—I will die for this man.
In that moment, she meant it with every fiber of her being.
/
"His left leg has been amputated. And his right eye… it will never see the light again."
The healer’s words triggered a vivid resurrection of the tragedy in Atri’s mind—the nightmare that had unfolded before her during the battle against the Life Reaper.
Wolka, collapsed and drenched in blood.
Liesel, screaming in despair.
Yulitia, blown back and writhing in agony.
And herself, slumped on the ground, paralyzed by shock.
The southern tribe where Atri was born—the Arsvalem—was a warrior society that had dedicated its entire history to the art of battle. Every member of the tribe worshipped combat and took absolute pride in their martial prowess. Man or woman, it made no difference; from the moment they were born, they were groomed to be elite warriors. By the time they reached the age of reason, they were taught to grip a knife before they ever touched a spoon or a pen, and were already hunting small game. Atri was a product of that upbringing.
By her own admission, Atri was strong. Not a single person her age could stand as her equal. She had brought grown men to their knees, and at the age of twelve, she had slain an Ogre—a feat normally reserved for the adult rite of passage. The clan chief, known simply as Granny, had taken a special interest in Atri, attempting to pass on every ounce of her experience and technique with a mixture of harsh discipline and deep, hidden affection.
According to Granny, for the Arsvalem, the battlefield was a sanctuary where one communed with the divine.
To run across the earth with history and pride on one’s back; to reach for the heavens amidst a spray of fresh blood; to burn one’s life and become a demon god. Those who fought beside you were siblings bound by blood and spirit; a comrade’s wound was your own, and by extension, a wound against the entire tribe. We are those who crush every foe with our bodies alone, who shield our kin from every obstacle, and who reign with overwhelming force to carve a path through all of creation.
Among Granny’s many teachings, one particular lesson remained seared into Atri’s memory.
"Listen well, Atri. You must find someone—someone you can truly say, 'I will die for this person' about."
Granny’s stories, usually told while she ostentatiously puffed on her kiseru pipe, were often too complex for a child to grasp.
"It doesn't matter if it's a master you serve, a comrade you fight beside, or a man you love. To give your everything—every strand of hair, every shard of bone, every drop of blood, and the whole of your soul—to scatter your life for their sake… that is the highest honor we can achieve."
"...Did you die too, Granny?"
"Who do you think is standing in front of you? Well, there are many ways to 'scatter one's life.' In my case, things were entrusted to me. That’s why I endure the shame of living, idly playing at being the clan chief here. But if I can raise a child like you, then perhaps there was some meaning in my failure to die."
"?"
Atri had been eight or nine at the time. It wasn't the sort of talk meant for a child, but even though the meaning eluded her, the words were etched permanently into her soul.
—I will die for this man. Every strand of hair, every shard of bone, every drop of blood, and the whole of my soul.
She wondered if the day would ever come when she truly understood what that meant.
/
She didn't remember the act of moving.
Before she knew it, Atri had bolted out of the Chryscles Holy Church on pure instinct, only to collapse in the shadows of an unfamiliar alleyway.
"Ugh… guh…"
She pressed a hand to her mouth and leaned heavily against the wall. Her vision reeled. She couldn't tell if she was standing or crouching.
—His left leg has been amputated. And his right eye… it will never see the light again.
She felt sick.
She felt like she was going to vomit.
"U-ah… aaaaahhh…!"
She hadn't been able to do anything.
She hadn't defeated the enemy, and she hadn't protected her comrade. In that moment, Atri realized with crushing finality that she had accomplished nothing at all.
The Life Reaper—a monster of despair that harvested the lives of warriors, an existence that even Arsvalem blood could not overcome. She had heard the legends. Countless ancestors had encountered the creature in the past, and not a single one had ever returned.
That was why she had sworn to protect them all. She hadn't feared death, and she possessed the pride to believe she was capable. That was what it meant to be Arsvalem.
And yet.
The image resurfaced.
The sight of Wolka shielding her, sinking into a pool of his own blood.
Was it carelessness? Arrogance? Even a blow backed by Atri's entire being hadn't been enough to pierce the Life Reaper's immortality. Instead, it had exploited the opening of her heavy swing with an instantaneous counter-spell.
A torrent of black, irrational magic should have torn her body to shreds in a heartbeat.
Time is impartial. The moment where time stretches and the world slows down—that split second never came. Reality was simply thrust upon her with cold, mechanical cruelty.
But instead of her body being rent asunder, there was only a small impact.
From the side.
—Wolka?
For a fleeting second in the corner of her eye, she thought she saw his face—usually as stoic as her own—twisted into a mask of desperate resolve.
