Chapter Text
He hath utterly destroyed them, he hath delivered them to the slaughter. Their slain shall also be cast out, and their stink shall come up out of their carcasses, and the mountains shall be melted with their blood.
—ISAIAH 34:2–3 (KING JAMES VERSION)
Prologue
「Alchemilla」
Location: « Republic of Libérédóry – Northern Coastal City»
Date: « 2001 – June 04 – 11:00 p.m. »
The night was a funeral pyre. Flames clawed at the darkened heavens, their light staining the clouds with an ominous crimson. A coastal city, once alive with the hum of life, now lay broken, its streets choked with the debris of its own annihilation.
Buildings groaned as they crumbled, their collapse a mournful dirge swallowed by the insatiable hunger of war. The sea’s calming presence was a cruel reminder of peace—long gone. Now, it carried the stench of blood, charred flesh, and salt—a bitter cocktail of decay.
The narrow streets had become grotesque canvases of death. Corpses sprawled like broken marionettes, limbs twisted at impossible angles. Faces were frozen mid-scream—terror, despair, fury—echoes of a humanity stripped bare and left raw by the ferocity of battle.
Through the wreckage walked a solitary figure. A black jacket drank the firelight, its hood pulled low to mask the face beneath. Dark brown boots crushed glass and bone alike, each step steady, unhurried. Its stride never faltered, even as it cast a glance at the madder red flames that paints the ruins in madness.
The city’s proud towers—symbols of ambition and progress—stood as skeletal husks. Steel warped and gnarled, stretched upward like hands reaching for mercy that would never come. Smoke choked the stars, blotting out heaven’s gaze, as if the divine itself had turned away.
Everything reduced to nothing—this is war.
The figure stopped in its tracks, coming to the base of a grotesque mound—a hill of bodies. Soldiers in dark blue uniforms, barely more than boys, their faces hidden beneath metal helmets that offered no protection from the brutality of the war. Their armors glistened beneath the glow of the fire, cracked, dented, and meaningless in death. Their flesh mangled beyond repair.
A quiet scoff escaped the figure. It began to climb the mound, each step accompanied by the sickening squelch of flesh giving way. The ascent was neither hurried nor reverent. It was a climb of indifference, as if the lives extinguished there were no more significant than the ashes swirling in the air.
From the peak, the figure surveyed the devastation. The hood shadowed its face, save for the mechanical glow of crimson eyes cutting through the dark. Upon that corpse-hill it stood like a king enthroned—its dominion a vision from Revelation, where cities burned and kingdoms withered beneath divine wrath. Yet there was no chorus of angels, no wails of demons. Silence was the only witness.
Static.
“Come in. Can you hear me?”
The figure reached up and pulled back its hood, revealing the face of a young man, no older than twenty. His long, messy crimson hair was tied back with unruly sidelocks framed the right side of his face, giving him an asymmetrical, almost disheveled appearance. His crimson eyes, accentuated by long, black lashes, glowed faintly—like embers that had long since lost their flame—dead, yet alive.
He fished a battered radio from his jacket and pressed the PTT button. His voice came flat, stripped of warmth. “Loud and clear.”
“Provide SITREP, over,” crackled the voice from the radio, muffled by static.
“Imperial forces breached their eastern flank. United Alliance soldiers were overrun, with no friendly forces remaining in site upon my arrival. I have neutralized the Imperial troops occupying this position. Proceeding south now to support the remaining troops.”
His tone never shifted—precise, detached, a report rendered with the indifference of an executioner.
“As always, you’re quick. The Empire is still pushing towards the northern coast from the south. Aid the remaining United Alliance forces until the rescue operation is complete.”
Orders received. No acknowledgment needed. He moved without hesitation, but before he could release the button, the voice on the other side added softly:
“You can’t live like that. No one could.”
The young man heaved a sigh, a sound between frustration and resignation. It was a statement he’d heard countless times, one that fell upon his ears like a dull blade.
Years had passed since he had lost everything—his family, his homeland, even his name. The memories were gone, swept away by the endless tides of harrowing experiences. All that remained was the shell of a man, driven by one desperate desire: to find courage in the face of life and death. It was the only thing he had left, the only thing he could cling to in a world that had forsaken him.
“I can.” His reply was flat, but for the first time, there was steel beneath the words, a defiance that betrayed the emptiness of his gaze.
