The smell of blood. No. Not blood. This is the smell of a soul burning——Lira thought. Whenever an entity stitched together from the lingering souls of the dead drew near, the air always transformed like this. A stench that mixed iron, decaying leaves, and something sickeningly sweet—the kind that made your back teeth ache. In the center of the abandoned village, there was an empty space that must have once been a plaza. Withered grass stretched from the seams of the stone pavement, and moss clung to the edges of a collapsed water channel. Until three years ago, people had lived here. Someone had kindled a fire in the morning, someone had scolded a child, someone had laughed. The traces of that remained scattered about in the form of charred beam remnants. Lira stood in the center of the plaza. Five of them. Warriors with translucent outlines——corpse-ring soldiers——were slowly tightening their encirclement. In the depths of their eyes, the terror of the moment of death was fixed and glowing. No pain. No exhaustion. They simply moved according to their caster's commands, approached, and destroyed. The undead vanguard unit that the Ash-Ruin Brigade took pride in. The wretched end of the dead that Darius's curse magic had spawned. Lira gripped the cloth wrapped around her left arm tightly with her fingertips. Beneath the cloth lay a pattern. A black pattern carved into her since birth. The mark of a dark magic bloodline holder. Proof of blood that comprised less than 0.02 percent of the population—rare, abhorrent, designated as a "subject of surveillance" by kingdom law. The Dark Bloodline Surveillance Decree——a law enacted some eighty years prior——had stolen Lira's place to belong, one after another. (Five of them. I can't handle them one at a time.) She calculated in her head. With normal magic, she only needed to "pass through" the soul veins. There would be exhaustion, but recovery was possible. But to sever the soul vein bonds of corpse-ring soldiers, she needed a power that reached deeper. She unwound the cloth. In that instant, the temperature of the air dropped. Dropped—that phrase wasn't enough——the surrounding heat was sucked away. Frost pillars on the stone pavement cracked silently. Lira's shadow wavered. Wavered, or rather, stretched. Ignoring the light source, it stretched unnaturally in multiple directions. The pattern on her left arm glowed black. Dark magic "burns" soul veins. Where normal magic used soul veins like a river with water flowing through them, dark magic scorched the riverbed itself. The power was incomparable. So was the cost. Lira thrust her arm forward. A black torrent filled the plaza. One of the corpse-ring soldiers stopped. Its outline faded like mist. The soul vein bonds were severed, and the lingering souls of the dead were released. The word "dissipation" had never fit a sight so precisely. One, two, three. When the fourth raised its arm, the fifth rushed in from the side. Lira lowered her center of gravity to evade while burning the soul veins once more. A searing pain ran along the inside of her ribs. All of them dissipated. Silence. Lira fell to her knees. Something warm seeped into the palm of her hand pressed against her mouth. Blood dripped between her fingers. The soul vein combustion had been excessive. The depths of her stomach contracted in spasms, and the edges of her vision grew dark and prickly. Her entire body was filled with a heavy, dull pain, as if she were lying on a scorched stone. (Still alive.) Confirming only that, Lira leaned her back against the rubble of the abandoned village. The sky was blue. Unbearably, endlessly blue. While Darius had risen three years ago, the legitimate royal house had been destroyed, and the fantasy kingdom of Astrum was crumbling, the sky remained unchanged. Lira's consciousness gradually slipped into the past. A memory from seven years ago, on a night. It was the night her mentor Alna had attempted a complete release of dark magic. Lira had been twelve years old then, and as Alna's familiar——a soul-bound oath relationship where she provided magical power assistance to her mentor in exchange for magical instruction——she was always at Alna's side. Alna was a rough-edged witch. She had learned the dark magic system through self-study without belonging to any magical academy, a magic user recognized by no one. That was precisely why she had taken Lira in. She couldn't leave a girl with the same bloodline alone in the world. That night, the pattern on Alna's left arm had spread to her shoulder. The glow wouldn't stop. Lira watched as all of Alna's soul veins burned with an audible sound. Expression drained from Alna's face, leaving only a quiet, serene, resigned expression. "Teacher Alna, stop," Lira cried out. Lira screamed. Crying, she tried to grab Alna's arm. It was hot. Scorching hot, as if her skin were burning. Alna gripped Lira's hand. "Magic loves you," Alna said. And smiled. "That's why it comes to devour you," Alna said. Those were her last words. It took almost no time for Alna's soul veins to burn out completely, for all life force to vanish from her body. Lira still didn't fully understand the meaning of those words. Love because it devours. Devour because it loves. What was dark magic? What would this bloodline bring to her? For seven years, she had traveled searching for answers. "...How foolish," Lira murmured. No one was listening. There were no people in the abandoned village. Only remnants and silence. She slowly stood and headed deeper into the village. The presence of corpse-ring soldiers meant there was a possibility of survivors nearby. The Ash-Ruin Brigade used corpse-ring soldiers to corner living humans. At the eastern end of the village, there was an entrance to an underground space in the floor of a collapsed barn. When Lira lifted the board, the smell of mold and old straw rose up. In the darkness, two rough breaths. "It's safe to come