[Witch Cult]
Far away, in an ancient and shadowed land, beyond known maps and human whispers, stood the stronghold of the Witch Cult—a forbidden sanctuary known only as "The Church." Shrouded in mystery and steeped in centuries of heresy, the structure loomed like a sleeping titan. Constructed from ancient, weather-beaten obsidian stone, the building resembled a cathedral swallowed by time itself. Tall, narrow windows allowed only slivers of moonlight to pierce through, casting long shadows across the cracked stone floor. The outer walls were encrusted with intricate carvings of long-forgotten saints and sinners, twisted into forms both divine and monstrous. Prayers in lost languages were etched into the archways, and hideous statues with too many limbs or empty eye sockets stared down from above, casting a heavy unease over any who dared enter.
Within its vast, suffocating halls, the air hung thick with incense and something darker—an invisible weight that gripped the heart and whispered into the mind. At the heart of the cathedral was the grand sanctum, a sprawling chamber lit by countless flickering candelabras. The deep crimson carpets stretched to every wall, muffling footsteps and creating the illusion of walking upon blood-soaked ground. Towering columns supported the arched ceiling overhead, and at the very center stood a monumental table hewn from black stone, cracked and weathered by ages of secrets.
Around this ancient table sat eight enigmatic figures clad in heavy, hooded black robes. Their presence was like that of ghosts—watching, waiting, plotting. At the head of the table sat Pandora, the Witch of Vainglory. Her presence alone illuminated the dim hall. Draped in flowing silks of ivory and gold, she exuded a calm, terrible beauty. Her porcelain skin seemed untouched by time, and her eyes shimmered with an unknowable depth—like moonlight reflecting off a frozen lake.
Seated upon a high-backed throne with cushions of violet satin, she observed the archbishops with a cool, calculating gaze. For a moment, silence reigned, filled only by the crackle of wax and flame. Then, with the elegance of a falling snowflake, she parted her lips and spoke.
"My dear archbishops~ I am truly delighted that you have answered my humble summons. It brings me genuine joy to see all of your familiar faces gathered once again. Today, we face matters of great consequence—a mission that may very well shift the tides of destiny for our sacred Witch Cult."
To her right sat Regulus Corneas, the Sin Archbishop of Greed. His appearance defied his cruelty—his face youthful, hair silvery-white, and posture brimming with arrogance. He radiated self-importance like a sun no one had asked for.
"Witch-sama, must we indulge in these pointless formalities? My time is precious. I have wives waiting, and this detainment is nothing short of an insult to my sovereign rights. Please, get to the point. I demand efficiency. To disregard my needs is to dishonor the very divine nature of my existence."
His voice sliced through the chamber like a shard of glass, casting tension over the room like a dark veil. In the far end of the chamber, a hunched figure stirred—a twisted silhouette with disheveled green hair, bulging, manic eyes, and limbs that moved like broken marionette strings. Petelgeuse Romanée-Conti, the Sin Archbishop of Sloth, leaned forward, trembling with fury.
*"Reeeeeegulus! R-RE-GU-LUS!! You—you dare! You DARE, with that insolent, insolent, disgusting little mouth of yours, to speak so—so rudely, so irreverently—to HER?! HER, the immaculate, the untouchable, the DIVINE!! Our glorious, brilliant, unfathomably radiant WITCH!! Her voice—her beautiful, beautiful, beautiful voice—is SACRED, do you hear me?! SACRED!! And you—you wish to CUT IT SHORT?! To silence HER for your selfish, petty, meaningless desires?! YOUR WIVES?! Pah! Worthless! Unworthy! Empty dolls in comparison to HER SPLENDOR!!
What is this?! What is this I hear?! This... this is ARROGANCE! ARROGANCE most foul! It reeks—it REEKS—of SLACKNESS! Of SLOTH! Yes, yes, yes, yes, YES! SLOTH!! SLOTH of the spirit! SLOTH of the heart! SLOTH of the soul! You sluggish, crawling, festering MAGGOT!!
