I remember.
The familiar scent of grass and flowers. The clash of wooden swords. My daily life—until it vanished not long ago.
"Hey, Himmel, why are you teaching me to fight?"
I asked him then. Why bother? It gains him nothing.
"I'm your master, aren't I? Training my disciple is only natural."
Typical Himmel, proclaiming nonsense with flair. He's strange—I get called that too, but not like him.
"That's not an answer. Also, that beard doesn't suit you."
"Ugh…!? It's not true! This is my transition from handsome to dapper…"
So I pointed out another oddity. He started growing that beard recently, and it's awful. I don't know "handsome" or "dapper," but I know it's wrong. He seemed to sense it too, slumping in defeat. Busy guy. But—
"You're right…" Himmel said, his strange smile returning. "I want you to grow strong enough to protect someone, Linie."
"Protect…?" I asked. "Me? Who?"
"Aura, of course."
His matter-of-fact tone baffled me. I didn't get it. Was he teasing again?
"Why? Aura-sama's stronger than me. You should protect her."
"Protect" meant the strong caring for the weak, right? A strange word. Why should the strong protect the weak? The weak obey the strong. Aura-sama's stronger than me—she doesn't need my protection. If anything, Himmel, the strongest of us, should do it.
"Sure," he said, troubled. "Aura might call it meddling and get mad…"
He knew, apparently, already imagining her scolding. He gets chewed out in reality, yet it's not enough.
Himmel approached, kneeling to my height.
"I won't live as long as you two," he said. "So I want you to protect Aura for me, Linie. Even when I'm gone—"
Not an order—a request. As if he knew that day would come. I didn't understand. Why worry about after he's gone? But I remember his words, that promise. So—
"Don't… insult Aura-sama!!"
I won't forgive anyone who breaks it.
"Linie!?"
A gust erupts. In a blink, Linie vanishes from my side, reappearing behind Solitair. Teleportation-like speed—a mimicry of the late Hero's skill. But that's not what shocks me. It's her face, her cry—unlike anything I've heard in our fifty years together. Her sword swings down, a guillotine strike aimed at Solitair's neck. The blade, targeting a defenseless foe, stops—
Blocked by an invisible wall, grazing only skin.
"Impressive," Solitair says, turning. "I didn't see it coming. Remarkable speed and skill. A bit slower, and my head might've rolled."
Is she truly surprised? She's unfazed, not even defending herself. A wall of immense mana halts Linie's blade. Sparks and magical light flare, but it doesn't reach her. Magic, skill, training—all crushed by overwhelming power. That's why Solitair's a great demon.
"Ngh…!" Linie grunts.
"A Hero's sword," Solitair muses, analyzing the blade inches from her. "But it lacks power. How did it defeat the Demon King?"
She's right. It's a replica, not the true Hero's sword. Only its origin—Himmel's possession—sets it apart. Curious, she reaches for it, but Linie retreats faster, landing before me, as if shielding me.
"Don't touch Himmel's sword," Linie growls.
"It's not the Hero's sword to you—it's Himmel's," Solitair notes. "Fascinating."
Linie points her blade at Solitair, as if its mere touch is defilement. Solitair's creepy smile doesn't waver.
"That wasn't wise," she says. "You're a demon—you know the gap between us. Plus, I see through your mana cloaking. A sneak attack won't work."
She dissects Linie's actions coldly, accurately. The truth is undeniable—the vast difference in mana and experience. Mana cloaking, our edge, is useless against her. Demons gauge strength by mana, avoiding futile fights. Linie's actions, not even self-defense, are incomprehensible to a demon, Solitair chides. But—
"Doesn't matter," Linie declares. "Himmel would've done it. That's enough."
No hesitation. Not a demon's answer—Linie's.
I'm speechless. No, I remember. This is the second time I've heard this from her. When I was lost, freed from my obedience shackles, Linie called me back.
"Himmel would've done it."
That drunk monk, that musclehead—they all said it. Laughable. Causing trouble even after death—what a jerk.
"Enough, Linie. Stand down," I say.
My racing heart calms. The heat in my head fades. I order her back. Emotionally, I want to join her, but strategically, it's a losing move. I'm worse against Solitair than Linie—her natural enemy. Fighting unprepared is suicide. Sensing my intent, or perhaps cooled off, Linie retreats, sword still in hand.
"Done already?" Solitair says. "I could've kept going."
"You prefer talking over fighting, don't you?" I retort. "So, what's your goal with all this provocation? You're not one for pointless games."
She caused this chaos, yet acts oblivious. Acting or genuine? Either way, I'm done dancing to her tune. Something's off—why provoke me right after reuniting? She's always stirred me up unconsciously, but this is excessive. Risking my wrath could get her expelled.
