A SHIRU FROM THE NU
CHAPTER 2- SECTION 1: THE CHASE
Two days had passed since the final screams echoed from the ruins
of Grasia.
Within the imposing, dark-stone fortress that served as the heart
of the FimmDrekk Kingdom, five thousand kilometers from the smoldering remains
of his conquest, King Arthur von Orsted surveyed his court.
The forty-fifth king of his line, the twelfth to bear the Orsted
name, sat upon a throne carved from the bones of some ancient beast, radiating
an aura of cold, absolute authority.
Beside him, silent and still as a statue, sat Queen Rebecca von
Vive, his first queen. Her face was an impassive mask – a beautiful ornament in
a court where only the King's voice truly mattered.
The vast hall was crowded.
Ten royal advisors stood near the throne, faces impassive.
Thirty counselors occupied tiered seating along one wall, whispering amongst
themselves.
Fifty Commanding Generals stood at attention on the main floor, their armor
gleaming dully in the torchlight – veterans of the swift, brutal campaign that
had just concluded.
Victory celebrations had been brief.
Orsted was not a man for revelry, only results.
"The Grasian campaign was... adequate," Orsted
began, his voice cutting through the low hum.
"Their king and his heir provide suitable decoration for their
castle gates."
A few sycophantic chuckles echoed briefly.
"A swift conclusion."
His gaze scanned the generals.
"There was talk of Grasia possessing a formidable strategist,
however. The young prince... Kaito, was it?"
He directed the question towards the assembly.
"So the Genius Tactician of the Grasia really died?"
A burly general with a grizzled beard stepped forward slightly.
"He should be dead, my King," the general replied
confidently.
"The time of battle he was already poisoned by the vials of our
Dark mages. Also, witnesses stated that the 8th prince had been brutally
murdered by our armies during the castle siege."
"His body was likely lost among the countless Grasian
dead."
"Ah, poisoned and killed," Orsted mused, a cruel
amusement touching his lips.
He leaned back, steepling his fingers.
"Poor man."
He let out a short, wicked laugh that held no humor, only derision.
"If you only became my son, boy, you might have lived peaceful and
longer."
He dismissed the thought of the dead prince with a wave.
"No matter. He is dealt with."
His focus sharpened again, settling on another commander.
"General Hartor von Estoc."
Hartor, commander of the formidable 18th Battalion, stepped forward, knelt
smoothly, helmet held firmly under his arm.
"Your Majesty."
"There is another loose end from Grasia," Orsted
stated, his voice lowering slightly, taking on a possessive edge.
"The First Queen. Elena von Einhala."
He paused, letting the name hang in the air.
Whispers rustled through the counselors – tales of the Queen's renowned
beauty were widespread, even here.
"Reports indicate she slipped away during the final hours. An
oversight that must be corrected."
Orsted leaned forward again, his eyes gleaming with something other than
strategic interest.
"She is not merely a symbol, General. She is... valuable."
"A Level 7 Mage, beautiful, and now, conveniently
widowed."
His gaze flickered towards Queen Rebecca, who remained utterly still,
betraying nothing.
"I want her found."
"Take your 18th Battalion – your thousand men, Level 5 warriors
and mages."
"My battalion is prepared, Your Majesty," Hartor
affirmed.
"Seven hundred warriors, three hundred mages."
"Sweep the Einhala Forest, starting from the Grasian
border," Orsted commanded.
"She is nobility, unused to hardship, likely weakened and on
foot."
"Find her. Bring her back alive and unharmed."
"I have... uses for such a
prize."
His smile was thin and sharp.
"Do not fail, Hartor. Failure is... costly."
As Hartor prepared to rise, Orsted turned his head slightly towards Queen
Rebecca, his tone shifting almost imperceptibly, becoming casual, almost
dismissive.
"How is she?"
Queen Rebecca met his gaze briefly, her voice quiet and devoid of
inflection.
"She was resting at her quarters for now, my king."
Orsted gave a curt nod, his attention already drifting away from the queen
and back to the departing general.
"It will be done, Your Majesty," Hartor declared
again, rising with purpose.
He bowed and turned, his heavy boots echoing as he strode from the hall to
begin the chase.
King Orsted watched him go, a satisfied expression settling on his face
before turning back to the mundane matters of consolidating his new conquest.
The hunt was on.
Dawn in the Einhala Forest was less a sunrise and more a slow
dilution of oppressive darkness.
The dense canopy overhead, thick with ancient trees dripping moisture onto
the mossy ground, allowed only weak, grey shafts of light to penetrate. The air
was cold, heavy with the scent of damp earth, decaying leaves, and the subtle,
wild musk of unseen creatures.
The silence was profound, broken only by the rustling of Kaito's movements
and Elena's own ragged breathing.