To disrespect HER—our sun, our star, our salvation—such insolence...! It is HERESY! HERESY! HERESY! You—you blasphemous little insect—you dare crawl in HER light, unworthy as you are?! I shall not allow it! I CANNOT ALLOW IT!! SLOTHFUL, SLOTHFUL, SLOTHFUL!!"
His shrill cry echoed, bouncing from stone to stone, trembling the very air with its manic intensity. Regulus stood up violently, his chair screeching backwards. His expression twisted in contempt, crimson fury burning in his narrowed eyes.
"You disgusting, twisted little worm! Do you even comprehend what you are speaking to? Me? ME?! I, who shine like a celestial beacon among the filth of this world—am being addressed by a slobbering, shrieking fool like you?! How dare you raise your voice, your revolting, flailing voice, in MY direction?! The very fact that your heart still dares to beat in MY presence is proof of my unrivaled, unmatched, unequaled patience and grace!
I am Regulus Corneas! I am absolute! I am divine! Every breath you draw in my presence is an offense I choose, yes CHOOSE, to overlook! But do not push me, do not tempt fate with your quivering tongue and spastic limbs! For if I so wish it—if I so much as blink—you will be reduced to particles, shattered and erased, your pitiful essence scattered like ash in the wind! You are NOTHING. Do you hear me? NOTHING!"
The air in the cathedral crackled, charged with the weight of animosity. The archbishops—avatars of sin itself—sat on the edge of eruption, and yet, Pandora merely smiled, her expression serene, untouched. Her fingers, pale and elegant, curled lightly over the armrest of her throne.
She had expected this. And perhaps, she welcomed it.
At these words, one of the three figures standing at the leftmost corner of the hall let out a low, throaty chuckle that echoed faintly through the stone chamber. It was Lye Batenkaitos, the Archbishop who bore the title and burden of Gluttony. His expression was unreadable, his pupils lifeless as ever, reflecting only a void of maddening hunger. With slow, almost mechanical movements, he turned toward his fellow Archbishops. Then, in a tone that slithered between sarcasm and genuine wonder, he whispered:
"Rights... oh, these curious little things they keep rambling on about... rights, yes. What do they feel like, I wonder? Are they sweet? Bitter? Do they crunch between your teeth, or melt like sorrow on the tongue? Do they fill your stomach, or do they starve you more than silence ever could?"
He chuckled again, soft and unsettling, as if tasting the very absurdity of the concept.
Capella Emerada Lugunica—the Archbishop of Lust—shifted her posture languidly. Her porcelain skin shimmered beneath the chandelier's light, and her presence was both magnetic and grotesque, like a venomous flower in full bloom. Just as she parted her lips to speak, Pandora raised her hand. The gesture was delicate, graceful, and yet it carried an unspoken authority that quelled the room instantly.
All sound ceased. It was as if time itself bowed before her. The murmurs, the rustling of cloaks, even the breath of the Archbishops—all fell into a sudden hush. Pandora, her expression calm and composed, continued as though the interruption had never occurred. Her voice floated through the hall, honeyed and serene.
"According to the most recent intelligence gathered by our loyal agents, the sacred figure we've pursued across continents and decades—the Miko—has finally emerged. Her existence, her very presence, is a divine benediction. A beacon in this wretched world. And so, my dear Archbishops, we must claim her."
Regulus Corneas leaned forward from his obsidian throne, golden eyes narrowing with sudden interest. The ever-demanding, ever-arrogant Archbishop of Greed spoke with less disdain than usual, his curiosity piqued.
"The Miko? Hmph. And where exactly has she decided to appear? Who is this girl that has all of you so breathless with anticipation?"
Pandora tilted her head slightly, the corners of her lips rising into a cryptic smile. "Far to the west, in the mist-choked highlands of a land known as Kararagi. A country forgotten by time and cloaked in legends. But she is not alone. Another force—bold and foolish—is already seeking her. They intend to reach her before we do. A mistake. One they will regret. Which is why, Regulus... Capella... I am entrusting this mission to the two of you—my fiercest blades. Find the Miko. Seize her. And bring her home."
Her voice dropped an octave, becoming as cold and sharp as a dagger.
"Further details about the girl will be revealed when the time is ripe. For now, make preparations. The hour draws near."