“You’re chasing courage. But is war truly where you’ll find it? Always throwing yourself into death’s path, until fear itself goes numb… is that courage?” The voice was heavy with pleading, trembling with the tenderness of one who feared the answer.
“Maybe.” His tone wavered, layered with ambiguity—an answer that sounded less like conviction, more like surrender to uncertainty. He cut the channel before a reply could reach him.
A person is shaped by three things: homeland—the place of birth; blood—the family that claims them; and name—their identity. These are the foundations of existence, the roots that tether one to the world, the roots that let a man stand firm.
However, the young man had none of those. He has nothing. Even if he did have something, he had long forgotten. The only thing pushing him forward now is to find courage to face life and death, and he thinks it’s fine… But it’s not.
For a man is like a tree—for if they have no roots, they will fall.
“I need to move.” The words slipped out in a low whisper as his hand tightened on the black handkerchief bound around his neck like a scarf.
But there was no reply, for there was no one there to hear his determined soliloquy.
I am not alive, nor dead. I am standing in between—in limbo—and so do these soldiers who fight for all that’s left to them.
—SHINKU, RECOLLECTION OF THE PAST
Chapter I
「Cygnus Atratus」
Location: « Republic of Libérédóry – Eastern Front – Northern Region »
Date: « 2001 – May 18 – 08:00 a.m. »
The Republic of Libérédóry had once been a kingdom bound in chains, its people shackled beneath a crown. Sixty years ago, they tore down that throne and built the continent’s first republic, a beacon of culture and magic, a symbol that freedom could endure.
That light, however, was snuffed out when, on September first of the previous year, the Fehlerfreilant Empire began its conquest. Southern nations, neutral or not, fell in quick succession—no treaties, no warnings, just fire and steel carving new borders in blood. The Republic’s era of globalization collapsed overnight, its skies blackened not by clouds but by the smoke of war.
Along the eastern front, earth shuddered beneath the ceaseless pounding of artillery. Trenches ran like open wounds across the landscape, cradling soldiers in dark blue uniforms caked with mud and blood. Their faces were hollow, eyes dulled by sleepless nights and the screams of the dying. Some slumped against earthen walls, hands trembling too violently to reload their rifles. Others polished their weapons with ritual precision, clinging to routine as though it could stave off despair. Even laughter, when it came, was brittle and forced, vanishing as quickly as it surfaced.
Inside a dim command tent, a lieutenant hunched over a desk buried in maps and reports. A lantern burned low, its light throwing jagged shadows across his sharp amber eyes. His pen scratched steadily against paper, a counterpoint to the distant thunder outside.
The flap stirred, ushering in a chill breeze reeking of damp soil and iron. A young woman entered, armored breastplate glinting over her stained uniform. Her violet eyes carried quiet resolve, hair with the same shade—gathered in a ponytail—swaying with her step. Loose locks framed a face still young, yet already hardened by war.
“Unit stood-to, Lieutenant.” Her voice was steady, tempered by the battlefield.
The man looked up, gave a short nod. “Good. Ready the mage platoon for a sortie. We move the moment this report is done.”
She saluted crisply, then turned to leave—but her hand lingered on the flap. Her posture faltered, if only for a heartbeat.
“What is it?” His tone was low, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Go, Iustitia. Fetch the others. This war won’t be a repeat of the last one.”
She forced a thin smile, one that failed to mask the doubt in her eyes. “Of course, sir.”
She stepped back into the cold air, his words following her like a fragile promise she wanted desperately to believe.
Nine months had passed since the Empire’s shadow engulfed the continent. Country after country fell, swallowed whole. History’s wheel turned again, crushing lives beneath its weight.
The Republic of Libérédóry and the United Kingdom of Téssera Éthni once more stood together, forging the United Alliance as they had twenty-six years before. Yet as the frontlines burned, Iustitia felt the truth settle heavy in her chest.
“Nothing has changed.”
The thought gnawed at her. Each blast, each volley of gunfire, was proof of a cycle unbroken. Slaughter begetting slaughter.
“Don’t think about it…” she murmured, shaking her head. Her hand brushed the watch-like device on her left wrist, as if its presence could steady her against the storm.
Iustitia moved through camp, her .303 bolt-action rifle slung across her shoulder—its weight familiar, almost comforting, like a burden she had learned to love. Soldiers shuffled around her, some armored, others clad only in the dark blue uniform marked with Libérédóry’s tricolor of blue, yellow, and red.
A few nodded in greeting.