"Well done, Aura," she says, like a teacher grading a test. "I was testing your mental resilience. You know this country rests on you—dependency, really. If you crumble, it collapses like a fleeting dream."
She tested me. Obvious—Freesia hinges on me, its god and dictator. She wanted to see if I could stay composed under pressure. What does she take me for? Probably a rare lab rat, like humans to her.
"Seems I worried for nothing," she adds. "Freesia's secure for another century."
"Says the one who just tried to topple its pillar," I snap.
"But you didn't fall, did you? The old you couldn't have managed that."
She praises me. I'm at a loss. Which "old me" does she mean? Still, outwitting her feels like a small victory.
"Speaking of the old you," she continues, "the Granat peace talks are going well. Releasing their spy unharmed was brilliant. Humans have a reciprocity instinct—Granat can't act aggressively now. You'll have the upper hand."
I'm stunned. She's casually leaked near-state secrets. Freesia's negotiations with Granat are compromised. From humans? Demons? Magic? Either way, she knows too much. Ally or enemy, she's a nightmare.
"They're in three days, right?" she says. "Sounds fun—can I join?"
"No way," I reply. "Stay here and chat."
I sigh, imagining the worst. Lügner's bad enough—add her, and it's war, or worse. Better she wastes time here.
"If you're done, leave," I say, shooing her. "Unlike you, I'm busy."
I've heard enough. Let her satisfy her curiosity elsewhere—I've got work. But as I try to dismiss her—
"Frieren."
An impossible name stops me.
Silence engulfs the chapel. No one speaks. Time freezes—or maybe just for me. Solitair continues, unchanged.
"Almost forgot the most important part," she says. "Aura, she's coming here soon."
She savors my reaction, observing. As if she "forgot." She held it back deliberately.
"How do you know that?" I ask, voice colder than I expect.
I know I'm being led, but I can't resist. Demonic instinct—or something else?
"Recently, the sealed Demon Sage Qual was slain," she says. "By none other than Frieren the Slayer, with her human disciple."
Her words ring true. Solitair, a walking lie, makes this too credible to doubt. A human disciple confirms it—the drunk monk's plan worked.
"Aura-sama, it's likely true," Stroh adds. "The village letter mentioned the same."
He senses my state, clarifying. So that's what he meant to say earlier. If I'd heard sooner, I wouldn't look this foolish.
"They're heading north," Solitair continues. "They'll reach here soon."
Frieren's coming, per Solitair, who's "talked" to many humans. Probably true. But—
"So what?" I ask. "Why tell me?"
What's her gain? It's irrelevant to her research, too calculated for curiosity. And—
"I'm here to back you, Aura," she says. "I don't think you'll lose, of course."
A blatant lie—she expects me to lose, that's why she's here.
"I want to see the end of your human-demon coexistence fairytale," she says. "Its tragic conclusion, someday. But not now."
Truth and lies intertwine as she reveals her goal. A warped contradiction—helping coexistence to prove it's doomed, exposing it to my face. A deranged monster.
"Above all, you're one of my few friends," she says. "Helping friends is natural, right?"
Friend. The least fitting word for her, a curse for me. I'm doomed to be swayed by it.
"Friends? You mean accomplices," I snap.
"Calling it 'accomplices' proves you're warped as a demon," she retorts. "You're so interesting, Aura."
I curse my so-called friend, only to be mocked. Why are my "friends" like this?
"By the way, you reek of death," I call as she leaves. "Mind it—this is Freesia."
"Oh? I wore perfume, but maybe it's not enough," she says. "Don't worry, I won't eat here."
Her stench of death, absent in Freesia where demons can't feed, is harmful. My warning gets a skewed reply. We're fatally incompatible.
Solitair glides out, hands behind her back, as if nothing happened. True to her name, it's all a solo game to her.
"Are you okay, Linie?" Stroh asks, rushing to her. "Any injuries?"
"Huh? I'm fine," she replies. "You're such a worrier, Stroh."
Solitair's gone, and Stroh checks on Linie, who's back to normal. Their clash was routine for demons, though a young demon challenging a great one is rare.
"Linie, go with Lügner to keep an eye on her," I instruct. "But no fighting like before."
"Got it. See you, both!"
She grabs a new apple, as if planned, and leaves. Solitair's unlikely to harm us, but caution's needed. Lügner should share that vigilance. Now—
"Stroh, suspend trials and blessings for now. Prepare for wartime measures."
"Understood," he replies. "I'll secure both outside and within."
He responds instantly, proving his worth as Freesia's priest. "Outside and within" needs no explanation.
In my hand, the Scales of Obedience; on my chest, the silver freesia of affection. They shape me. No hesitation.
(This is my country. No one will do as they please.)
Demons, humans, and elves.
All the karma from eighty years ago converges on Freesia now.