An oppressive silence settled across the room like fog rolling over a battlefield. The Archbishops sat in contemplative stillness, their thoughts steeped in ambition, their hearts filled with twisted yearning. Within them, the old hunger awoke—the ancient drive to act, to destroy, to reshape the world in their image. The wheels of the Witch Cult were groaning to life once more.
Pandora's gaze traveled beyond the circle of senior Archbishops, toward the back of the cathedral-like chamber. There, in the cradle of shadows, sat a young man—still and silent. Lucas Veilhart. A name not yet known to the world, but already whispered with reverence within the Cult. He was a paradox: composed yet volatile, quiet but never meek. Beneath the surface of his calm eyes burned a storm of ambition, a hunger not unlike Lye's, but sharpened by intellect and patience.
Pandora's voice echoed again, low and commanding, resonating through the hall like a sacred hymn.
"Lucas. You will be the shield against the coming storm. Stop those who would interfere. If you accept, I shall offer you that which has long awaited its rightful bearer—the final Authority of Sin. The Authority of Pride."
Her words struck like lightning. Within Lucas, something ancient and desperate stirred. Mana surged violently through his veins, answering the call before his mind could catch up. But he kept his expression neutral, his breath steady. Power was not only a gift—it was a weight. And he was prepared to carry it.
"Yes, Witch-sama. I've waited for this moment all my life. I accept with gratitude... and pride."
A dark, approving smile blossomed across Pandora's face.
"Your resolve pleases me, Lucas. Remain here after the meeting. You shall be anointed."
The gathering continued, the energy within the chamber growing heavier with each passing command. Pandora assigned tasks with surgical precision, her voice weaving the Cult's next steps like a tapestry of war. Each Archbishop received a mission tailored to their nature. Yet none were as perilous or vital as those given to Regulus and Capella.
Regulus, predictably, bristled. He ranted, questioned the orders, and launched into one of his infamous tirades about personal truth and sovereignty. Yet despite his noise, he accepted the mission. Perhaps it was pride, or perhaps greed—but he did not refuse.
Capella, meanwhile, bowed her head in absolute silence. Her eyes gleamed with dark reverence. Of all those in the room, her loyalty to Pandora was perhaps the most fanatical. She asked no questions. She never had to.
The Witch Cult's council had concluded, but something older and darker had only just begun to stir.
When the meeting drew to a close, the grand chamber gradually emptied. The flickering candlelight grew dimmer as each figure exited, leaving behind only two. As the last echoes of departing footsteps faded into the heavy air, darkness returned to reclaim the hall. Pandora and Lucas remained alone. A profound silence took hold—so deep it seemed even the walls held their breath.
"Lucas~ thank you again for waiting. How wonderfully patient you are~" Pandora said, her voice a melodic whisper, silken and airy. The way she spoke, soft as lace yet edged with mystery, carried a dual meaning—part praise, part quiet provocation.
Lucas moved forward slowly, each footstep deliberate and echoing faintly across the polished stone. His platinum blonde hair shimmered in the candlelight like threads of spun gold. In that dim glow, he looked like something out of legend—a saint graced by sorrow, a forgotten hero restored to purpose. Determination radiated from his eyes, unwavering.
"Witch-sama... I ask of you—grant me what is rightfully mine," he said, and with reverent grace, he dropped to one knee, bowing low in solemn deference.
Pandora's blue eyes fluttered shut. Silence reigned for a heartbeat—and then, as if pulled from another plane, a black box materialized in her delicate hands. Its surface was carved with runes ancient beyond time, and along its corners ran hairline cracks glowing faintly red, like veins filled with molten ember. This was no ordinary relic—it housed the long-lost Authority of Pride, seized from Stride Vollachia during his final breath. It was a vessel of terrifying grace, a symbol of a power both sacred and ruinous. The seals etched across it reflected those Flugel once devised to lock away the Authority of Sloth. Only the chosen could open it—but whether the box cared for such qualifications was another matter. Pandora certainly did not.