“How nice for you to travel all the way here to aid us, Ms. Beautiful,” one of the soldiers called out, his voice lacking the mockery that might have accompanied such words in brighter times.
She didn’t slow her pace. A dry laugh slipped from her lips. “You’d better keep your head during the sortie, then.”
His chuckle lingered behind her, hollow as a dirge.
Engines rumbled in the distance, their harsh growl drowning in the air already thick with smoke. Tanks crawled across the scarred earth, steel beasts gouging deep tracks into the mud. Around them, platoons clustered, voices low as officers barked orders.
Iustitia quickened her steps, boots sinking into sodden ground until she reached her unit’s tent. Inside, the air smelled of oiled steel and leather. Soldiers buckled armor and strapped weapons with practiced hands. Plate glimmered faintly in the dim light—modern, light enough for mobility, but better suited for blades than bullets. Still, any shield was worth clinging to.
“Tch, this armor’s a pain.” A soldier with orange hair streaked red scowled, blue eyes narrowing as he fumbled with a strap. “Can’t I just skip this part?”
Iustitia smirked. “Sure. But don’t cry to me when a spear splits your ribs. Blades are still common in magic combat, Corporal Blair. Wear it, light or not—it’s the margin between life and death.”
Blair groaned but tugged the straps into place, muttering under his breath. Around him, the others spoke in low tones.
“I hope this war ends soon,” one murmured, fastening a sword belt. “Got a girl waiting back home. Planning to propose once I get out of this hell.”
Another snorted. “You? Since when?”
“It won’t last long,” another one chimed in, his voice low and grim. “The number of Imperial soldiers on the front lines are thinning. That’s what I’ve heard from the sentries.”
“Seriously?”
The chatter died as a shell thundered in the distance, shaking dust loose from the tent poles.
Iustitia’s hand tightened around her rifle. The smoke outside seeped into her lungs, acrid with iron and ash. Yet beneath it, something colder pressed against her mind. A dread she couldn’t name.
“It won’t be like the last war,” she whispered. “The Réseaux de Maréchaux will hold them back. We won’t be overrun again.”
Her words steadied the men—mention of the Republic’s colossal fortress-line was reassurance enough. Still, memories of the Empire’s unstoppable march lingered.
“Sarge is right,” one soldier muttered, more to himself than the others. “We’ve got a chance. The king must know it too. Why else send only two hundred thousand men to volunteer the Republic?”
But hope sat uneasily, like a coin flipped in the mud. Every man here knew the truth: war cared little for wishes.
Iustitia cut the silence, her tone iron. “Check your grimoires. Ready your staves. Rifles at your sides.”
The soldiers obeyed in unison. Swords clinked as they were sheathed; rifles were loaded, staves gripped tight. Armor straps were cinched one last time. The tent’s dim light caught the glint of steel and the sheen of polished wood. Yet no one could shake the truth—iron and powder could only do so much.
The real terror of war was magic.
Scholars named it “the art of shaping existence, creating from nothing, bringing convenience or calamity into reality.”
Vague. Incomprehensible. And yet decisive. Nations rose and fell on the strength of their mages. On this battlefield, a spell could weigh more than a thousand rifles.
Now, twenty stood before Iustitia—every one of them a mage, their unusual hair and eyes a mark of their gift.
She met their gaze, then raised her voice:
“For what’s left to us… For those who died before us… To live life to the fullest… Let us fight.”
Location: « Somewhere in a remote location of Libérédóry »
Date: « 2001 – May 25 – 06:00 a.m. »
“Why send me?”
The words left his lips in a voice drained of life—neither protest nor complaint, but something caught between man and revenant.
A dim office swallowed him whole. Windows were boarded with warped planks, light reduced to a pale trickle through cracks. Dust thickened in the corners. A young man stood before a desk, long hair tied back with a fraying gray cord. One unruly sidelock slipped free, nearly veiling a crimson eye that glowed faintly in the dark. That unblinking gaze fixed on the old man opposite him.
The elder leaned back in his chair, fingers scratching absently at his gray hair. Furred, dog-like ears twitched with irritation above his head. His sharp yellow eyes—feral, unyielding—met the crimson stare.
“Why you? Because you’re the only one who can inflict real damage on the Empire.”
“What about Erich?”
“Erich?” The old man barked a laugh. “Don’t be a fool. He’s strong, yes, but I won’t throw him into that pit alone. Besides, he’s caring for his mother.”
“And you’re fine with sending me instead?” The young man’s tone didn’t shift—flat, without bitterness, almost as if he had expected nothing else.