Four days.
Only four days since her world had ended in fire and blood and the ghastly
spectacle upon the castle doors.
Elena sat huddled on a moss-covered rock, the cold seeping into her bones,
yet she barely felt it.
Her mind was trapped in Grasia, replaying the final moments—Tristan's fall,
the mocking triumph in Orsted's eyes, the heads... her king, her son...
displayed for crows and traitors.
No... I cannot leave them.
The thought was a physical ache, a leaden weight in her gut.
Every instinct screamed at her to turn back, to face the impossible odds and
reclaim their bodies.
What was survival worth if it meant abandoning them to such desecration?
What queen simply fled, leaving her king and prince unburied, unmourned?
This flight felt wrong, a betrayal deeper than any enemy blade.
Going deeper into this suffocating forest, further from Grasia with every
step Kaito forced upon her, felt like erasing them, erasing herself.
Revenge... how can I seek revenge if I vanish?
Who would even remember Grasia if its Queen died nameless in this
wilderness?
The despair threatened to swallow her, but beneath it, a spark of defiance
flickered.
She wouldn't go.
She couldn't.
Meanwhile, Kaito worked, oblivious or indifferent to her turmoil.
His movements were fluid, economical, almost unnervingly silent against the
backdrop of the ancient woods.
The last shimmering remnants of the house he had conjured folded in on
themselves, collapsing into a silent vortex of light near his hand before
winking out of existence, stored away in the spatial bracelet he now wore.
Even as he secured their temporary shelter, his mind operated on multiple
levels.
One thread of his Parallel Thought registered Elena's rigid
posture, the tremors running through her—predictable grief, an obstacle to
manage.
Another, more critical thread, continuously processed data from his Navigation
skill, the mental map updating in real time, scanning outwards to its 10km
limit.
Suddenly, an anomaly registered—not from the pursuing forces near Grasia,
but far, far to the East, near the distant border regions abutting the
FimmDrekk Kingdom itself.
Strange patterns emerged in the ambient magicule flow, and
the corresponding wild beast movements indicated on his map.
Weaker creatures were scattering, fleeing away from that eastern border.
Simultaneously, stronger, more territorial magical beasts seemed agitated,
pushing towards it.
It wasn't random migration.
It felt coordinated, unnatural—like ripples spreading from a large
disturbance originating deep within or near FimmDrekk territory.
Kaito's eyes narrowed slightly, though his outward expression remained
impassive as the last mote of the house vanished into the bracelet.
"So they made their move..." he thought, the 'they'
now potentially encompassing more than just Hartor's battalion.
What was Orsted planning?
It didn't matter yet.
Engaging or investigating now was foolish.
"Now is not the time, morons."
A cold smirk flickered internally.
"Enjoy your hearts while they're still beating."
His priority remained escape and consolidation of power.
He turned towards Elena, who was now standing, her posture stiff with grief
and a nascent, desperate defiance he could read easily.
"We are moving now," he stated, his voice flat,
leaving no room for discussion.
Elena flinched as if struck.
"No!"
The word was a choked whisper, raw with pain.
"We can't... I must go back! For Tristan... for my son!"
Her voice trembled, tears threatening again, but this time laced with
desperation.
"You don't understand, I can't just leave them—"
He didn't wait for her to finish.
Logic dictated speed; her emotional plea was irrelevant data.
Moving with speed that defied her senses, he crossed the space between them.
One arm, strong as steel, clamped around her waist, yanking her off balance
and hard against his side.
The air rushed from her lungs in a startled gasp, her protest dying in her
throat.
And then the world dissolved into terrifying motion.
The ground simply vanished beneath her feet.
He didn't leap, didn't fly upwards—he launched them
forward, a hair's breadth above the gnarled roots and decaying logs of the
forest floor.
Ancient trees became terrifying blurs of green and brown rushing past them
at impossible speed.
Wind screamed in Elena's ears, tearing at her hair, plastering her cloak
against her body.
The sheer velocity was nauseating.
The constant, jarring shifts as Kaito weaved through the dense undergrowth
with inhuman precision threatened to rip a scream from her.
This wasn't magic as she knew it—not the elegant flight of court mages.
This was brutal.
Raw.
Controlled force.
Pulling her inexorably deeper into the wilderness, further from Grasia,
further from her duty, further from hope, with every heart-stopping second.
The small clearing in the Einhala Forest fell into an uneasy
quiet, the only lingering disturbance the faintest shimmer in the
air where unnatural speed had recently sliced through it.
Less than thirty minutes had passed since the Queen of Grasia
and her unknown companion had vanished into the dense undergrowth, leaving
behind an unnerving stillness. Damp moss dripped from ancient branches,
reclaiming the silence with slow, fat drops that splattered softly onto the
packed earth. The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of decay and the wet,
loamy perfume of the deep woods.