Her fingers danced across the box's surface. As she traced the seal, the runes lit up one by one—until, with a sharp, crystalline crack, the ancient bindings broke. From within the box, a luminous beam of red and white light surged upward. It twisted and swirled in the air like a sentient flame, curious and conscious. The entire room pulsed with the glow, soaked in ivory and crimson.
Raising her arms slowly, Pandora began an incantation. Her voice resonated like a forgotten hymn, echoing as though the walls themselves remembered the words.
"A sin... may only be cleansed through suffering. Pain is the crucible through which man confronts his truth. Pride, when unearned, is not a gift but a burden—a trial, a curse. To those who falter under the weight of their own soul, pride is the herald of collapse. A stolen Authority distances the bearer from the divine. Thus, any who seek its power must first brave their own abyss. Only those who understand their own agony may wield the right to govern others."
The beam of light floated toward Lucas like a whisper given form. The instant it brushed his skin, a shockwave of thoughts erupted in his mind:
"Who are you? What have you done to earn this power? What purpose does your pride serve but to elevate yourself above others?"
His mind cracked. Memories long buried surged from the depths—each more vivid than the last. The rejection he faced in his childhood. The ridicule endured in youth. The moments of silence where he was overshadowed, forgotten, dismissed. They poured in like poison, each thought sharper than the last.
His eyes welled with tears, yet none escaped. He clenched his teeth so hard it felt they would crack. A crushing pressure slammed into his chest. His legs trembled violently, but still—he remained kneeling.
"If pain is the toll for wielding this power, then I welcome it all. I will bleed for it, scream for it, break for it. But I will not yield."
The moment those words passed through his heart, the light enveloped him completely. The chamber seemed to pulse with a heartbeat not its own. The air turned dense, time itself hesitated, and in that suspended moment—
A scream tore through the stillness. But this was no mere cry of agony. It was the scream of something being born. Of a soul transforming.
Lucas's old self shattered. From those fragments, something wholly new emerged.
When he opened his eyes again, they shimmered with interlaced threads of red and white light. A new aura rippled outward from his body—foreign, commanding, immense. He was no longer just Lucas.
A new Sin Archbishop had awakened.
The Authority of Pride had nested itself within Lucas's soul as if it had always belonged there. Where others had fought tooth and nail to bear the strain of their Authorities, Lucas accepted it—and the Authority, in turn, accepted him. His resolve, his control, his tightly bound ambition—all formed a perfect vessel. For him, the trial was brief. The transition, seamless.
Petelgeuse Romanee-Conti, the fallen Sloth Archbishop, had crumbled under the weight of his own power. His Authority had clashed with his fractured self until madness claimed him. His memory lingered like an open wound.
But Lucas... Lucas was different. The Authority did not tear at his mind, did not erode his will. It embraced him. Fused with him. As if his entire life had been shaped for this single moment.
As if he had been born not to follow—but to rise.
The silence that followed was not emptiness. It was reverence. The birth of something vast, terrible, and undeniable.
Lucas stood slowly. His gaze lifted. The air around him shimmered. The Age of Pride had begun.
Pandora lowered her head with a pleased expression after witnessing Lucas's transformation. A smile, cool and composed, curled her lips as she spoke with frigid elegance:
"You may go now, newly anointed Archbishop of Pride."
Her voice carried a graceful chill, as if cloaked in silk and ice, echoing slightly through the vastness of the ancient chamber.
"But let me caution you... this Authority has not yet fully bonded with your body. It will take time for your vessel to adapt. Use it only when you have no other choice. Recklessness will lead you down a path from which there is no return."
Lucas rose in silence. His eyes were calm, yet a fire of purpose smoldered deep within them, sharp and unwavering. His breaths were steady, his movements precise. Each step he took reverberated with quiet conviction.
"You can rest assured, Pandora-sama. I will heed your advice," he replied, bowing his head with measured respect, his voice steady despite the storm of ambition inside him.