The older man grinned, his dog-like ears perking up. “Not my fault you can’t die easily.”
In a single motion, he snatched a knife from the desk and hurled it across the gap. The blade hissed through the air, straight toward the young man’s eye.
The youth didn’t blink. His hand rose lazily, swatting the knife aside. The steel clattered against the floorboards, harmless. Silence fell in its wake.
“See?” the old man drawled, grin widening. “Your deflections have improved.”
A sigh escaped the youth, though his expression never changed. Crude.
“I don’t mind going,” he said at last. “But alone? No support?”
“None,” the older man replied, leaning back in his chair. “We’re already spread thin, relocating therianthropes and keeping our heads low. That idiot Emperor’s made sure of it.”
The young man remained silent as the Empire’s ideology—human purity is supreme—echoed in his mind.
“That Emperor…,” the older man muttered, his voice thick with frustration. His dog-like ears drooped as he clenched his fists. “He branded us the enemy simply because we are different. Fear makes monsters of cowards.”
The youth’s eyes narrowed. He had no patience for such empty grievances. The Empire’s ideology was less a doctrine and more a tantrum dressed as conviction. Spite turned into law. Fear made flesh.
Silence settled between them, heavy. The older man’s bitterness was palpable, and while the youth understood it, he couldn’t share in it. He wasn’t one of them to begin with.
Pitying them would be cruelty. To claim understanding where there was none, to mourn for those who had not yet fallen—it would strip them of pride, of the only thing their fleeting lives allowed. He had no right to take that from them. Just as they had no right to take his burden from him.
His voice cut through the stillness like steel drawn in a dark room.
“So. The Réseaux de Maréchaux has fallen. The Imperials press forward. You want me to tear through their lines, stall them long enough for the Alliance to retreat?”
The old man leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “The battle’s been burning for weeks. A few days ago, the fortress fell—broken by some new weapon of the Empire. But the Alliance still clings to a coastal city, surrounded. The king of United Kingdom will order a rescue soon; it’s only a matter of time.”
“Right.” The reply was flat, almost dismissive.
The old man chuckled bitterly. “Still searching, aren’t you? This will be your last dive into battle. After this, you lie low. Let us handle the rest. You’ve fought too long for a war that was never yours.”
The young man’s eyes narrowed. Shadows deepened across his face. He sighed—shallow, empty—then turned away. His boots thudded dully against the warped floorboards.
“Our little organization isn’t a faction of war,” he said when he reached the door. His voice carried no warmth, no cadence—only cold indifference. “I’ll go because it serves my purpose. But whatever happens when we meddle in this war—that will be on your head.”
The elder smirked faintly, settling back into his chair. “Just return alive. Strike, vanish, leave the rest. That’s all I ask.”
The youth’s hand lingered on the doorknob. “Pray your plans hold, Einn.” Then he stepped out, shutting the door behind him with a muted click.
Einn leaned forward, elbows pressing into the desk. His yellow eyes drifted toward the boarded window, where pale rays of dawn pierced the cracks.
“You’ve lost everything, yet you endure,” he murmured. Sorrow seeped into his voice. “Perhaps death has become a comfort to you, Shinku… but I pray it doesn’t claim you whole.”
The light dimmed as the sun rose higher, casting long shadows across the floor. Beyond the walls, the world still burned. War’s fire crept ever closer, and each of them played their part in feeding the flames.
Location: « Republic of Libérédóry – Dunéglise »
Date: « 2001 – June 04 – 11:20 p.m. »
The coastal city resonated with the thunderous roars of cannons, filling the air with their staccato rhythm. Bombs fell like rain, screaming as they plummeted toward the soldiers who teetered around the chaotic fray, dancing between life and death.
“Damn it all!” a wounded soldier spat, dragging himself across a broken street. His curse was swallowed in an instant beneath the grinding tread of an Imperial tank. Pavement shattered. Blood spread in a dark fan beneath its steel weight.
The Réseaux de Maréchaux—once vaunted as unbreakable—now lay torn open in three places. Through those breaches poured the Empire’s army groups, clad in dark red uniforms, flooding the maze of streets like a tidal surge. Their maneuvers tightened in cold precision, shrinking the Alliance’s resistance into dying pockets. Tanks roared forward, shattering barricades, their turrets swiveling with executioner’s patience.
“Fall back! Fall back! Withdraw to the beach! All units that can still fight, hold your lines—!”