This fragile peace was shattered not gradually, but with the sudden,
disciplined intrusion of military might.
The rhythmic crunch of heavy, leather-soled boots crushing damp leaves and
snapping dry twigs echoed first, quickly followed by the metallic clink of
armor and weaponry, and the occasional guttural snort from powerful, armored
war-beasts.
Through the tangled screen of ferns and low-hanging boughs, dark figures
emerged, their movements sharp and practiced despite the hindering terrain.
Forty warriors, clad in the dark steel and leather of the FimmDrekk
Kingdom, fanned out with economical precision, securing the perimeter
of the clearing. Their eyes, hard and alert, scanned the surrounding trees,
hands resting on the hilts of swords or the grips of sturdy crossbows.
Behind them, ten mages glided forward, their robes blending with the forest
shadows. Their senses were already extended, probing the air for lingering
magical signatures, their faces masks of concentration.
At the heart of this detachment, astride a powerfully built, dark-furred
war-beast whose claws impatiently scored the earth, sat the man in command.
His face, etched with the harsh lines of campaigning, was dominated by a
relatively fresh injury—an angry, puckered burn scar that
stretched lividly across his left cheek from temple to jawline, a stark
reminder of recent conflict.
He radiated an aura of brutal competence and barely contained impatience.
This was the Captain, entrusted by the Major,
under orders from General Hartor himself, to lead this crucial
initial pursuit.
He swung down from his mount, landing with a solid thud, his own gaze
sweeping the clearing with sharp, assessing eyes. He knelt, running gloved
fingers over the disturbed moss near a large rock, then moved towards the
center where the faint outline of a small, temporary fire pit was barely
visible, the ashes within still radiating a hint of warmth against the cool
forest air.
One of the lead mages approached, bowing slightly.
"Captain. We found
traces of a temporary settlement, as the scouts indicated. Two individuals,
based on the residual mana signatures, though faint and rapidly dispersing. One
matches the target profile—high-level mana, likely the Queen. The other... is
indistinct, masked somehow."
The Captain grunted, rising to his full height. He glanced towards the mage
responsible for aerial reconnaissance, who had landed silently moments before.
"And from above?" he barked, his voice rough.
The aerial mage shook his head, his expression frustrated. "No
movement sighted within a five-kilometer radius, Captain. No heat signatures
suggesting recent passage through the canopy. No signs of human presence moving
away from this location. Whoever was here has already disappeared, and they
weren't flying high."
A heavy silence fell, broken only by the drip of moisture and the restless
shifting of the nearby war-beasts.
The Captain's gloved hand tightened into a fist, the leather creaking. His
burned cheek throbbed, a phantom echo of the battle where he'd earned the mark,
fueling a simmering resentment.
Queen Elena.
A Level 7 Mage—an anomaly in Tenria.
Powerful, yes, but still just a woman. A prize.
Even anomalies could be hunted.
Could be broken.
His lips curled slowly, almost imperceptibly, into a cruel smirk. He ran the
back of his gloved hand almost caressingly over the rough texture of his burned
cheek, his voice dropping into a low, possessive murmur meant only for himself,
laced with dark amusement.
"My queen, my queen… once I capture you, I can't promise
King Orsted he'll get his hands on you."
He exhaled slowly, savoring the rebellious thought, the sheer audacity of
it. The King wanted her unharmed, a valuable
asset for his own collection or political games.
But why should Orsted have all the spoils?
"Why bother? You'll be my bitch."
The smirk widened, hungry and vicious, lingering for a moment too long. A
low chuckle, thick with malice and twisted pleasure, rumbled in his chest
before he stifled it.
Around him, some of the nearby warriors exchanged uneasy glances but quickly
looked away. They knew the Captain's moods, and they knew better than to
comment.
This was how the world worked for the victors.
Straightening abruptly, the Captain's professional mask snapped back into
place, though the cruel glint remained in his eyes. He raised his hand,
gesturing decisively to his detachment leaders.
"Spread out," he commanded, his voice sharp and
clear once more. "Standard perimeter sweep, radius ten kilometers.
She was here, likely weakened and on foot with maybe a single servant. Check
every trail, every stream, every potential hiding spot. The mages will scan for
residual magicules, however faint. She can't have gotten far."
His confidence was absolute, bordering on arrogance.
The disciplined soldiers and mages acknowledged with sharp nods and low
murmurs, their formations shifting as they began to move outward from the
clearing, melting back into the dense Einhala Forest.
The hunt, relentless and methodical, had truly begun.
They were hunting a Queen, unaware they might also be
chasing a ghost reborn.