He began to walk across the great stone hall, the polished marble beneath his feet mirroring fleeting glimpses of his silhouette. His footsteps echoed with quiet weight, like drums of fate in a forgotten temple. As he disappeared into the dim corridors of the church, the very air around him shimmered faintly with the residue of his newfound power. Shadows wrapped around him like a cloak, drawn to the essence of Pride that now pulsed within his being.,
Pandora's eyes followed his retreating figure until he vanished completely. Then, she turned and gracefully returned to her throne. The hall, cold and made of worn stone, seemed to sink into a deeper stillness. As her gaze drifted toward the cracked ceiling above, whispers of the past stirred in her mind—ghosts of battles long concluded, voices of betrayal and ambition.
A quiet laugh escaped her lips—low, crystalline, and tinged with memory.
"That won't be enough to stop you, will it, Flugel~?" she whispered, a sly smile spreading. "After all... you belong to me. And it will be me who kills you."
—
Meanwhile, in a distant corner of the continent, a very different gathering had just concluded. The long and intricate conversation between Subaru and Anastasia had come to an end. Their exchange had woven together not only politics, but ancient powers, long-lost truths, and the gathering shadows of a coming storm. The tension of their debate lingered like smoke, leaving all present feeling mentally and physically spent.
Beatrice had drifted in and out of light naps, her tiny head bobbing slightly, occasionally resting on the edge of her book without ever quite dropping it. She had let out a few quiet yawns, but her small form remained tucked in, fighting sleep with the stubborn pride of a scholar. Julius, in contrast, had remained awake through sheer force of will. Though fatigue clung to his eyes and his posture betrayed a subtle weariness, his mind stayed sharp, his senses alert to any hint of danger or deception.
The sky had darkened, now painted with stars like tiny wounds in the fabric of night. The dragon carriages, having endured a long and grueling journey, had begun to slow and groan with fatigue. Their breath came in visible puffs, and their scales had lost some of their usual luster. Seeing this, the group agreed to make camp.
A quiet clearing was chosen, shielded by tall trees and natural ridgelines. The perimeter was secured with practiced precision, and preparations began. Meili and Rem took on the task of preparing dinner. Their opposing natures—Meili's mischievous energy and Rem's serene diligence—created a peculiar but effective harmony. Meili hummed tunelessly as she chopped vegetables, while Rem stirred the pot with steady hands and a calm expression.
Subaru, meanwhile, had gone with Julius to gather firewood. The forest was tranquil, painted in silver by the moonlight filtering through the canopy. The crisp night air carried the scent of pine and damp soil. Branches cracked softly underfoot, and each breath felt suspended in a moment that could last forever.
"Subaru," Julius said as he snapped a dry branch, "I've been meaning to ask... do you use any particular weapon?"
Subaru paused mid-step, the question catching him off guard. Then, with a small shrug and a knowing smile, he summoned Etherfang from his Inventory. In an instant, the twin daggers shimmered into being in his hands, pulsing with a faint reddish energy. Their edges glinted with predatory elegance, reflecting the moonlight with a gleam that hinted at danger.
"These twin daggers are my primary weapons," he replied evenly, watching Julius's reaction.
Julius shot him a glance, his violet eyes narrowing in subtle surprise. "We traveled together in the dragon carriage, and yet I sensed no weapon on you. How did you manage that?"
Subaru looked away, feigning modesty. The truth—that his abilities came from a supernatural system tied to death and rebirth—was impossible to reveal. So, he fell back on a well-practiced half-truth.
"Ah... I conceal them using my mana. I'm more of an assassin-type fighter, so stealth is kind of essential. People like me aren't meant to be noticed, right?"
Julius nodded slowly, clearly intrigued. "I see. That implies a remarkable degree of mana control. Quite impressive for someone untrained in traditional knightly arts. However..."
He paused, his tone shifting slightly, becoming more cautious.
"You know I share a bond with spirits. When they're near you, they become... uneasy. They sense something dangerous—something unnatural. It feels like you're carrying something that repels them. Even the lesser spirits around us keep their distance. Subaru, is there something you're not telling me?"
His gaze was calm but piercing, the kind of look that could peel away lies without force. The night grew quieter around them, the question hanging in the air like mist. Subaru's grip on his daggers tightened slightly—not in threat, but in the recognition that evasion would no longer suffice. If he wanted to keep his secrets, he'd need more than clever words—he'd need trust, timing, and luck.