What remained of the Alliance army broke toward the shore, clutching at the promise of salvation in the distant silhouettes of warships. The wounded were dragged or carried. The able planted themselves like dying pillars before the flood.
They crouched as one, voices cutting through the roar:
“““Barrier!”””
A translucent wall shimmered to life, curving above them. The next volley of fire smashed down, bursts of flame and shrapnel colliding against the ward. Smoke swirled, choking vision—but the barrier held. For now.
“Move, damn you!”
But fear had rooted many in place. Survival once felt miraculous; now it felt borrowed.
Then came the guttural rumble—Imperial heavy artillery spinning up again. A shell screamed through the night sky.
“Take cover! Magic barriers won’t protect you from that!”
The impact split the earth. Mana shields fractured like glass, then shattered, their light scattering in cold sparks before fading to nothing. Explosions tore into the ranks, shredding flesh and stone alike. Screams rose, then drowned in fire and cacophony.
Out of the smoke strode the Imperials, crimson-clad and merciless. Their bayonets gleamed, blades slick with reflected firelight.
“Hold the lines!”
The shout belonged to Iustitia. Her hands snapped a bayonet onto her rifle as she surged forward. The blue-clad rallied behind her, meeting red with steel. Magic crackled in the rear ranks, staff-wielders launching flaming volleys across the street.
Iustitia moved through the melee like a blade herself. A rifle swung down on her—she turned it aside, sidestepped, and buried her bayonet in a man’s gut. One pull of the trigger ended him before his knees touched stone.
But more closed in, a cluster of staves raised in eerie unison. Their voices merged:
“““Flaming Arrow.”””
Dozens of fire-tipped bolts erupted from their weapons, scorching toward her in a blazing arc.
She did not retreat.
“Crystellarize!”
The ground shuddered beneath her boots. A wall of violet crystal surged upward, jagged and luminous. Fire slammed against its surface, scattering into embers and smoke. Steam hissed, curling around the crystalline shield.
Her gaze snapped to the device strapped at her wrist. Its glass flickered with cold numbers:
[ MANA: 45% ]
“Ten minutes left…” she muttered, jaw tightening.
Ten minutes to stand against a tide that had already drowned them.
The supposed thinning of the Fehlerfreilant forces had been a comforting lie, one that made them feel that that the tide was shifting in their favor. But now, standing amidst the relentless enemy advances, that belief felt dangerously naïve.
* * *
She moved to break from cover—only for a sharp glint to flash at the edge of her vision. An Imperial soldier lunged from her blind spot, glaive swinging in a brutal arc.
Steel crashed against her rifle, tearing it from her hands. The force spun her off balance and slammed her flat onto the cold, blood-slick ground.
Defenseless.
Is this my fate…?
Her heartbeat slowed, each thud stretched to eternity. No comrades could reach her—every one locked in their own desperate struggle. She thought of casting, but the glaive was already raised, ready to fall.
The world seemed to pause, granting her a final heartbeat.
Then—
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
Huh? Are those… footsteps?
Footsteps. Light, quick, threading through the chaos.
Before she could process them, the moment shattered back into motion. A dark figure crashed into view. His boot slammed into the glaive’s head with a dull clang, knocking the weapon wide. The Imperial staggered.
The newcomer stepped forward. A young man—messy crimson hair, jet-black jacket, and boots dulled by mud and blood. His hands floated open before him, palms raised like wings poised to strike. His stance was narrow, direct, calm to the point of unease.
Shinku.
Iustitia’s breath caught. There was something serene, almost mechanical, about him.
The soldier in red snarled and charged, glaive thrust forward. Shinku slid aside, letting the strike skim past. His elbow snapped against the weapon’s shaft, deflecting it. In the same instant, one hand seized the polearm while the other stripped the grip from his opponent.
The glaive was his.
Without hesitation, he drove its blade upward into the gap beneath the soldier’s arm, cleaving flesh and bone. One pivot followed—swift, efficient—and the man’s head rolled across the stone.
Shinku discarded the weapon like refuse. Crimson eyes—unnervingly precise, too steady for a human gaze—turned to Iustitia.
“Take cover.”
The words were flat, unfeeling, yet they carried a strange calm that steadied her pulse.
Gunfire flared around them. Shinku moved again. Too fast—faster than any soldier enhanced by magic should be.
He swept through the battlefield like a storm, each step purposeful, each strike fatal. Crimson eyes cut through the flames, unblinking.