Four hours.
Four relentless hours had passed since Kaito had ripped Elena from the
relative stillness of their first makeshift camp and plunged them into this
terrifying, high-speed flight.
Deep within the suffocating embrace of the Einhala Forest, the world had
become a disorienting blur of motion. Above, the dense canopy formed a
near-solid roof, allowing only weak, grey light to filter down from the heavily
overcast sky. The air was thick, humid, and pregnant with the promise of rain
that refused to fall.
Kaito navigated their path with inhuman precision, his expression
unreadable, body held steady against the immense forces of their passage. They
weren't flying high above, but hurtling forward at a constant, breakneck pace
of one hundred and seventy kilometers per hour, suspended just meters above the
gnarled roots and decaying logs that littered the forest floor.
Thin, near-invisible threads of pure magicules spun from his fingertips,
anchoring momentarily onto massive tree trunks and thick, low-hanging branches
hundreds of meters ahead, then retracting violently as new threads shot out,
pulling them through the impossible gaps in the dense woodland. It was a
chaotic, controlled trajectory designed for speed and evasion, leaving minimal
disturbance in their wake.
His physical focus was entirely on the demanding task of maneuvering through
the treacherous environment, ensuring the nearly invisible threads held true,
adjusting their vector fractions of a second before they would have impacted
ancient oaks or thickets of shadow-thorn.
Yet, his mind operated on multiple levels. His primary consciousness
processed the visual data, the tension in the magicule threads, the slight
shifts in Elena's weight pressed against his back.
Simultaneously, his Navigation skill fed a constant stream of data into his
Parallel Thought—a detailed map updating in real-time, highlighting the energy
signatures of magical beasts lurking nearby, marking the faint, distant signals
of the pursuing FimmDrekk forces (still distant, but their general direction
noted), and identifying safer routes through areas less likely to harbor
immediate threats. He needed their passage to remain unseen, their destination
unknown. Every calculation was bent toward minimizing their trace.
He risked a glance upwards through a momentary gap in the canopy, his eyes
narrowing at the thick, uniform layer of grey clouds.
Damn it. His frustration was sharp, laced with cold annoyance.
Why don't you fall down when it's needed?
Rain. Heavy, drenching rain was what he desired. It would wash away the
lingering traces of their magicule expenditure, muddy any physical signs of
their passage, hinder the pursuers, both mundane and magical.
But the skies remained stubbornly sealed.
He pushed the frustration down; it was wasted energy. He refocused on the
path ahead, his golden-red eyes scanning the mental map for the optimal path
south-southeast.
Pressed hard against Kaito's back, held fast by the same unnerving threads
that pulled them through the forest, Elena felt trapped in a waking nightmare.
Wind screamed past her ears, whipping strands of her silver hair across her
face, stinging her eyes despite her attempts to shield them. The sheer velocity
was a physical blow, churning her stomach with nausea, making her head spin.
The constant, jarring shifts as Kaito weaved between obstacles threatened to
tear a scream from her throat, a scream that was perpetually choked back by
fear and the wind stealing her breath.
She couldn't see their path clearly; ancient trees, moss-covered rocks,
tangled vines—they all dissolved into terrifying streaks of green and brown
rushing towards them and vanishing in the blink of an eye.
No... I can't... Her mind screamed, a chaotic counterpoint to the
wind's howl.
Tristan... my son... I have to go back!
The urge was a physical ache, a desperate need to fight against the force
pulling her away, to turn back towards the ruins of Grasia, towards the
desecrated bodies of her king and prince.
Revenge. How could she seek revenge if she was lost in this endless
wilderness?
What Queen simply fled?
But even as the thoughts tore at her, stark terror held her captive. She
didn't dare move, didn't dare struggle against the magicule threads binding her
to Kaito.
Letting go, trying to force them down—at this speed, it meant instant,
brutal death against the unforgiving forest.
She squeezed her eyes shut, knuckles white where she gripped the threads,
caught between the impossible duty to return and the paralyzing fear of the
flight itself.
Every second pulled her deeper into the unknown, further from everything she
had ever known, trapped in the terrifying, masterful control of the prince
beside her.
The abrupt cessation of motion slammed into Elena like a physical blow,
leaving her reeling as the world snapped back into focus from a nauseating,
high-velocity blur.
Thirteen hours. Thirteen grueling hours since dawn, they
had hurtled through the dense, unforgiving Einhala Forest. Kaito landed them
with jarring smoothness near the quiet murmur of a hidden stream, the
near-invisible magicule threads holding Elena fast to him vanishing instantly.