out. Those soldiers are gone," Lira said. After a moment, an old man's voice came. "...Is that true?" the old man asked. "Yes," Lira replied. An elderly couple. Perhaps in their seventies, or older. The man was limping, and the woman was supporting his shoulder. Both were terribly thin, with deep shadows under their eyes. Lira took dried meat and hard bread from her leather bag. The old woman's eyes widened. The man simply stared at the food in silence. Lira sat with her back against a crumbled wall and waited for them to eat. As they ate, the old man spoke. The Ash-Ruin Brigade of Darius——named by the people as the curse-magic unit that left only ash in its wake——was encircling the royal capital Elzevir from three directions. The survivors of the legitimate royal house were missing, and the lords of the seven old territories were scattered. Resistance forces continued to fight in various places, but there was no unified command structure anywhere. "The Remnant Flame——a ragtag group of volunteers gathered under the banner of resistance to the Ash-Ruin Brigade——is supposedly the largest," the old man said, coughing. "But it's only about six hundred people. They're hiding in Tolvarn Forest to the west——a deep mountain region about two days from the capital——but what can six hundred do against three thousand curse-magic soldiers," the old man said. "...I suppose so," Lira replied. Lira answered while feeling her left arm's pattern still throbbing dully. The old man's voice grew quieter. "...I don't know if you'll believe this story," the old man said. "What is it?" Lira asked. "There was a man called the Thousand-Soldier Sword Saint. His name was Kael," the old man said. Lira looked up. The old man continued, his eyes on the ground. "The Thousand-Soldier Sword Saint——a man praised as being worth a thousand soldiers alone, the highest martial title in the kingdom. A hero who once commanded thousands of troops, a Sword Saint recognized by the kingdom's military council——a title held by only seven people in the past hundred twenty years. He's supposedly hiding in Hilde to the north——a mountain hot spring village at the foot of the Frostfang Mountains. Though I hear he's little more than a husk now," the old man said. Something moved in Lira's chest. Something that had been fading. The outline of an answer she'd been searching for appeared for just a moment in the mist, then vanished again. "...Thank you," Lira said. She stood up after thanking him. There was a sense that the elderly couple wanted to say something, but she didn't look back. --- Night fell. On a flat stretch of ground by a river, away from the main road, Lira made a small campfire. No tent. She wrapped her robe around herself and gazed into the flames. The crimson embroidery on the black cloth swayed gently in the firelight. She had a keepsake from her mentor Alna. A small fragment of black obsidian. About the size of a thumbnail, it looked like an ordinary pebble from any angle. But to Lira, it seemed to hold a faint warmth within. Something Alna had left behind. Something that couldn't be put into words. Rolling it in her palm, Lira thought. Nineteen years of life. She had been driven from her home by the Dark Bloodline Surveillance Decree after her mentor died, when she tried to live alone in a town. Bloodline holders had a reporting obligation. If she reported, she'd be placed under the magical academy's surveillance. An unaffiliated rough-edged witch's bloodline holder was nothing but a threat to them. Naturally, an arrest warrant was issued. She fled. She tried to live in another city. She was discovered again. She fled again. She had started working as a mercenary after that. Complete jobs, receive payment, move to the next city. Hide the fact that she was a dark magic bloodline holder, live as just a skilled rough-edged witch. Employers used her while she was useful, then drove her away with frightened eyes when they were done. Some didn't even say thank you. I've gotten used to it, Lira thought. I've become accustomed to it. But. The campfire crackled. Lira gazed into the flames, pretending not to notice, observing her own interior. Being called by name by someone. Sitting beside someone. Saying goodnight before sleep. She had never had any of these. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say she had never tried to have them. A rough-edged witch is an outsider. A dark magic bloodline holder is an even greater outsider. If she got close to someone, she would inevitably hurt them. So she didn't get close. She had lived so as not to get close. Yet somehow. The obsidian fragment grew cold in her fingers. (Teacher Alna chose me.) That alone was warm. For seven years, always. But now Alna was gone. Only the faint remnant dwelling in the depths of that fragment remained in Lira's hand. If asked whether she wanted someone to be beside her, she couldn't answer. She didn't know. She knew such feelings existed. But she didn't know if it was right to wish for them. The premonition of pain when she wished for something and was betrayed——or when she hurt someone herself——always stopped Lira before she could reach. The Sword Saint Kael. Could she make an old swordsman, little more than a husk, stand again? She didn't know. There was no certainty. Was she searching for a way to save the kingdom, or was she really——just wanting someone to be beside her? The question went unanswered as the fire grew smaller. --- When the light of dawn began to seep through the grass, Lira returned to the main road. As she walked north, the sound of a cargo wagon approached from behind. The driver on the wagon seat was an old woman with white hair tied up. When Lira turned around, the old woman showed no particular change in expression and pulled the reins. "Want a ride?" the old woman asked. Lira nodded without hesitation. The cargo bed was stacked with cloth sacks. It smelled like medicinal herbs or somethin