One year later.
The outskirts of Fallcry were once again swallowed by chaos. Smoke rose between crumbling walls and shattered homes, a cruel reminder that the war never truly left—it only shifted from street to street, ruin to ruin.
Sword noise echoed through the ruins as two armed factions clashed in the desolate skeleton of what used to be a suburb. Boots thundered across broken pavement, shouts rang out in defiance and desperation, and metal screamed as blades clashed in narrow alleys.
The battle was evenly matched. Neither side gained ground nor faltered.
Until she arrived.
From between the rubble emerged a small figure—no more than eleven years old in appearance—walking with slow, deliberate steps. A long black cloak hung from her shoulders, brushing the ground. A porcelain-white mask concealed her face, save for two burning red eyes that glared out like twin embers.
In her hands, she held a sword far too large for her size. Nearly as long as her body, the blade shimmered faintly under the pale sun. Yet she lifted it effortlessly.
A pause rippled through the battlefield as both sides noticed the child who had wandered into their midst. Confusion flickered, then fear.
And then—movement.
Like a gust of wind, she surged forward.
No warning. No words.
Just a blur of motion as she danced between soldiers, her cloak fluttering behind her like the wings of a vengeful spirit. The sword cleaved with brutal precision, spinning arcs of blood across concrete. In mere moments, a dozen men fell—some cut down before they could even raise their weapons, others crumpling from wounds they didn't have time to register.
Screams filled the air.
The tide of battle broke.
"She's here!" someone shouted in terror. "The Crimson Wind!"
They fled.
Those who remained didn't last long.
When the dust settled, the girl stood alone amidst fallen bodies and silent ruins. Her breathing was steady. Her eyes—still hidden behind that emotionless mask—glowed dimly.
She was Shina Mariposa, and though history had yet to name her, this was one of the first days the world began to whisper her legend.
The Hero of Fallcry.
But that title... that recognition… was still years away.
---
Months later.
The war had moved northward for a time. In its wake, the forest near Fallcry had begun to heal—greenery returning to soil once burned. In a quiet glade surrounded by tall pines, a lone man sat on an old wooden chair, weathered and half-swallowed by moss. Mesh.
He was older now. War always took its toll. His hands rested on his knees as he watched a campfire flicker between them.
Across from him, Shina stood with her mask removed, her long black hair swaying in the gentle wind. Her red eyes had dimmed into something quieter, more human—though still guarded.
"Mesh," she said softly, "I want to ask something of you."
He looked up slowly, his expression unreadable.
"I want to see them. Just once," she said. "My mother. My uncle. Just once—nothing more."
Mesh didn't respond at first. He leaned back and closed his eyes, as if hoping the question would vanish with the wind. But it lingered.
Then he answered—not with kindness, but with cold finality.
"No."
Shina's eyes widened. "Why?"
"Because if you return to that village," he said, standing now, voice like steel, "You'll never coming back. And if you're Running away from me, they're dead."
He took a step toward her.
"Don't forget—I could erase that village with a single phone call. Do you understand?"
Shina's breath caught. Her fists clenched.
A shadow passed over her eyes. Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the air like ice.
"…Please don't touch my village."
Mesh watched her carefully, then turned away, adjusting his coat.
"Then stay focused. Keep fighting. This world doesn't give mercy—Your hand is dirty already."
Shina stood in silence as he walked away.
And though the forest around her remained peaceful, her heart had grown heavier.
She didn't cry.
She just stared into the fire long after Mesh had gone, as if searching for something in the flames that the war had already taken from her.
{Chapter 46 end}