Twilight was rapidly deepening, the weak, grey light filtering through the
impossibly thick canopy overhead already tinged with the purples and deep blues
of oncoming night. Long shadows stretched from the ancient trees, their gnarled
roots twisting like serpents across the forest floor. The air was cool, heavy
with the scent of damp earth, decaying leaves, and the subtle musk of unseen
nocturnal life beginning to stir.
Kaito's enhanced senses, supplemented by his Navigation skill's final sweep,
confirmed the immediate area was clear – suitable, for now.
This clearing, shielded by terrain and dense growth, is sufficient for
a night's rest. His mind concluded with cold pragmatism.
He released the magi-threads holding Elena, the sudden absence of their
binding support almost sending her crumpling to the ground. She swayed
violently, her breath coming in ragged, painful gasps.
Her usually immaculate silver-blue hair was plastered to her pale face with
sweat and moisture, her lapis lazuli blue eyes wide and unfocused with
dizziness and sheer exhaustion. Thirteen hours plastered against his
back, subjected to the relentless wind, the jarring maneuvers, the terrifying
speed – the ordeal had taken a brutal toll. Even for a mage with
considerable reserves, the sheer duration and intensity of the flight had been
utterly draining.
As Elena struggled to remain upright, leaning heavily against the rough bark
of a nearby ironwood tree, Kaito simply turned away. With a practiced flick of
his wrist, the spatial bracelet flared with contained light. A small vortex
shimmered into existence beside him, and from it emerged the smooth,
unnaturally perfect lines of the makeshift house, settling silently onto the
mossy ground. Its appearance, stark and alien amidst the ancient forest,
offered a bizarre promise of shelter.
"It's getting late," Kaito stated, his voice flat, devoid of
inflection or concern as he checked the faint shimmer of the house's defensive
barrier activating. "We rest here for the night."
Elena tried to push herself away from the tree, tried to find the composure
expected of a Queen, but her knees buckled. She slid down the trunk, ending up
slumped on the damp ground, still fighting to catch her breath. The world swam
before her eyes.
"Why...?" she managed, her voice thin, strained. "Why
did we... flee so deep? We're... we're too far... Grasia..."
Kaito didn't answer immediately. He ran a cursory check along the barrier's
edge, his focus seemingly anywhere but on her. The deliberate indifference was
like a physical blow after the shared ordeal.
Summoning a remnant of her strength, fueled by desperation, Elena pushed
herself up slightly.
"I need to return!" Her voice gained a fraction
more volume, cracking with unshed tears and rising panic. "To
Grasia! To retrieve their bodies! It is my duty!"
Kaito finally stopped his preparations. He turned slowly, his golden-red
eyes, usually sharp and analytical, now holding a chilling stillness as they
fixed on her. He remained silent for a beat, letting the weight of his stare
press down on her.
Elena met his gaze, fueled by grief and outrage. "You heard me!
We must go back!"
"For what reason?" Kaito's reply was clipped,
sharp as ice.
"Reason?!" Elena gasped, incredulous despite her
exhaustion. "My kingdom is destroyed! My... my duty lies there! Do
I truly need--"
"So," Kaito cut her off, his voice laced with a
cold, direct contempt, "you intend to embrace that fate after all?
Crawl back to the ruins? Offer yourself to Orsted like a common whore? A Queen
begging for scraps from the man who butchered her husband and son?"
He took a deliberate step closer, looking down at her slumped form.
"What did you..." Elena choked, the word whore
striking her with brutal force.
Kaito's expression remained impassive, almost bored, yet his words were
calculatedly vicious. "Consider the reality, Elena. If you return,
you might be fortunate if Orsted himself takes you first. But he has a kingdom
to run."
A cold, assessing glint entered his eyes. "More likely, your
renowned beauty will serve to entertain his generals. Hartor's, perhaps? Or
maybe passed down through the ranks? A fine plaything for the entire battalion
until they tire of you. They might call it 'spoils of war'."
Then, he added with chilling finality, "They'll simply tell
Orsted you died fighting them. A convenient end." He allowed a
ghost of a cold smirk to touch his lips.
He towered over her for a moment, letting the vile imagery sink in. "So,
make your choice. Go back now and offer yourself as a toy to the army that
slaughtered your people... or get inside that house and rest while you still
possess the strength to draw breath. I will hunt for our food."
He turned his back decisively. "Choose wisely... my 'QUEEN'."
Without waiting, without looking back, Kaito von Einheart strode
purposefully into the deepening shadows of the forest, leaving Elena
trembling, speechless, and utterly devastated in the desolate twilight outside
the alien walls of the magical house.
Hours bled into the oppressive gloom that passed for night in the Einhala
Forest. The seven moons cast conflicting, spectral
light through the thick canopy, painting the small clearing in shifting
patterns of eerie luminescence. The magical house Kaito had
erected stood as a silent, alien presence, its faint defensive barrier
shimmering almost imperceptibly.
