Saintess Aston POV
The sushi, the kimchi stew, the noodles — they lingered in my memory like half‑remembered songs, sweet and incomplete.
I pressed myself deeper into the train's cushioned seat, watching the countryside blur past like brushstrokes on an unfinished canvas, and thought of those meals with fondness. The food had been intriguing, each bite a riddle. But the chopsticks — ah, the chopsticks were another matter entirely. They mocked me, silent teachers rising like judges in my clumsy hands. I must have looked like a jester, fumbling with wooden sticks while steam curled upward in laughter. Such meals deserved reverence, not comedy. Someday, I promised myself, I would learn to wield them without shame. Onto my ever‑growing list it went, beside "learn more of these foods."
The taste lingered still, a phantom warmth, as I sipped black tea from the porcelain cup I had bought at the market. Its cool weight fit neatly in my hands, a small comfort against the clatter of train wheels. The set was elegant — blue vines winding across the white surface like delicate constellations, each curve more intricate than the last. Not the sort of cups we used back home. There, Earl Grey was always served in plain white porcelain, stripped of decoration. Here, even a teacup was art — foreign, yet somehow familiar. Like myself.
"You can take a nap if you like. The ride may take some time, and we will most likely complete the rest on foot," Sir John said from across me. His posture was precise — arms folded, legs crossed, eyes closed as though conserving strength for some inevitable trial.
"Alright," I murmured. Yet I resisted. I had slept too much already on this journey, drifting from dream to dream as if reality itself wished me absent.
The train was not crowded. Passengers dotted the car like commas across a page. I leaned against the cool glass, a half‑bitten dumpling in hand, my tea abandoned on the tray. The world slipped by: first the stacked buildings of the city, verses crammed in a narrow poem. Then, gradually, space widened into rolling fields, quiet rivers, distant farmhouses. The horizon stretched like a painting unfurling stroke by stroke.
When at last we arrived, I managed not to fall asleep entirely. At least, I think I didn't. The station bustled with steady energy — not overwhelming, but pulsing with carts, voices, and the scent of grain and sweat.
"Let's see if we can find a bullock cart or something of the sort," Sir John said, stepping onto the platform. His tone was matter‑of‑fact, but his eyes swept the crowd with the sharpness of command.
Fortune favored us. We soon encountered a man of the Horse Clan, Minato by name, who was traveling in the same direction with his daughter, Izumi. He was transporting spices and other goods. His manner was polite but reserved, and though we offered no explanation for our journey, he asked none. In that silence, I sensed wisdom.
Izumi, however, was bright and curious. Her yukata was simple but charming, its colors soft as petals. Her ears twitched faintly when she giggled, betraying her heritage. After several shy glances, she finally spoke:
"Miss, your hanfu is really lovely." Her voice was feather‑light, yet full of admiration.
I smiled, touched by her sincerity. "Do you think so too? Thank you. Your yukata looks just as beautiful."
She beamed, eyes alight. I offered her a dumpling, but her father gently declined on her behalf.
The road wound through the countryside with quiet dignity. Birds sang from hedgerows, the air smelled of earth and wildflowers. Oddly enough, we laughed when we realized we were all heading toward the same destination.
The manor rose at last, unexpected in the serene landscape. Not grand like palaces, but elegant in its restraint. Its very presence seemed to whisper: Here, stories are kept.
"Good morning, Miss Mary. How are things with you?" Minato called as the door opened.
A woman stood there — her presence immediate, commanding. Red eyes caught the light like garnets, softened by civility. A teal gown flowed with understated grace, black lace gloves adorning her hands. Even her casual glance carried weight, measuring more than she revealed.
There was beauty, undeniable and arresting. For a moment I wondered idly: what sight could not be seen, when such as she stood before me?
"Oh, little Izumi. It has been some time," another voice greeted warmly from within. Izumi darted forward, steps dancing with excitement.
We were invited in. Sir John, ever the model of courtesy, offered apologies for our unannounced arrival. Minato soon departed with his purchases — more than just wool, I noticed — leaving Izumi reluctantly behind.
"Sir John, Miss Aston," Mary said, her tone smooth as still water. "How was your journey?"
"It was most pleasant," Sir John replied, and with that magician's trick of his, produced a gift I had no memory of him buying. She accepted it with a gracious nod, her attention unbroken.
"So, I understand the Church sent you to come for the heroes," she said, sipping her tea. The sitting room smelled faintly of lilies — or something close to lilies, though I could not name it exactly. The air itself felt arranged, cultivated.
Two heroes. The words stirred in my mind like a pebble dropped into still water. Yet here was only one. I frowned faintly, though I smoothed it away before anyone could notice. Perhaps the other would arrive later. Or perhaps…
"Do you like flowers too, Miss Aston?" Miss Mary asked, perhaps noticing the way I tried to trace the scent.
She thanked Sir John again for the gift, then added as if it were nothing at all: "You can speak with him if you would."
Her words sent a ripple through me, though I could not say why. For a moment, I thought she had spoken not to me, but to someone else entirely.
The day within the manor passed with a rhythm both languid and deliberate, as though time itself moved differently inside those walls. Conversation unfurled over porcelain cups, gifts were exchanged like tokens in a ritual, and the scent of lilies never lifted from the air. By the time we departed, the sun stood at its highest blaze — a ball of fire nailed to the sky. Eternal, it seemed. Yet even eternal suns must bow. I felt in my bones this brightness would not last. Sir John politely declined Miss Mary's offer of lodging, and the hero himself seemed content with that.
Still, as we left, the thought returned, quiet but insistent: Two heroes. Where is the other?
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Victoria POV
After the contract, I stepped toward the entity. At first, nothing felt different. Then—off. Wrong. I couldn't name it, but it pressed on me.
Above me the moon loomed — beautiful, terrible, like a blade held sideways in the sky.
My hair — longer, darker. Changed. Almost like the entity I had summoned. I froze, unwilling to take another step toward what I believed was Death itself.
Was it imagination? Transmigration's fingerprints etched on my body? Or maybe Viviana's words earlier were finally sinking in.
"Viviana," I thought, staring at the silent figure before me.
Perhaps I should fetch her. There was comfort in her presence, and unease gnawed at me.
But when I reached the manor door, it was locked. My hand stilled on the handle. I had only stepped out for a short while. When had it been locked? I knocked.
"Viviana? Miss Mary?"
No answer. Then, slowly, the door opened.
And she stood there — taller, changed. Her hair styled differently, her nightgown unfamiliar. Her face was a storm of emotions: confusion, concern, anger, and something darker, almost grief.
"Hey, Viviana," I said, forcing steadiness.
Her eyes narrowed, disbelief sharp as a blade. "Who…?" she murmured, then recognition broke. "Victoria?"
"Yes," I said, unsettled. "It's me."
Her face shifted again, eyes glistening with a weight that struck me silent. Her voice cracked.
"Where have you been… for the last year?"
The words hit like a blow. My blood iced. My skin drained. I stumbled back, the air thickening.
I clutched at my hair — longer, strange in my hands. My nails too, sharper, unnatural.
"What?" The sky mocked me now, the moon's beauty twisted cruel. "That can't be. I only stepped out… only moments ago."
Viviana's gaze hardened, but her voice trembled. "No. You were gone. We searched. Mary said the Church expected two heroes, but only one remained. I thought—" She broke off, swallowing the rest.
Her words tangled with my own memory, that single careless vow: Then I offer a year of my life.
I had said it. I thought it fitting. A year — just one — didn't seem much at the time.
Now those words rang in my ears like mocking laughter.
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