“Don’t shoot the man in black!” Iustitia shouted, her voice jolting the Alliance soldiers into focus. They rallied behind him.
Shinku blurred forward, driving his heel into an Imperial’s throat. The man flew back, body crumpling against stone twenty meters away. Another fell to a flurry of rapid strikes, armor buckling inward under the sheer force.
So strong…
Iustitia rose, drawing her short sword. She cut down those Shinku left in his wake, swift but undeniably slower, clumsier compared to his impossible grace.
How? No magic enhancement could grant this, she thought, taking in the scene littered with fallen Imperial soldiers. Wait… Their numbers are dwindling…!
Another crimson-clad soldier lunged. Shinku slid past the slash, dropped low, and drove a vertical strike into the man’s chest. The armor dented inward with a sickening crunch, hurling him backward like a rag doll.
“Fire!”
The Imperials raised their staves. Volleys of blazing orbs screamed across the street.
Shinku’s voice cut through the din. “Stone Pillar.”
The ground surged, raising a barrier that swallowed the flames. He didn’t wait for the smoke to clear.
“Let There Be Light.”
A sphere flared above the pillar, bursting with brilliance. White radiance spilled across the street, blinding the enemy ranks, searing through smoke and blood.
“Quick!” Iustitia ordered.
The soldiers in dark blue raised their hands, voices rising in unison:
“““Stellar Blast!”””
Bright blue light erupted from their palms, streaking into the Imperial line. Projectiles tore through armor and flesh alike, limbs scattering in crimson arcs.
The Imperials faltered. Then, retreat.
Static.
“Do you read me?”
Shinku raised his radio to his lips. “Loud and irritatingly clear. What’s going on?”
“Leave the rest to us.”
“I thought I was handling this alone.”
A mocking laugh. “Aww, didn’t miss me, Shinku? Whatever. Change of plan—you got carried away. Einn wants you out of there. We’ll proceed with the mopping-up operation. Proceed to your next assignment.”
The line died. Shinku exhaled sharply. “…Erich.”
Iustitia approached with the surviving Alliance soldiers, confusion shadowing her face. “You… why…?”
Shinku’s gaze met hers, calm and unyielding. “Freelance armed humanitarian agency. We support the Therianthrope Resistance. I was ordered to relay intel to the United Alliance.”
Her violet eyes narrowed. A mercenary agency by another name. Gratitude and suspicion warred within her. Still, she asked:
“How do we know we can trust you?”
He heaved a sigh, already weary of the question. Trust was a luxury war didn’t allow, and he had no interest in earning it. Before he could reply, a soldier choked on his own breath.
“That hair… those eyes…” The man’s orange-streaked hair clung to his sweat-slick forehead, his voice trembling. “You… you’re—”
Shinku looked at the soldier who muttered those words. His eyes landed on a soldier—Blair, cold sweat rolling down his face, his blue eyes wide and red.
“That makes this easier.” He turned back to Iustitia. “We have the same enemy. That’s all you need to know. I am Shinku, the Crimson Devil.”
Soldiers’ eyes widened as his words sunk in, their faces grew pale. It was obvious from his appearance that he fights for no country, he has no side, and yet that nickname invoked dread within them—Iustitia in particular.
“You’re the one who’s been tearing holes in the Empire’s lines…” she whispered. “Why aid us? What purpose drives you?”
Reinforcements arrived before he could answer. Medics rushed forward, voices sharp and urgent:
“Fresh fleets have landed! Pull out!”
Alliance soldiers began their retreat. Iustitia lingered, caught between caution and reluctant trust. Shinku broke the silence first, his words cold and direct:
“I intend to bring news to the king—an important one.”
Her eyes searched his, then she nodded. At the very least, he was no ally of the Empire.
“I’ll help you. But we need to leave. Libérédóry has fallen.”
“Lead the way.”
Location: « United Kingdom of Téssera Éthni »
Date: « 2001 – June 05 – 11:50 p.m. »
The United Kingdom of Téssera Éthni, a despotic monarchy, looms in Plathéa’s frigid north, severed from Libérédóry by a narrow, storm-tossed sea channel. Though only thirty-three kilometers apart. The passage across the turbulent waters was fraught with peril. Natural barriers—waves, jagged rocks, and sudden squalls—turned even a brief journey into a grueling ordeal.
The battered soldiers of the Alliance, plucked from Libérédóry’s burning coast, endured the passage in silence. For nearly a day they sat crammed into heaving ships, fatigue and grief weighing heavier than the salt air.