Elena remained where Kaito had left her, slumped against
the rough bark of an ancient ironwood tree, just beyond the
barrier's edge. The cold seeped into her bones, a dull ache
mirroring the hollow devastation within. His words, cruel
and calculatedly vicious, echoed relentlessly in her mind,
stripping away the last vestiges of queenly pride, leaving
only raw, gnawing despair.
Return meant violation, degradation,
a fate worse than the clean death her husband and son had received.
Fleeing meant abandoning duty, honor,
and the only life she had ever known.
Both paths led to oblivion.
Yet, survival was a deeply ingrained instinct. Trembling, not
entirely from cold, she eventually forced herself to her feet.
The house beckoned – a refuge offered by the very monster
who had shattered her world anew. Swallowing the bile that rose in her
throat, she took a hesitant step, then another, pushing through the almost invisible
barrier which yielded only to her and Kaito.
The air inside was warmer, cleaner, unnaturally
still. She ignored the strange comforts – the bed, the peculiar light orbs
– and collapsed onto the hard-packed earthen floor,
pulling her cloak tighter, a shield against the structure's foreignness
as much as the lingering chill.
Time lost meaning until Kaito reappeared, melting out of
the deep shadows as silently as he had departed. He carried
the carcass of a large, deer-like forest beast
slung effortlessly over one shoulder. He spared Elena no glance as he entered
the barrier, dropping the carcass onto the mossy ground a few meters away from
the magical house.
Without a word, Kaito extended his hand toward the beast. His glowing
eyes, golden-red in the dim light, locked on his task. Instead of
drawing a physical knife, thin, razor-sharp lines of shimmering, dark
grey energy coalesced from his fingertips – magisteel,
solidified mana constructs harder and sharper than any forged
blade.
With brutally efficient, precise movements
guided by his Particle Manipulation, the magisteel tendrils
danced, slicing through hide, sinew, and bone. The beast was expertly
butchered in minutes, select cuts separated from the
rest.
He gestured again. Several sturdy branches from nearby deadwood flew toward
him, landing neatly at his feet. More magisteel flowed, shaping the
wood into thick, sharpened stakes suitable for roasting large chunks
of meat, lechon-style. Another gesture animated smaller twigs
and dry leaves, piling them into a neat stack ready for a fire.
Throughout the process, Elena watched from the doorway of the house, her lapis
lazuli eyes tracking his movements with a mixture of fear, exhaustion,
and a detached sort of morbid curiosity. This was not
the loyal prince she had known. This was something other —
efficient and terrifyingly powerful.
Kaito skewered thick portions of the meat onto the prepared stakes. He
established a campfire a short distance away, using a flicker
of mana to ignite the tinder. The flames quickly caught,
casting flickering orange light that fought against the moons'
spectral glow. He positioned the meat-laden stakes over the fire to roast slowly.
The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy, broken
only by the crackle of the flames and the distant, unsettling
calls of nocturnal creatures. Neither spoke. Kaito moved with the unnerving
focus of his reforged mind, tending the roasting meat with minimal,
precise actions. Elena remained huddled by the doorway, a ghost haunting
the edge of the firelight.
When the meat was cooked, Kaito pulled two stakes from the fire. He offered
no gesture toward Elena, simply placing one stake near the fire's edge before
taking the other and beginning to eat with mechanical efficiency,
his gaze distant.
After a long, tense moment, driven by gnawing hunger that
overrode even her despair, Elena forced herself to move. She
approached the fire cautiously, picked up the offered stake, and retreated
to the edge of the light again. She ate slowly, mechanically,
the rich, gamey flavor ash in her mouth. It was sustenance,
nothing more.
Once finished, Kaito's actions were swift. The leftover bones and
scraps from his meal vanished from his hand with a faint shimmer – Particle
Manipulation dissolving the matter into nothingness. He glanced pointedly
at the bones left near Elena.
Understanding the silent command, Elena gathered her own
scraps. She hesitated, then tossed them directly into the heart of the
campfire. The flames flared briefly as they consumed the
remnants, leaving only ash.
Kaito stood, turning back toward the magical house without a word
or backward glance, leaving Elena alone once more by the dying embers
of the fire.
The silence pressed in around her.
The uneasy, unspoken truce held — but the chasm
between them remained absolute.
The night was quiet.Too quiet.
The fire crackled steadily, its faint glow barely pushing back the
overwhelming darkness of the Einhala Forest. Elena sat nearby,
staring into the flames, her thoughts drifting like the embers rising into the
night.
Her body was exhausted, but sleep never came.
The weight of the past event—the weight of everything—crushed
against her chest.
