I couldn't protect her. 　It was the same dream again. 　Reon stood in a blood-soaked meadow. The red seeping up from beneath his feet slowly swallowed each blade of grass. At its center, a single woman lay collapsed. 　She was smiling. 　Even through the bleeding and pain, she smiled. In her previous life—in that busy intersection in modern-day Japan—bathed in car headlights, she had said this at the very end. 　Protect her for me, okay? 　Protect whom. Protect what. He couldn't answer before consciousness slipped away. And when he woke, he was in this world. 　Reon gripped the blanket and stared at the ceiling. 　The soot-blackened ceiling of a log cabin. The sound of a mountain stream drifted through the window. Cold air tinged faintly with the scent of beasts. The darkest hour before dawn. 　He exhaled slowly. 　The trembling subsided within a few breaths. He should have been used to it by now, but that dream always came to strangle the breath from him without fail. 　As he sat up, the old burn scar on his left hand throbbed. A wound from the battlefield. That hell where he'd been thrown as a slave soldier—the battle at Torgu Fortress on the eastern edge of Orgen County—the scar from when flame magic had struck him directly. He'd been told he'd be free if he survived three years. He actually did survive. Against odds of one in a hundred or worse. 　Two years had passed since then. 　Reon lived alone on the outskirts of the Growden Great Forest. 　The reason was simple. Humans were too noisy. 　In the morning, he split firewood. He lit a fire. He filled his belly with boiled beans and dried meat. By evening, he caught fish in the river. He went to bed early. He continued this simple routine without particular complaint. Compared to his memories from his previous life, it couldn't be called luxurious. But it was far better than dying without protecting anyone. 　As Reon filled a soot-stained pot with water, he looked out the window. 　The forest was dark. The birds hadn't started singing yet. 　Today was the day to go to the village. 　＊ 　The trading town of Harken Village was bustling from morning. 　A small farming village of about two hundred people, but on market day once a month, people gathered from the surrounding settlements. A leather craftsman's stall, a salt merchant, carts piled with vegetables. Colorful goods lined the stone pavement, and villagers raised their voices haggling over prices. 　Reon walked along the edge of the commotion, checking his list. Beans, flour, dried meat, salt for smoking. That would last him a month. 　His destination—"Pol's General Store"—was a shabby-signed shop at the corner of the market square. The owner Pol was a small, rotund man in his fifties, always wearing a hat on his head and clicking an abacus like a calculator. 　"Oh, it's you again. Come down from the mountains?" 　"The usual. You have everything?" 　"Got it all. Wait a sec." 　While Pol disappeared into the back, Reon gazed at the goods piled outside the shop. Transport hemp sacks, bundles of candles, leather shoe repair materials. Nothing he particularly needed. His eyes just wandered. 　After a while, Pol returned and laid out the items, clicking the abacus with practiced hands. 　"Eighteen ren total." 　Reon counted out silver coins from his wallet and handed them over. Eighteen coins. 　"Much obliged." 　Pol placed three coins in change on the counter. Reon saw them. He put them in his wallet. He left the shop. 　His feet stopped as he turned down an alley. 　…Wait. I paid eighteen ren, so why is there change? 　Reon stood for a while, trying to calculate in his head. Beans were four ren, flour was five ren, dried meat was… uh. 　…Well, whatever. 　He clenched his fist lightly and walked on. He'd always been bad at math. He had a feeling he'd repeated something similar in his previous life too. He might be getting cheated, but without certainty, he couldn't bring himself to pursue it. 　Besides, he was hungry. 　In the center of the village, there was a small eating house called "The Scorched Wheat Ear." More of a tavern atmosphere than an eating house, with local farmers and merchants sprawled across wooden tables even in broad daylight. Reon ordered stew and black bread at a corner table and ate alone. 　"Big brother, is that you?!" 　He knew who was speaking before he even turned around. 　Chestnut-colored short hair tousled by the wind, bright golden eyes laughing. A slender frame of about 165 centimeters draped in a travel-worn leather jacket—sixteen years old. It was Baldo. 　"[sarcastic]…You really need to stop jumping out at me like that." 　"[laughing]But I can't help myself when I see you, big brother." 　Baldo grinned and sat down across from him. He ordered an ale and leaned forward with both elbows on the table. More than ten years younger than Reon, yet he showed no fear anywhere. 　Reon had known this youth for two years. Deep in the Growden Great Forest, there was a hidden settlement where people fleeing persecution by the church had gathered. Baldo served as a liaison between that settlement and the outside world, moving from place to place. The settlement's location was hidden by a magical barrier, and those who didn't know of it could never find it, apparently. 　"[serious]How are things lately?" 　"Well, that's the thing…" 　Baldo's tone dropped slightly. 　"[serious]The Nocturne Church has been coming around these parts." 　Reon stopped his spoon. 　The Nocturne Church. A religious organization established following the "Crimson Mist Calamity" that occurred eighty years ago—a mysterious magical rampage that sent a crimson fog across the entire continent for three days, killing eighty thousand people. They defined magic as "filth that disturbs human order" and established "Purification Halls" throughout the land to root out those with magical power. 　"[serious]There's the Magical Power Registration Edict, right? They're using that as a shield." 　