And then, right before her eyes, Wolka was torn apart.
"Nngh… ugh… uuuuuuhhh…!"
The memory was seared into her senses. The sound of rending flesh and snapping bone, the impossible spray of crimson blood. It had happened right in front of her, close enough to touch.
It was Atri's fault.
Because of Atri.
It was a sin that should never have occurred. To the Arsvalem, who lived for martial pride, being protected by a comrade to the point of their near-death—allowing someone to be broken because of your own weakness—was an absolute taboo. It was beyond mere shame or dishonor. Granny had taught her that it was a 'sin' loathed by the gods themselves.
It should never have happened.
—That’s why you mustn't become like me. You'll spend the rest of your life regretting it.
The nausea wouldn't stop.
"Ngh…! U-kuuuugh…!"
She felt a sudden, violent impulse to smash the wall she leaned against. The regret of failing her comrade, the frustration of her helplessness, the humiliation of her sin—but that wasn't all. The emotions eroding Atri's chest weren't limited to pain.
As she shook with sobs, her nails gouging into the stone, a completely contradictory emotion was threatening to drive her mad from the depths of her remorse.
It was a helpless, overwhelming sense of reverence for Wolka, who had staked his life to save her.
When Wolka stood alone against the Life Reaper, Atri should have been able to move. He had protected her, after all. An uninjured Atri should have been the one to fight, not the man whose life was already fading.
But she hadn't moved.
She hadn't even thought to move.
Because she couldn't take her eyes off him.
As an Arsvalem, Atri understood—in that moment, Wolka had completely discarded his life. He wasn't fighting to win or to survive; he was fighting solely to protect his comrades by wagering his very existence.
To burn one's life and become a demon god—that was the exact image of the noble warrior her tribe worshipped.
"I found him." The blood in her veins whispered the truth. She had finally found him. Ever since Granny had told her those words, Atri had carried a vague, ideal image of a warrior in the back of her mind. The person Atri wanted to give her everything to was surely, surely someone like—
No. What was she thinking?
Wolka had shielded her. Because of her, he had nearly died and lost his eye and his leg. She had failed to protect him. She had committed a sin unforgivable for an Arsvalem. To feel something akin to 'rapture' in the wake of that tragedy… it was madness.
And yet, the feeling wouldn't fade.
She couldn't resist it.
She yearned for it. She wanted to etch his name, his resolve, his wounds, and his life into her soul. Driven by something that transcended her own will, her entire being was being dyed white.
"Wolka…! Wolkaaaa…!"
The guilt of failing him, and the reverence for the man who had stolen her heart by saving her. Those maddening, obsessive emotions swallowed her whole.
She had no idea how long she stood there crying.
"—Please stop!"
She heard the voice by chance. Her raging heart was finally beginning to settle, and her consciousness drifted back to the surface as she took a deep breath.
"It’s—it’s really not a big deal! I can search for it on my own, so please don't follow me!"
"Oh, come on, it’s faster if we all look together, right? Don't be shy. We’re just bored anyway."
"Yeah, yeah. It’s fine. We’re actually pretty nice guys."
"I really don’t need your help!"
"..."
The distressed voice of a young girl and the flippant, insensitive voices of men.
Atri’s nausea and tears vanished instantly. Her heart, which had been in such turmoil, froze over in a heartbeat. She wiped her face, erased her expression, and moved toward the voices without making a sound.
In a secluded spot just off the main alley, she found exactly what she expected.
"Hmm, maybe it’s not here? Let's try over there. My friends are waiting, so let's all meet up and search together."
"I said I was fine…! P-Please stop following me!"
"That’s cold, especially since we’re so worried. We’re really nice guys, you know?"
"—What are you doing?"
The man spun around in surprise, and the girl—Yulitia—looked instantly relieved.
This was nothing new. Even to Atri, Yulitia was a beautiful and delicate girl. She would clearly grow into a stunning woman. Because of that, she was often harassed by persistent men whenever she walked the city alone.
Because Yulitia was timid and had a hard time saying no, these men often grew bold and aggressive. Chasing away these pests had become the job of Atri and Wolka ever since the party had formed.
These men were a pair, both slightly older than Wolka. They were handsome enough but had a vulgar, light-fingered air about them. They wore Sword & Wand talismans on their belts. Unbelievably, they seemed to be adventurers.
Yulitia scurried behind Atri. Atri didn't miss the way one of the men clicked his tongue, his face souring at the interruption.
"...Oh, are you the friend she was looking for? Good for you, you found her."
The other man spoke with a smirk, his eyes roaming over Atri with an uncomfortably lingering gaze.