Kaito moved beside her, his gaze distant as always.
Then, his voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"You are the so-called most powerful mage in Tenria, yet…"
Elena blinked.
She turned slightly, only to find him sitting nearby, his posture relaxed,
gaze fixed on the fire.
She hadn't even noticed him move closer.
Kaito flicked a small ember into the flames. His tone was flat, emotionless.
"Why do you think they aren't afraid of you?"
The words struck like a lash.
Elena's body stiffened.
For the first time, she felt something other than grief.
Humiliation.
She didn't answer. Couldn't.
Kaito continued, as if her silence meant nothing.
"Do you know why?"
Still, she said nothing.
His voice remained steady. Uncaring.
"Because you're a Queen."
Elena's jaw clenched.
Her fingers curled against her lap, but Kaito wasn't done.
"For fifteen years, you dedicated your life to the King. You
nurtured the Crowned Prince. You became the perfect ruler, the perfect mother,
the perfect wife."
His voice didn't change, but something inside her did.
"So… is that wrong?" she finally asked, her voice barely
above a whisper.
Kaito didn't even glance at her.
"For a peaceful era?" He tilted his head slightly. "Probably
not."
For a moment, she almost felt relief.
But then, he shattered it.
"But from the start, you knew we lived in an era of war."
Elena's breath caught.
"This world doesn't function on peace. We live in battles. We fight
for territory. Every kingdom, every ruler, every army—you know this better than
anyone."
Kaito leaned back slightly, resting an arm on his knee.
"Yet, as the most powerful mage in Tenria, you became complacent."
The fire flickered between them, casting long shadows over her face.
"You thought no one could bring down your kingdom."
His gaze finally met hers.
"Am I wrong?"
The night swallowed the silence between them.
Elena let out a slow, shaky breath.
For the first time since their journey began, she wasn't thinking about the
past.
She was thinking about the present.
Kaito had been leading, his every decision precise,
his actions effortless. He seemed untouchable—unshaken
by anything.
He was powerful now, stronger than any mage she had ever
seen.
But she never asked why.
And now, that question clawed at the edges of her mind.
She turned to him, eyes searching.
"What's the difference between our magic?"
Kaito didn't look at her.
"I—I'm a fire mage," she continued, almost unsure of
herself. "You're a… creation magic user. Probably."
Her voice lacked certainty, and she hated it.
Kaito exhaled slowly, his eyes reflecting the glow of the fire.
"I'm a healer, right?" His voice was calm, but there was a sharpness
beneath it. "I also held a position in that bullshit Nof religion."
Elena flinched at the bluntness of his words.
She knew what he meant. The Church of Nof—the so-called
divine institution that claimed to bless the world's greatest healers—had
recognized Kaito. Had praised him.
And yet, here he was, mocking them.
"Nof Sect?" Kaito's tone darkened, his voice a low growl. "Where
were they when the FimmDrekk attacked?"
Elena looked up, startled.
For a brief moment, his eyes turned menacing, flickering
with something cold. Something dangerous.
Then, just as quickly, the expression vanished.
Like it had never been there.
"Those leeches…" he muttered, voice almost too low to hear.
The fire crackled, filling the space between them.
Elena swallowed hard, unsure if she should press further.
Kaito shifted slightly, his smirk returning—but there was something hollow
about it.
"You know the difference?" His voice was lighter now, but
Elena felt the weight behind it.
He finally looked at her.
"You're a woman. I'm a man."
Elena froze.
She had expected something complex—some deep, hidden explanation about the
nature of their magic.
But this?
Her lips parted slightly, words caught in her throat.
Kaito turned back to the fire, his smirk widening slightly.
"That's all there is to it."
The night pressed down around them, and for the first time since they had
started this journey—
Elena truly felt small.
Her breath quickened, rage pushing past her grief.
"How dare you…"
Her voice trembled—not with weakness, but fury.
Kaito didn't flinch. His smirk remained, sharp as ever.
"How dare me?"
His tone was mocking. He leaned slightly forward, the fire
casting eerie shadows over his face.
Elena gritted her teeth.
"After I risked my life for you—"
"Did I ask you to do it?"
The smirk disappeared.
Kaito's voice was still low, but something inside it cracked like
thunder.
"Am I more important than the Crowned Prince?"
The fire flickered violently, as if responding to his
words.
Elena felt her stomach drop.
Kaito's expression remained calm, but his eyes—his eyes burned.
"That's your son, I'm reminding you, MY QUEEN."
The weight of his words crashed over her.
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
For the first time, she truly didn't know what to say.
Soft sobs filled the silence.
"I tried… I tried… I tried…"
The words were fragile.
Barely above a whisper.
