked like you. Blonde. Silver eyes.” Then, as if adding an unimportant anecdote, “People called her the silver-eyed witch.”

His gaze shifted from Hilda... to me, lingering a fraction of a second too long on my eyes. My body tensed abruptly, every muscle ready to snap. I didn't move an inch, every muscle contracted to the extreme, as if something inside me refused to take another step.

The child finally looked away first, as if the moment had never existed. He resumed walking with quick little steps, rubbing his hands together to warm them.

“You're brave, though,” he said suddenly, in a light, almost admiring voice. “Walking outside at night like that. Dad said it attracted bad things.”

Hilda nodded, attentive, but now more... present. I could feel it. Her rhythm had changed. Subtly. But realistically.

“Your father is right,” she replied. “That's why we're here.”

The child tilted his head, as if intrigued by the answer. “Because you hunt monsters?”

“Yes.”

He smiled. “And them...” he continued innocently, “do they hunt you too, sometimes?”

“I suppose so,” said Hilda, moving slightly closer to me and continuing to talk to him.

“You've been quite far from home...” I said after walking several meters.

The child shrugged, as if the question was of no importance. “I know the village by heart,” he replied simply. We were now approaching the center of the village. Low houses, shutters closed, lanterns unlit. Too quiet. Even the dogs had fallen silent.

“You said people were disappearing,” Hilda continued. “Do you know who?” He thought about it. Really thought about it this time.

"The guy who ran the sawmill. A woman near the well.“ Then, almost distractedly, ”And the old blacksmith. But he was a noisy drunk."

Hilda finally slowed down, stopping at the corner of an alleyway that plunged into darkness.

“We're almost there,” he said, and Hilda nodded.

“We're almost there,” he said, and Hilda nodded.

The child took two more steps... then stopped abruptly. Without warning, he turned sharply toward me and smiled a mean smile.

Something inside me snapped, and I reacted before I thought. My fist flew out almost lazily, a sharp blow, controlled just enough to hit him squarely in the face.

The child fell backward and collapsed to the ground with a soft thud.

Silence exploded.

“LYS!” Hilda's voice snapped, shocked. I stared at my hand, still outstretched, then at the body curled up on the ground. Hilda was already kneeling beside him.

“Are you crazy?!” she whispered, panting, as she placed a hand on the boy's chest. “He's a child! Do you want me to have to kill you?”

“He's not normal,” I insisted, my throat dry. “I swear...” The boy coughed.

As Hilda leaned closer to help him, a brutal force surged through him. The boy—no, the yoma—leapt up, his features contorting in an impossible movement, his nails lengthening like blades.

“HILDA!” "

I drew my sword in the same breath. The awakened screamed a high-pitched, furious sound, seeming to abandon its disguise. The world shrank.

No more village. No more night. Just Hilda pinned to the ground, the weight of the thing on top of her, its fangs opening in a wet snap.

My body moved before my mind could catch up. I let go of control, the yoki surged forth, brutal, burning, far too fast. I felt the pressure distort the air around me, a moment of dizziness, almost delicious.

I struck.

My claymore came down on the yoma's side with a metallic cry, the cut tearing a shrill scream from it. Not deep enough. It was dense. Compact. Badly built. The thing twisted and sent Hilda flying against a wall in a shower of rubble.

“Tch—” She rolled, already getting up despite the blood running down her temple. “Lys, back up!” she ordered.

The yoma gave a twisted smile—a smile—sickening, almost delighted.

“Too soon...” it whispered in a cracked voice, “You were supposed to hesitate longer, our little game was supposed to continue...”

I gritted my teeth. "Shut up. "

He struck.

I barely managed to parry. The shock ran up my shoulders, my boots plowing through the mud for several meters. Strong, but nothing I hadn't seen before.

Hilda appeared in his blind spot.

Perfect.

Her blade cleanly severed one of the arms he was still using to feint. The yoma screamed, curled up, then exploded into a mass of moving flesh and bone. The body swelled, distorted, limbs multiplied in a dripping organic nightmare.

As I kicked quickly and created distance between us.

“Stop!” Hilda shouted, her golden eyes glancing at me.

I took a short breath. That was it, a trap...

I tightened my grip on my claymore and smiled, “Let's see how long its regeneration can keep up...”

I dove under a mass of flesh, slicing through it, slid, turned, and plunged my blade into the heart of the central knot, where its yoki pulsed the strongest. It froze for a fraction of a second, which was enough.

Hilda appeared behind it, delivering a clean, sharp blow, and the head rolled onto the cobblestones with a wet sound.

The body collapsed, convulsing for a few more seconds before dissolving into that black, foul-smelling mush that I knew all too well by now.

The acrid smell of blood spread through the air like a sticky mist. I stood still for a moment, sword lowered, making sure that nothing was really moving anymore.

Then I looked up. Hilda was watching me. Her golden eyes searched mine, attentive, assessing... and something else. A lively spark, almost amused.

I shrugged, finally releasing the tension in my shoulders.