And all three were running thin.
Subaru's gaze suddenly grew heavy, a shadow crossing his features as his expression shifted from neutral to pensive. He averted his eyes, looking downward, a sign that something had stirred within him—something deeper than words could immediately express. In the silence that stretched between them, he spoke inwardly, reaching for the voice that had guided him so often before.
"Flugel? Would you like to answer this one for me?"
Flugel's sigh echoed through the corridors of Subaru's mind—a soft, familiar sound tinged with the weariness of age and the weight of long-forgotten knowledge. Despite the fatigue in his tone, there was an unmistakable layer of wisdom nestled within.
"This situation may very well stem from my presence," Flugel began. "The lesser spirits might be reacting negatively due to the fundamental incompatibility between their nature and the essence I carry within you. It's not surprising—they're sensitive to such disruptions. However, greater spirits or those bound by contract won't react the same way. They are more resilient, more attuned to the flow of deeper energies. I am aware that you currently lack a formal pact with Beatrice, but claiming that you still share a bond with her would be the wiser course. Her name carries weight—it may help you appear less threatening in the eyes of other spirits. Julius included."
Subaru inhaled deeply, steadying his nerves, and then turned to face Julius. His eyes retained their serious gleam, unwavering despite the uncertainty.
"I'm not entirely sure what's causing this, Julius," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "But I do have—or had—a contract with Beatrice. You're familiar with her. It's possible that whatever you're sensing is due to her influence lingering around me. My connection with her might be affecting how nearby spirits react."
Julius raised his eyebrows slightly but then nodded with understanding, his expression relaxing.
"Ah, of course. Beatrice-sama is no ordinary spirit. Her very presence can cause ripple effects among lesser spirits. That would explain the disturbances."
Subaru gave a small, affirming nod in return. But the exchange didn't end there. Julius seemed to hesitate briefly before continuing, a new thought forming clearly in his mind.
"You mentioned earlier that your combat style leans toward assassination tactics, right? Agile, precise, unpredictable. I'd like to test that. What do you say—how about a short sparring match later today? Just a friendly bout, nothing too serious. Are you up for it?"
Subaru paused, weighing the offer. It wasn't just about combat—it was about understanding, growth, and perhaps even earning Julius's respect. Just as he was about to answer, that familiar voice echoed again within him. Flugel, once more, gave his input:
"You should accept. Opportunities like this don't come often. A Spirit Knight is not someone you encounter on a casual basis. Julius is not only skilled with the sword; his synchronization with spirits makes him an entirely different kind of opponent. And for someone like you—a curse bearer—it's vital to understand how you interact with spirit-aligned adversaries. This duel could illuminate your weaknesses in a way no lesson ever could."
The logic was sound. Subaru let out a controlled breath and nodded slowly.
"I have no reason to turn you down, Julius. I agree—it'll be a valuable experience for both of us."
Julius's face lit up with a pleased, respectful smile. "Excellent. I look forward to it. Let's both do our best to learn from it."
With the matter settled for now, the group turned their attention to more practical needs. They made their way into the surrounding forest, carefully selecting dry branches, kindling, and brush. Despite the mundane nature of the task, there was a quiet camaraderie in the way they moved—measured, efficient, and synchronized. Within a short time, their arms were filled with firewood, and they made their way back to the camp.
As Subaru stepped back into the familiar clearing of the campsite, a small, energetic figure darted toward him, her voice ringing out with glee:
"Subaru-nii! You're finally back! You have no idea—Rem-nee was super mad when you were gone!"
Meili's bright, mischievous voice cut through the air like sunlight breaking through clouds. Her energy seemed to charge the atmosphere instantly. Behind her, a set of deliberate, softer footsteps approached. Rem appeared, her brows gently furrowed—not in anger, but in mild exasperation.
"I wasn't really angry," she said with a small sigh. "It's just that Meili managed to tip over the stew pot while I was away for just a moment."
Subaru glanced at Meili, who gave a sheepish little grin as she scratched her head playfully. "Teehee~ It wasn't my fault! The pot was super slippery."