By noon they made landfall. The wounded were carried to triage. The weary accepted rations with blank stares, but the tension clung to them like a plague, the memory of defeat still raw.
Iustitia, however, found no rest. Shinku’s request could not wait.
“I’ve made contact with his superior. Clearance is granted. You are to escort him to the King.”
She stood inside a glass-walled telephone booth, the city’s pulse muted by its panes. Outside, cars rattled along cobblestone streets, coaches creaked past, and rainwater from last night still clung to the gutters. She tilted her head, listening, sifting carefully through every word.
“What’s known about their group?” Her tone was even, but curiosity edged through the cracks.
“Little, if anything. They don’t even have a name. For convenience, we call them FAHA.” The officer scoffed, then added bitterly, “What we do know is they’re tied to the Therianthrope Resistance. Heh. That Emperor really is a piece of shit.”
Her lips pressed thin. She agreed but couldn’t bring herself to laugh. “Can we trust this agency?”
“We have the same enemy. And besides, I do want to trust them. They’ve got just as much to lose if the Empire wins.”
A quiet sigh slipped from her. Her gaze drifted to the passing street—boots, wheels, and hurried voices blurring together beyond the glass. “…Understood, Colonel. I’ll escort him.”
She set the receiver down and stepped back into the damp air. The wind grazed her cheek, carrying the sea’s faint bite through the stone alleys.
At the coach, she pulled the door open. Inside, Shinku sat in silence, crimson eyes fixed on the shifting crowd beyond the window. His posture was straight, his presence heavy—like a shadow among the living.
“We leave for the capital—Ludinium,” she said, sliding into the seat opposite him.
His gaze didn’t shift, still adrift somewhere beyond the glass. “…Sorry for the trouble.”
Iustitia blinked. The apology itself surprised her less than the way it sounded—hollow, detached, the voice of a man reciting from a memory rather than speaking from the heart.
“It’s no trouble,” she murmured, softening as the silence stretched. Her thoughts wandered briefly to her scattered comrades. “I got separated from the rest of my unit, but… I trust they’re safe. Somehow.”
The coach jolted forward, wheels clattering over cobblestones. Shinku’s eyes lingered on the city outside, where war’s shadow had yet to fall.
Ancient façades, carved and towering, stood shoulder to shoulder with sleek glass spires. Terraced houses with iron-framed windows clung stubbornly to modern streets, while cobblestone veins still wound through alleyways in quiet defiance. It was a fragile truce between eras, preservation and progress holding hands.
Below, the crowd bustled—humans, demis, the stocky stride of dwarves, even the rare silhouette of an elf moving among them. The “United” in the kingdom’s name was not merely politics; it breathed in its people, where races mingled as if the word itself were flesh.
So different from that Empire…
“Like what you see?” Iustitia asked, a faint, almost teasing smile at her lips.
“Mhm. I do.”
There was something haunting about the way he spoke—brief, laconic, yet never truly present. As if his body was there, but his mind lingered somewhere else, perhaps back on the battlefield or lost in a faded memory.
Silence pressed between them again, thick as the clouds bruising the distant horizon. Iustitia shifted, restless, unwilling to let the air grow colder. He had saved her life, yet his detachment made him an enigma, someone impossible to read—more statue than man. Still, the ride to Ludinium was long, and silence would only stretch the miles.
She cleared her throat, fumbling for a thread. “How are you holding up? The crossing was nearly a day. Hungry at all?”
Shinku’s gaze stayed on the passing street. “I’m fine. Don’t worry. The channel was restless, but it can’t be helped. Sea serpents grow bolder with summer’s heat.” His crimson eyes flicked briefly to hers. “Can’t be too complacent.”
The world beyond borders still seethed with creatures birthed of old magic and nature’s cruelty—beasts of sky, sea, and stone that hunted with intent, not instinct. They weren’t hurdles technology could tame, but predators that carved nations into isolation. Only in recent years had Libérédóry’s fragile progress opened channels between peoples.
Silence returned, jagged this time. Iustitia squirmed, searching for purchase in the gulf. “Uh… erm… Mister…?” she faltered, brow furrowing. What do I call him?
“Shinku.”
Her smile twitched, clumsy. “Right, Sir Shinku—anything you’d like to know about me?”
The question dangled, unanswered, swallowed by the void. Iustitia cringed internally, feeling her words had hit some invisible wall.
