The parlor was freezing. The fireplace had long gone cold. Only the morning light through the window faintly lit the room. The air bit into the skin like needles. Saki stood in the center of the room. The cold of the stone crept up through her bare soles. Her arms, wrapped around her shoulders, had no strength. The wound on her lip still throbbed. The bruise beneath her eye remained a bluish black. Across the desk. Madame Vespa sat. Her jet-black hair was loosely bound. Her icy golden eyes pierced through Saki. Gaunt fingers gripped a quill, gliding over documents. Her black dress did not stir. She did not look up when Saki entered. Only the scratching of the pen echoed. Saki waited in silence. Her shadow on the floor looked terribly thin. At last. Vespa set the quill down. The small sound of the metal nib touching the desk. She raised her face. Golden eyes. No anger. No irritation. Just calculation. A cold, analytical light—like checking inventory. "[cold]Oh my. How unfortunate." Her voice was quiet. Flat. A chill ran down Saki's spine. "[cold]I've sold you to the army, dear." The words didn't reach her mind. To the army. Sold. Saki stared at Vespa without blinking. "[cold]Your behavior in the dungeon—your value as merchandise has dropped considerably." Vespa pulled the documents closer. Traced them with a fingertip. "[cold]Excessive wear from the secret menu. The lowest ratings from clients. Recovery of the investment is no longer feasible." A matter-of-fact tone. "[cold]But you can still be used. For army comfort duties, there's demand even for somewhat broken goods." Saki tried to open her mouth. But no voice came. "[cold]The escort will arrive this afternoon. Prepare yourself by then." Prepare. Saki looked at her hands. They were trembling. Her fingertips had gone white. "[serious]...Wait." Her voice was hoarse. "[serious]I'm still—" She took one step forward. Her neck burned. "—!!" Agony. Her knees buckled. She caught herself on the floor. Her breath stopped. Every pulse of the slave brand on her neck sent pain through her—like hot wire tightening. "[cold]Did you forget?" Vespa's voice came from beyond the pain. "[cold]The brand on your neck—the Brand Mark—causes pain if you defy its owner. I am the owner. You are merchandise." Saki crouched on the floor. Clenched her teeth. She couldn't breathe. Her vision blurred white. The taste of blood spread in her mouth. "[cold]The pain will fade if you stop resisting." Saki stopped moving. The pain receded. Slowly. Her breath returned. Still on her hands and knees, Saki raised her face. Vespa had already returned her gaze to the documents. As if she had lost interest. "[cold]You are dismissed." Saki stood. Her legs trembled. Her knees wobbled. Without looking back, she headed for the door. — The back entrance of the establishment. A covered wagon waited. Dust-caked cloth. Rusted wheels. The horse's breath clouded white. The air was cold. An overcast sky stretched endlessly. Two soldiers stood. Expressionless. Silent. Their armor dully reflected the cloudy light. They seized Saki's arms. "[scared]Let go—!" Her neck throbbed. "—Guh!" Her knees gave way. The soldiers forcibly pulled Saki up and shoved her into the wagon. Inside the covered bed. Dim. Musty. The plank floor was cold. Saki looked back. The back entrance of the Gekka establishment. Stone walls. The closing door. In its shadow—no sign of Camila. No Ordo either. No one had come to see her off. The cover was lowered. Her vision went dark. The wagon began to move. Swaying. The sound of hooves on cobblestone. The creak of wheels. Saki hugged her knees. — The wagon passed through the town. The sound of passing freight wagons. Merchants' calls fading away. The smell of the pleasure district thinning out. Suddenly. The wagon stopped. A voice from outside. "[laughing]Hey, hey—ain't that the one from—" Saki's body went rigid. She knew that voice. Through a gap in the cover, she could faintly see outside. Beside a freight wagon. The slave trader Gallon. Obese. Laughing. "[laughing]That's Saki from Gekka, right? Still alive, huh?" Saki bit her lip. "[laughing]Sold to the army, I hear. Finally getting used like proper merchandise." Laughter. Saki said nothing back. No voice came. She only clenched her trembling fists. "[laughing]Go be the soldiers' plaything. Enjoy it." The wagon started moving again. The laughter faded into the distance. It lingered in Saki's ears. — Inside the covered wagon. The swaying continued. Saki stared up at the ceiling. Just a cloth stretched over the frame. Torn in places. Light leaked through the gaps. (Camila) The name surfaced in her chest. A sullen face. Cold silver eyes. But her care had always been gentle. The night she wiped Saki's wounds with a damp cloth. A woman who had lost a daughter. It was much later that Saki learned that was why she couldn't leave someone younger alone. (Ordo) The young janitor. An actor following Gallon's orders. But—that reddened cheek. Had all of it been an act? They were far away now. The days at Gekka felt hazy—uncertain whether they had been real or a dream. She wasn't even sure if she had spoken her own name aloud. Saki—my name. (Saki) She murmured it with just her lips. (I'm still—) Jump from the wagon. The moment that thought surfaced— Her neck burned. "—!!" She curled up. The pain spread from her neck to her shoulders, to her back. She couldn't breathe. The brand. The slave brand—the Brand Mark. Magical silver ink etched into her neck. If she tried to move a certain distance from her owner, agony struck. Escape was physically impossible. Saki crouched on the floor. Waited for the pain to fade. She pressed a trembling hand to her neck. The brand was hot. She couldn't escape. That fact pressed down on her. Heavy. — Evening of the third day. The wagon stopped. Voices of men outside. The sound of wind beating against tents. The scrape of metal. The cover was raised. Saki squinted. Light. And then— The smell. Mud and blood and gunpowder. Rotten straw. Sweat and iron and burnt flesh. All of it mixed together, assaulting her nose. Field Camp, Seventh Service District. Ahead, ragged tents stood in disorder. Wounded soldiers on crutches. Soldiers sitting on the ground with hollow eyes. The color of blood seeping through bandages. Saki was unloaded from the wagon. Her feet sank into the mud. Cold. The soldiers' gazes gathered. Appraising. Each pair of eyes crawled over Saki's entire body. Legs. Hips. Chest. Face. Bruise-covered skin. Saki stood frozen. Her body trembled. She wanted to run. But the brand wouldn't allow it. "[cold]This the one?" A voice. Saki looked up. A man in a military uniform stood there. Holding documents. He didn't even glance at Saki's face. His eyes stayed on the papers. "[cold]No name needed. Starting today, you service the soldiers here." Saki opened her mouth. But no voice came. The brand on her neck throbbed faintly. A soldier grabbed Saki's arm. She was dragged toward one of the tents. A small, filthy tent. She was pushed inside. A worn-out blanket. A simple cot. Nothing else. Dried bloodstains clung to the walls. Scratch marks too—as if someone had clawed at them. The soldier left. Alone. From the distance, the heavy sound of the camp gate closing echoed. Saki hugged her knees. The trembling wouldn't stop. The smell of mud and blood and gunpowder. The soldiers' hollow eyes. The bloodstains on the walls. The hell about to begin. Something beyond imagination waited outside this tent. (I have to survive) Deep in her chest, instinct alone glimmered faintly. (I'm—still) Saki clenched her trembling hands. Outside, the wind beat against the tent. Somewhere, a wounded soldier groaned. The sun sank. Darkness swallowed the camp.