Elena's body trembled as she wrapped her arms around her knees, curling into
herself.
"I tried… I tried… I tried…"
Her breath hitched.
The warmth of the fire barely reached her.
Coldness pressed against her skin—but it was nothing compared to the emptiness
inside.
Her arms tightened around herself, as if trying to hold in everything that
was already breaking apart.
Then—her hands uncurled.
Her fingers clenched into weak fists before she slammed them against her
legs.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
"I tried… I tried… I tried…"
Her body flinched at the impact, but it wasn't enough.
It didn't hurt enough.
It didn't drown out the memories.
The screams.
The blood.
The sound of her son's voice, calling out one final time.
"We were surrounded… but I tried…"
Her head remained bowed.
But her hands moved to her chest—pounding harder.
A sharp sting.
The crack of bone against the metal of the necklace she still wore.
Then—
A tear.
A split in the skin.
The slow, warm trickle of blood began to seep through her dress.
"I was too late… still, I tried…"
She gasped—but didn't stop.
Her fists kept striking her chest.
Harder.
Faster.
Blood coated her fingers, warm and slick.
It dripped down her trembling arms, staining the folds of her tattered dress.
Her shoulders shook violently.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the blood pooling in her lap.
"My son… I tried… I tried… I tried…"
Her body swayed.
The fire flickered.
Her vision blurred.
She pulled her fist back one last time—
A final, desperate blow—
But it never landed.
A hand caught her wrist.
Firm.
Unyielding.
Warm.
Kaito.
His grip held tight, unmoving, locking her broken fist in place.
Before she could resist, his other arm wrapped around her, pulling her into
him.
An embrace—not gentle.
But grounding.
Solid.
Elena's body tensed.
Her mind was spiraling.
She couldn't stop.
She couldn't think.
Her fists pounded weakly against Kaito's chest, smearing blood across his
clothing.
"You don't know what happened… I tried…"
There was no anger in her voice.
No blame.
Only guilt.
Only regret.
She didn't hate him.
She hated herself.
Her blows weakened.
Her body slumped forward.
Her strength unraveling.
The world around her dimmed.
Her fists fell limp.
Her shoulders sagged.
Her head dropped.
Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps.
And as her consciousness slipped away, her lips still moved.
A whisper—so soft it barely touched the air.
"I tried…"
Then—
Silence.
Kaito looked down at the sobbing woman in his arms.
Her body trembled—
Weak.
Completely drained.
Her blood-stained hands had gone limp.
Her lips still moved, even in unconsciousness, whispering words only she
could hear.
"I tried…"
A bitter smile tugged at the corner of Kaito's mouth.
"You're so lucky, brother."
The words never escaped his lips—
Only echoed in the silence of his mind.
With practiced ease, he shifted his grip, wrapping his arms more securely
around her.
She was light.
Too light.
Not because of her physical frame—
But because the proud Queen Elena no longer existed.
What remained in his arms was just a broken woman.
Step by careful step, he carried her into the house—
Its smooth, featureless walls standing cold against the wild, breathing forest
outside.
Inside, he lowered her gently onto the bed.
His movements were precise.
Almost mechanical.
His eyes swept over her injuries—messy, desperate, self-inflicted.
He sighed softly.
Magi-threads shimmered into existence between his fingers.
Thin. Controlled. Razor-sharp strands of condensed mana.
With a flick of his wrist, they moved—
Dancing across her skin, stitching flesh with surgical grace.
He followed with particle manipulation, the glow of advanced spellcraft
knitting her tissues from the inside out.
Then came the anti-matter threads.
Blood vanished.
From her arms.
From her clothes.
From the bed.
Not a single trace remained.
And still…
Elena wept.
Even as the wounds closed.
Even as her breathing steadied.
The sobs continued.
Not loud.
Not desperate.
Just broken.
Soft echoes of grief, buried in dreams that offered no escape.
Kaito said nothing.
He stood beside her, watching in silence.
For the first time, she looked…
Innocent.
Small.
Human.
Another bitter smile ghosted across his lips as he stepped back, his
expression unreadable.
He exhaled slowly and ran a hand through his dark hair.
"Father… forgive me."
His voice was low. Almost inaudible.
"I still need to follow my plan."
The moment lingered.
Then—
His gaze shifted.
The softness drained from his features.
His jaw clenched.
His eyes sharpened into slits of gold and red—
Cold. Precise. Brutal.
His attention was no longer on Elena.
It was beyond the house.
Past the walls.
Into the shadows of the forest.
Far beyond.
His voice dropped. The words a whisper made of steel.
"Bitch… death is mercy for you."
His eyes burned.
With hatred.
With resolve.
With the promise of vengeance.
Outside, the night held its breath.
Silent.
Waiting.