“Honestly...” I said, exhaling. "I was expecting something tougher. "

I glanced quickly at the spot where she had been pinned to the ground, then added, feigning lightheartedness,

“Well. If we forget the part where he almost ripped your throat out, of course.”

Hilda blinked, then burst out laughing. A real laugh. Clear. Frank. She brought a hand to her bloody temple, grimacing slightly, before wiping the blood away with the back of her sleeve.

“Your timing is terrible,” she replied, still amused. “But... you did the right thing. It was risky. Reckless, even.”

I smiled, a little more proud than I wanted to admit.

“The Organization places a lot of emphasis on the golden rule of not killing humans,” I pointed out. “But they never actually specified that we weren't allowed to give them a little preventive punch. Just to check.”

Hilda stifled another laugh.

" I guess that point isn't covered in the rules,“ she said, shaking her head. ”Lucky for you."

Her gaze lingered on my eyes. “Tell me, Lys...” she began softly. “Your eyes. They didn't change during the fight. Not really.” She tilted her head slightly. “I know you used your yoki, though...”

I opened my mouth to answer her, but a noise rose behind us. Hurried footsteps. Whispers. Squeaking doors.

I turned my head slightly.

The villagers were cautiously coming out of their houses. Hesitant silhouettes, trembling lanterns in their hands. Someone let out a strangled cry when they saw the still-smoking black mass on the ground.

Then voices rose.

“The monster...”

“They killed it...”

“The witches with silver eyes...”

Some fell to their knees. Others wept. An old woman clasped her hands together, murmuring thanks that I only half listened to.

Hilda stood up immediately. Professional. Perfect.

“The danger has been averted,” she declared in a clear voice. “You are safe. A man will come to see you. He will be dressed in black. Give him the agreed-upon money. He will take care of the rest.”

The villagers nodded frantically. I took one last look at Hilda.

We didn't linger after that. We made our way to the outskirts of the village, where the fields reclaimed their rights, the tall grass swaying gently in the night breeze. The moon bathed everything in a pale blue light, bright enough to see without effort, too calm after what had just happened.

Hilda planted her claymore in the soft earth and leaned back against the flat of the blade with an ease that always surprised me. As if the iron against her back was comfortable.

I sat down a little further away, one leg pulled up against me.

“Yes, I used my yoki, and yes, I went slightly over 10%, and yes, I know my eyes didn't turn gold,” I replied to her previous question.

I closed my eyes and let go of control, just enough. When I opened my eyes again, I met her gaze. I held the state for a few seconds, then released it.

Hilda watched me silently, then her lips stretched into a slow smile.

“You're quite unique,” she admitted. “And you seem to have your yoki pretty well under control.” I shrugged.

If only you knew how wrong that is.

“In any case, you're more accommodating than Noel. And Sophia.” She let out a small, amused whistle.

“You mean Muscular Sophia, No. 3, and Stormwind Noel, No. 4. Ah, I shouldn't be surprised. Those two always come together and argue at the slightest opportunity. However, this is an unusual path for a young warrior,” she said. Then she raised her hand and touched the badge around her neck. “If you keep this up, all you'll need are these.”

She drew two symbols with her finger. “Irene. Number 2. Also known by the nickname ‘Quicksword Irene’ and Teresa of the Faint Smile, number 1.”

I looked at their insignia and then relaxed, leaning back on my arms.

“Are you comfortable like that?” I asked, watching her.

Hilda chuckled. “You'll understand with experience,” she replied simply. She tapped the flat of the claymore behind her with her fingertips. " When you spend enough nights outside, you have to expect to be attacked, and it's better to be prepared."

I raised my nose slightly, skeptical.

“What a wonderful prospect,” I muttered. “I can't wait.”

She gave me an amused smile, then her gaze slid toward the horizon, where the line of fields disappeared into the darkness.

“At dawn, I'll return to my territory,” she said bluntly. “And you...” She calmly turned her eyes back to me. “You'll probably have to go back to the Organization. Reports, assignments, that sort of thing.” "

I let out a breath through my nose.

Of course.

“You did very well, Lys,” she finally added. Not as a formality. As a statement of fact.

“Come on, don't thank me for saving your ass.” I raised an eyebrow.

She paused for a moment, then added, almost casually, “Yes, which means I owe you one.”

“Be careful with that kind of promise,” I replied. “I might take advantage of it.”

Hilda laughed softly, then her gaze drifted back to the horizon.

“I hope it won't be necessary,” she said. “But if our paths cross again...”

She paused, long enough for the wind to rush in.

“...I'll be happy to fight alongside you.”

Her words hang between us, simple, honest, and I nodded.

---

Notes:

ok so idk if Elda and Hilda the same character. BUT it will be in this fanfiction because it feel ok
its more interresing in my opinion to meet miria Girl. + give more lore to her and they have the same name and rang so why not.

(who its elda ? remember when Noel and Sophia briefly talk about the n. 5 of their generation, a certain Elda that we never see anywhere in the story, furthermore we know that Priscilla's predicted scension to n. 2 would have lowered Elda's rank to n. 6)