In the kingdom of Igrein, where swords and grace decide everything, commoners are trampled by nobles, and the law refuses to protect them. Allen, once a servant in the royal castle, knew Princess Juliana's hidden affection but retreated because of their difference in status. One night, he finally brought shame upon her and vanished from the castle. Carrying that sin and humiliation, Allen reincarnates and now stands on the battlefield as a young soldier of the Liberation Front.
Meanwhile, Julia
Until I Call You My Enemy - On the night of the ash walls, the royal authority burns down.
The wound on his chest still ached.
Allen Weiss stood atop the watchtower, staring fixedly toward the northeast. The wound he had carved with his own nails. He hadn't even bandaged it, leaving it as it was. The sensation of blood seeping through and clinging to his undershirt was raw and vivid with every breath.
(This is fine.)
Pain, he believed, dulled the pain of the heart just a little.
The night wind blew, and the Hazel Forest rustled. Elda's Fang—the abandoned fortress that served as the headquarters of the Liberation Front Revan—lay sunken in the darkness of night. An old fort built on a cliff. A remnant of border defense from two hundred years ago, abandoned and then repurposed eighteen years ago by the first leader, Revan Holt. A stronghold nearly impossible to assault from the front. But it could not protect the hearts of those who holed up within it.
Allen gazed into the distance.
Toward the royal capital, Vernica. The bonfires of Caled's white castle, rising atop the hill, glimmered faintly in the darkness. In that white castle, she was there.
(Yuliana.)
Even calling her name felt like a betrayal of himself. The enemy queen. The one the Liberation Front must bring down. A presence who shared the sins of a past life—someone he must never touch.
And yet.
The wound on his chest throbbed sharply.
That night, the white envelope that had arrived from her. Inside were white flowers that bloomed only within the royal castle, and the secret words from their childhood: "See you tomorrow." He had tried to write a reply, but couldn't. Every word he attempted stabbed into him, and he tore the paper to shreds as if vomiting blood.
What he ultimately chose was nothing more than seeds of wildflowers.
He attached no words at all.
(That was my answer.)
(I'll die on the battlefield. And then, everything ends.)
He exhaled deeply.
That was when it happened.
"Allen, so this is where you were."
A voice came from behind. He turned to see a young, freckled face with unruly red hair tied back carelessly with a cord. Milos Grant was climbing the ladder to the watchtower. The scar on his left cheek stood out white in the moonlight.
"……What is it?"
"The council's been convened. They're calling for volunteers for a supply smuggling operation into the Graywall District."
Allen looked at Milos in silence.
The Graywall District. A commoner slum sprawling outside the walls of Vernica. Population roughly eight thousand. Rebuilt after the Purge Edict, but still mired in wretched conditions. It also served as a hub for the Liberation Front's intelligence network, with the tavern "Broken Wheel" used as a meeting place.
"It's a dangerous mission. Right under the Royal Army's nose. But we've got to get medicine and food to the people of Graywall. At this rate, some of them won't survive the winter."
"……I'll go."
Allen answered instantly.
"Huh? You just got back from the prisoner camp. Your wounds haven't even healed yet."
"Doesn't matter."
"'Doesn't matter,' you say……"
Milos started to speak, then closed his mouth. Because he saw Allen's eyes. Deep gray irises. A color that returned no warmth even when struck by light—settled, sediment-like. Those eyes were darker than usual now, heavier, suppressing something.
"……Fine. But I'm coming too."
"No. Don't come."
"Why not?!"
"I move better alone."
With just that, Allen placed his hand on the edge of the watchtower and prepared to descend.
(That's not the real reason.)
A different voice echoed in his heart.
(I just want a place where I can die alone.)
(I don't want to drag anyone into this.)
(Not Milos, not Sara, not anyone.)
He set his foot on the ladder.
"Allen, wait."
A voice came from below the ladder. A woman with rich brown hair braided over her shoulder and gathered at her collar. Sara Barton was looking up from beneath the watchtower. Her pale brown eyes glistened with worry even in the darkness. A wooden fragment tied to the cord of her first-aid bag swayed in the wind. Her "star-gathering"—carved with the names of the war dead.
"If you're going to volunteer, at least let me treat your wounds. The one on your chest is still open, isn't it?"
Allen hesitated for a moment.
"……I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You always say that when it comes to yourself."
She climbed the ladder and reached toward Allen's chest. As if confirming the location of the wound through his clothes. Her fingertips trembled faintly.
"……It's feverish. If you leave it, it'll fester."
"I'm all right."
"Allen, please. Let me treat it."
Her voice wavered, small and fragile.
Allen closed his eyes.
(This warmth hurts.)
(I have no right to receive this warmth.)
The sins of a past life. The memories of that night. The night he placed wildflowers in the young princess's hand in the corridor of the white castle. The irreparable mistake that followed. What he had done. What he had broken.
(And yet, why—)
(Why, so much—)
He slowly opened his eyes.
"……Please."
A short word.
Sara smiled faintly.
"Yes. Leave it to me."
The operation was set to be carried out that very night.
Smuggling supplies into the Graywall District. The route went north along the outer edge of the Hazel Forest, through the hilly terrain southwest of Vernica, and slipped into the slums outside the city walls. Approximately two days on foot. A dangerous journey.
Before departing, Allen climbed the watchtower one more time.
(This might be the last time.)
He thought that.
(That's fine.)
He looked toward the white castle. The bonfires were still burning.
(Yuliana. I sent my reply to your letter.)
(Just flower seeds. No words at all.)
(That was everything I had.)
He turned on his heel and descended the ladder.