Did I ask the wrong thing? Was I being too friendly?
Her thoughts raced, and she suppressed the urge to groan aloud at her perceived mistake.
Shinku’s gaze slid instead to the insignia on her uniform: two bars beneath a purple flag, green lines crossing over it, a unicorn’s head crowned at the center. “You’re a sergeant, aren’t you?”
She blinked. “Oh—yeah. How’d you guess?”
“That orange-haired corporal on the fleet called you by rank.” His finger shifted toward the patch. “And… that.”
“Corporal Marty Blair,” she said softly, brushing her chevron with a faint smile. “Second-in-command of my platoon.”
Shinku’s crimson eyes lingered on her face. She looked no older than nineteen. His gaze drifted back to the street. “How long have you been in the army?”
Her breath caught. She knew exactly what he was circling toward. Regaining her composure, she answered evenly:
“I was fourteen when Fehlerfreilant was in the midst of rearming its forces. That’s when I enlisted.”
A sigh escaped him, quiet but weighted, as if something in place had been confirmed. Crossing his legs, he spoke low. “After Ragnarök, veterans in Téssera Éthni thinned out. Twenty-two years since the first world-scale war, and the army still bleeds for that loss.”
Iustitia’s smile withered. She lowered her gaze and nodded. “Pretty much.”
It had been a common sight—young soldiers, barely adults, being thrust into the front lines. The shortage of veterans in both Libérédóry and Téssera Éthni had resulted in armies of fledglings, too inexperienced but were allowed to enlist to make up for the loss of the past.
“You were fourteen,” Shinku pressed, eyes narrowing on her. “Saving your country shouldn’t have been your burden. Why did you enlist?”
Her head snapped up. “Why…?”
“Why choose to fight at that age? This is war. Aren’t you afraid of losing your life?”
A bitter smile crept onto Iustitia’s face. Such a stupid question.
To someone like him, it probably seemed like the system was forcing children into battle, exploiting the children’s loyalty and naivety, cloaking its cynicism in the mantle of patriotism.
But he missed something, because he deliberately gazed into the darkness—and forgot to look where the flame was.
Her smile steadied, her voice firm. “I was a child at the time… I am not obligated to lay down my life for my country… But if I didn’t, all that’s left to me would be swallowed by the flames of war.” She raised her head high, proud and obstinate, a look befitting someone her age. “For that, I fight. That’s all.”
Ahh…
From those bittersweet words, he realized something. Iustitia wasn’t bound by obligation or fear, nor was she a pawn of a heartless system. Her strength wasn’t forged in the fire of obligation, nor was it a product of fear or coercion. Instead, it sprang from a deep, abiding sense of purpose—a desperate need to safeguard her roots. In her eyes, that purpose—however small it may seem to others—was worth laying down her life for.
So it was with most of the young. They weren’t forced to fight, but were forced to only have that as an option. If the children won’t fight, all will be lost.
“I see.” His voice stayed flat, but there was a faint warmth in its echo. “I assumed wrong. Almost pitied you. But you… you’re strong.”
Iustitia’s cheeks flushed pink, a smile spreading across her face as she felt an unexpected warmth fill her chest. For a moment, the horrors of war faded into the background, and she felt certain: her fight was just.
“Thanks…” she murmured, softer than intended. Clinging to the thread, she ventured, “What about you? That organization you work for… it’s dangerous. And now you’re here, dragging yourself into the war. Why? Do you want to protect something too?”
“…”
Shinku stilled. His gaze slipped to the window, fixing on nothing, hollowing out as though he were staring into a void only he could see. “There’s nothing for me to protect… Not here.”
The words chilled her marrow. Vague, yet empty—like a deep wound left unhealed. She longed to press further, but the weight in his voice told her not to. His stare never left the passing streets, expression carved from stone, yet carrying something brittle beneath.
There was nothing for him to protect here. He had nothing to begin with. And if there once was, it had long slipped into oblivion. His involvement in this war wasn’t to shield the precious, but to pursue something absent—something to fill the hollow, something that might grant him courage enough to walk the knife-edge between life and death. It was a truth he never shared, a truth entombed in a heart sealed shut.
Iustitia’s eyes lingered, catching the faint fracture in his mask. Blank, yet fragile. She realized she had brushed against something she was never meant to touch.
The warmth of others harms him…
She thought, staring at his distant gaze.
She let the silence swell, unbroken, while the coach rattled steadily toward the capital.