The Magical Power Registration Edict. A law enforced in nations under the church's influence, requiring those with magical power to register. Using magic without registration meant imprisonment or being handed over to the church. Those who harbored such people faced the same punishment. 　Orgen County had originally been a remote region with little church influence, but that had been changing recently. 　"[serious]Inquisitors are on the move. Especially searching for witch eggs." 　"Witch eggs?" 　"[serious]Girls born once in fifty thousand with immense magical power. When they hit puberty, their power swells all at once and becomes uncontrollable. The church calls it proof of filth and captures them to perform 'sanctification.'" 　Sanctification. He knew the name. A ritual that forcibly extracts magical power from a girl's body, called "soul purification," but it's actually exploitation. The girls who have their power drained weaken and die within three to five years. The magical crystals—ether stones—generated during that process sell for high prices on the black market, which is why the church continues the practice. 　Reon took a spoonful of stew silently. 　"[serious]I thought you could help, big brother." 　"[cold]I'm not involved." 　"But—" 　"[cold]Not involved." 　He repeated it curtly. Baldo closed his mouth. 　Reon kept his gaze on his plate while his mind rattled off excuses. I've already finished fighting. I survived three years as a slave soldier and bought my freedom. I have no obligation to swing a sword for anyone. I live quietly on the forest's edge. That's all I need. 　…That should be all I need. 　Suddenly, his eyes caught something on the wall. 　In one corner of the tavern wall, there was a blackened burn mark. Like a metal seal pressed hard against it—a warped, distorted shape. 　"[whispers]That's a trace of their visit." 　Baldo spoke quietly. 　"[whispers]A holy chain—the church's equipment for sealing magical power. When pressed against a wall, it leaves marks like that. A warning to those with power. It says: you will be found." 　Reon stared at the burn mark. 　Memories from his days as a slave soldier surfaced from the corners of his mind. The sight after church soldiers "purified" a village. Small houses ransacked one after another, and those who tried to flee had the same seal pressed onto their bodies. It wasn't just an act to silence magic users. It was a ritual to spread fear. 　"[whispers]Safe places are disappearing, one by one." 　Reon said nothing. 　"[gentle]…Well, for today anyway." 　Baldo changed the subject. 　As he walked Reon out of the shop, Baldo said as if remembering something: 　"[serious]By the way, deep in the Growden Great Forest—there's a place where magic users who fled the church have gathered. I'm the liaison for that place. It's hidden by a barrier, so no one who doesn't know about it will ever find it." 　"[cold]I know." 　"[serious]If anything happens, please rely on us. You'd be welcome there." 　Reon didn't answer. He shouldered his supplies and headed toward the main road. 　He felt Baldo's gaze pressing into his back, but he didn't look back. 　＊ 　That evening, back at his cabin, Reon split firewood. 　Each time the axe fell, the log split satisfyingly. A motion his body remembered. Once the rhythm came, he didn't have to think about anything else. 　Dinner was bean stew. The new beans he'd bought today were slightly larger. They took time to cook. While waiting, Reon went out by the stream and listened to the water sounds for a while. 　Night came. 　As he lay down under the blanket, exhaustion sank to the depths of his body. He closed his eyes. 　──He couldn't sleep. 　He knew why. Baldo's words looped in his mind. 　I'm not involved. He repeated it. Not involved. That was the truth. 　He couldn't protect anyone in his previous life. In this world, he lived hell as a slave soldier. There was no reason for such a man to fight for anyone. 　When he opened his eyes, the wood grain of the ceiling was faintly visible in the darkness. 　As the night deepened. 　Something touched Reon's consciousness. 　Not so much a sensation as a wave. Arriving faintly from the direction of the forest's depths. Something. Magical power, perhaps. That in itself wasn't rare. The Growden Great Forest had high magical saturation, and the wild presence increased at night. 　But this was different. 　It was terrified. 　Pain was mixed in. And desperation. Something cornered in the darkness was struggling desperately—that kind of sensation kept arriving in waves. 　Reon closed his eyes. 　Not involved. 　The wave didn't stop. 　(…Protect her for me, okay?) 　That voice echoed in his ears again. The voice of that girl, smiling even in blood. Those words he'd heard at the very end of his previous life—he didn't understand why they still wouldn't fade. 　The quality of the wave resembled that final breath. 　A thin breath about to disappear into the night. 　Reon gripped his fist and stared at the ceiling for a long time. 　Was he going to repeat the same thing? End without protecting anyone? Or— 　A long, long silence. 　Finally, Reon clicked his tongue and sat up. He brushed off the blanket. He put on his shoes. He grabbed the sword leaning against the wall and fastened it at his waist, sheath and all. There were no words. No excuses or self-justifications—neither was necessary. 　He opened the door, and cold night air struck his face. 　The forest was dark. 　Reon stepped into it. 　＊ 　That same night, deep in the Growden Great Forest. 　A girl was running. 　Her small frame wrapped in tattered burlap. Her legs had no strength. She stumbled over tree roots again and again, but she couldn't stop. She knew that if she stopped, it would be over. 　Three days had passed since escaping the Purification Hall. No food. Only water, drunk from a stream along the way. 　Her hands were glowing. 　Azure light exploded intermittently. R