It was the night of the second day since departure when the Graywall District drew near.
Allen had left the main road and was advancing cautiously through a slope thick with shrubs. On his back was a burlap sack. Inside were dried meat, medicinal herbs, and a secret letter to be delivered to the Graywall contact.
The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the surroundings were dark.
(Almost there.)
He stopped and strained his ears.
That was when it happened.
From far away, he heard it.
The sound of metal scraping. The sound of horses' hooves. And not just one or two—dozens upon dozens of heavy footfalls.
Allen dropped to the ground.
(The Royal Army……?)
He carefully raised his head and looked in the direction of the sound.
—He saw them.
Under the moonlight, a column of soldiers in black uniforms was advancing toward the Graywall District. Cavalry, infantry, and those carrying torches. Their numbers easily exceeded a hundred.
(Why, on a night like this—)
(What is happening—)
Deep in Allen's chest, old memories throbbed.
When he was young. When he was still a servant at the white castle. That night too, soldiers had moved like this.
The Purge Edict.
Approximately eighteen years ago, the king of that time—Yuliana's father—had issued it under the pretext of an attempted uprising in the commoner quarter. Around fourteen hundred residents of Vernica's Graywall District were killed or exiled. That night, soldiers set fire to homes, chased down those who fled, and cut them down.
(Brother……)
In Allen's memory, flames flickered.
A house burning down. His brother collapsing. The smell of blood. The smell of charred flesh.
(Is that happening again—)
He bit his lip. The taste of blood filled his mouth.
(Never again. I won't let that happen—)
(Never again. I won't let it repeat—)
Allen hid the burlap sack in the brush and took up his gray-iron sword. The standard armament of the Liberation Front. A sword forged from smuggled Torridge iron, inferior in quality to the regular army's steel blades. But better than nothing.
He broke into a run.
Toward the Graywall District.
The Graywall District was already hell.
Houses were going up in flames, screams echoing through the air. Residents fleeing in panic. Soldiers pursuing them. Torchlight illuminated the slum alleys in red.
Allen charged in from the edge of the district.
"Run! This way!"
He shouted as he swung his sword. One of the soldiers chasing residents came at him from the side. Allen twisted to evade and slashed across the man's torso. Blood sprayed onto his face. Lukewarm.
(This is the battlefield.)
(This is how they do things.)
He ran. Weaving between burning houses, guiding those who had failed to escape.
"H-help! My child is still inside!"
A woman was screaming and crying in front of a blazing house. Allen dove inside without hesitation. Smoke burned his eyes and throat. He couldn't see.
(Where—)
(Where are you—)
He heard it. A faint crying sound.
Allen crawled toward the sound. A beam collapsed, and sparks rained down. Hot. He couldn't breathe.
—There.
In the corner of the room, a small child was huddled.
"Grab on."
Allen scooped up the child and ran for the exit. Sparks fell onto his back. The smell of singed hair.
The moment he got outside, his knees buckled.
"Oh, oh, thank you……!"
The woman clutched the child and wept.
"Go, now. Get out of the city through the north alley."
"W-what about you……?"
"Don't worry about me. Go."
The woman fled, carrying the child.
Allen gripped his sword again.
(Not yet.)
(I can still save more.)
He dove back into the flames.
That was when it happened.
—A voice rang out.
"Everyone, please do not move."
A low, resonant voice.
Allen's body went rigid.
(This voice……)
He peered from the shadow of an alley toward the square.
There, standing, was a man.
A tall figure clad in a black military uniform. Short blond hair neatly slicked back, a silver-rimmed monocle over his left eye. Pale blue eyes like thin ice, coldly reflecting the rising flames. His white-gloved hands held not even a sword.
Oscar Halford. The Kingdom's Minister of Military Affairs.
The supreme commander of the Royal Army. He held military authority second only to the king and queen, but in practice could move troops at his own discretion. Appointed by the monarch, but dismissal required a two-thirds majority of the noble council, making him effectively irremovable. Originally a mid-ranking noble who had climbed through military merit.
And the bearer of the Grace "Iron Command."
The power to compel obedience through his voice. The ability to temporarily dominate those he spoke to.
(That bastard……)
Allen clenched his teeth.
"Citizens of the Graywall District. Today, a plot for an anti-royal uprising has been uncovered in this district."
Oscar spoke in a calm tone, as if conversing at a dinner table.
"The Kingdom cannot overlook such lawlessness. Therefore, by the authority of the Minister of Military Affairs, all residents of this district shall be disposed of as rebels."
Disposed of.
For a moment, Allen couldn't comprehend the meaning of those words.
"Everyone, kneel where you are."
Oscar's voice vibrated through the air.
The next instant.
The fleeing residents all stopped moving at once.
Old and young, men and women, children. Everyone collapsed to the ground as if their strings had been cut.
They knelt.
Unable even to resist.
(Iron Command……!)
Something cold crawled down Allen's spine.
The Grace Iron Command. The power to compel obedience through Oscar's voice. It was said that while active, the eyes behind his monocle briefly stained red.
Now, those eyes—
Glowed red.
"Set the fires."
Oscar said it as if discussing the weather.
"Every last one. Burn the houses, the livestock, everything."
The soldiers moved.
Torches were hurled into homes. Fire spread. Screams rose. Residents, kneeling and unable to move, were engulfed in flames.
"Stop—!"
Allen screamed and burst from the alley.
He swung his sword. He cut down the soldier in front of him and planted himself before the kneeling residents.
"Oh my."
Oscar looked at Allen.
"It seems a rebel has slipped in among us. Well, no matter. They're all goi
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