A chuckle escaped Subaru's lips as he reached out and gave her a light flick on the forehead. Meili recoiled with an exaggerated squeak.
"Ow! That hurt! You're so mean, Subaru-nii!"
He grinned. "That was a warning shot. Be more careful next time, yeah?"
Turning to Rem, he rolled up his sleeves with determination. "Let me help, Rem. I've still got energy to spare—let's fix this together."
Rem's stern expression softened, replaced by a warm, appreciative smile. "That would be a great help, Subaru-kun. Thank you."
And with that, the two of them headed toward the cooking area, their steps light and cooperative, as the camp bustled gently behind them—a moment of calm before whatever storm lay ahead.
Together, they prepared a rich and fragrant vegetable stew. The scent of simmering broth and roasted roots filled the air as Subaru carefully followed Rem's detailed instructions. His usual clumsiness was replaced by an unusual attentiveness, as he chopped each vegetable to the right size and stirred with deliberate care. Rem offered small nods of approval here and there, while Meili occasionally leaned over to peek at their progress, offering playful remarks that earned amused glances from Rem. Their teamwork, despite the contrast in personalities, flowed with surprising ease.
Once the meal was finished and shared among the caravan members, the atmosphere settled into a warm, satisfied quiet. Bellies full and spirits calmed, one by one the group began to retreat to their wagons for the night. The stars had begun to dot the dark sky, and the last vestiges of twilight surrendered to the calm veil of night.
The night watch had been assigned to Julius, Elsa, and Subaru. With the fire crackling softly at the heart of the camp and the occasional chirp of crickets in the background, the three took up their roles, spacing out along the perimeter. Subaru eventually found himself wandering toward Elsa, his steps soft on the grassy ground. The cool night air kissed their skin, carrying with it the subtle scent of pine and dew. They stood in companionable silence for a moment, listening to the hush of the forest around them.
Breaking the silence, Subaru exhaled. "Isn't it frustrating? Always having to keep yourself in check like this?"
Elsa didn't answer immediately. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts, then let out a long, quiet sigh. "Of course it is. Holding back all day... suppressing my aura, moving like I'm half-asleep... it's like forcing myself into a straightjacket. It's not just inconvenient—it's suffocating. There's a part of me that constantly craves the edge of a blade, the rhythm of battle. Containing that—it's agony."
Her voice had an undertone of tension, like a caged predator pacing just beneath the surface. Subaru nodded slowly, sympathizing with her restlessness.
"Then once we get to our next stop, I promise you—we'll train. As much as you want, for as long as you want. I owe you at least that much."
Elsa turned her head toward him, surprised but pleased. Her expression softened. Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she stepped closer. Her hand rose, brushing gently against his cheek with surprising tenderness.
"You're kinder than you let on," she murmured. Her finger traced a small line down his jaw before she pulled away. "I'll hold you to that promise."
Subaru let out a faint laugh, still feeling the warmth of her touch. "Actually, I wanted to ask—tomorrow morning, I'll be sparring with Julius. Want to come watch?"
Elsa's smile shifted subtly, a flicker of interest sparking behind her eyes. "That, I definitely don't want to miss. Julius Juukulius... he's a fascinating opponent. Skilled, composed, and with a variety of techniques."
Subaru raised an eyebrow, curious. "You speak like you've seen him fight before. Have you two crossed paths?"
Elsa's smile widened, and her gaze turned toward the trees, lost for a moment in memory. "Yes. A long time ago, under very different circumstances. We fought—just once. I won that encounter, though I doubt he remembers it clearly. He's changed since then, improved a lot from what I can sense. But I still believe I could defeat him again. That's why... I want you to test him for me. Push him. See how far he's come. Can you do that for me?"
Subaru's expression shifted from surprise to understanding. With a small, knowing smile, he nodded. "I will. Leave it to me."
And so, under the blanket of stars, the three watchmen continued their quiet vigil. The fire flickered in the distance, casting dancing shadows across the camp. Each footstep was measured, every breath deliberate. The darkness of the forest loomed just beyond the circle of light, but none of them faltered. The night was still, but alert—its silence held not peace, but preparation.