"Heh, you're pretty cute too. That’s a bold outfit. You from another country?"
Boring men.
Atri looked away.
"Let’s go."
"Oh—"
She took Yulitia’s hand and started walking back toward the main street. The church’s cross was visible in the distance. She realized she had run quite far. Despite her own pain, Yulitia had chased after her all this way. She really was too kind.
Of course, if these men were the type to give up easily, they wouldn't have been bothering Yulitia in the first place. The one who had clicked his tongue spoke up, his voice growing sharp.
"Huh? Hey, wait a minute. We spent all this time helping you out, the least you could do is—"
The moment the man’s hand reached for Atri’s shoulder, she spun around like a predatory beast. She released a razor-thin edge of killing intent.
"—!?"
"Do not follow us."
The man recoiled, his eyes wide. Atri delivered her final ultimatum with chilling calm.
"—I am currently in a very bad mood."
That was the end of it. Leaving the men frozen and speechless, Atri pulled Yulitia into the crowd of the main thoroughfare.
The men didn't follow. Atri let out a small breath. If they had been any more persistent, she might have actually broken their arms.
"We should get back to the church."
"...Are you okay?" Yulitia asked softly.
A faint smile touched Atri’s lips, though it couldn't hide the self-reproach in Yulitia’s eyes.
"I’m sorry… I caused more trouble for you, even now…"
"You should have just drawn your sword," Atri said. "You’re a hundred times stronger than them."
"Ahaha…"
Yulitia had been treated cruelly by her older brothers in the Royal Capital because of her genius with the blade. That trauma, combined with frequent harassment from men, had left her terrified of men in that age group.
Wolka and a few close acquaintances in the Holy City were the only exceptions.
"…Um. Atri-san, are you… alright?"
"..."
Atri wasn't an intellectual, but she wasn't so dense that she didn't understand the question.
"—I’m alright."
Yes—she was alright now. Her voice was steady, and the nausea had passed. After weeping over those overwhelming emotions again and again, Atri finally understood the truth.
"I’m sorry. I think I’ve gone a little crazy."
"Eh…?"
"I regret what happened, and I’m frustrated, and I’m sad. But, more than any of that—"
She had failed to protect him, so she was sad. That was natural. She had caused his injuries, so she felt guilt. That, too, was natural.
And—because she had witnessed a noble warrior whose soul burned with such intensity, her heart had been stolen. That was the most natural thing of all.
She whispered the truth.
"He was beautiful."
Those were Atri’s honest feelings. The emotion wasn't a mistake. She realized that even if they seemed like contradictions, they were perfectly aligned.
"The way he burned his life… the way he wagered everything… it was beautiful. Truly beautiful."
"…,"
"It’s strange, right? Even though I couldn't do a thing. But this is the blood that flows through me."
She yearned for him precisely because of the tragedy and the sorrow.
"—I don't think I can think about anything but Wolka anymore."
She wondered how she looked to Yulitia. Did she look broken? Insane? She wondered if she was managed a proper smile.
/
"—I don't think I can think about anything but Wolka anymore."
The moment Yulitia heard those words, she felt the darkness in her own heart being sliced away.
It was a staggering realization. Looking at Atri—who wore a faint, dreamlike smile—Yulitia couldn't bring herself to think her friend was wrong.
Because Yulitia felt exactly the same way.
Even though she had been useless, even though her weakness was to blame, the image of Wolka in that moment—the pinnacle of the sword he had reached by throwing away everything—was seared into her soul.
No matter the regret, the sorrow, or the self-loathing, she couldn't shake the longing that scorched her chest.
"Let’s go. We have to go back."
"Yes… let's."
Yulitia had thought these feelings were wrong. She had tried to suppress them. But seeing Atri’s resolve made her own heart waver. She was too young to know how to handle these emotions.
The only thing she knew for certain was this:
It was sublime.
Wolka’s sword, which had struck down even the Life Reaper, was a thing of beauty that felt as if it didn't belong to this world.
/
Later, as she stood before the sleeping Wolka in his hospital room, Atri’s emotions reached their final form. She finally understood Granny’s words from the bottom of her heart.
—I will die for this man. Every strand of hair, every shard of bone, every drop of blood, and the whole of my soul.
"Oh, that reminds me, Atri. You’re only twelve, but since you killed an Ogre, you’re officially an adult. I should teach you one of our tribe’s most important duties."
"What is it?"
"If you ever meet a man strong enough to make you think, 'He’s the one'..."
"Yeah?"
"Take his seed."
"Seed?"
"I mean make a baby. In our tribe, many of the best warriors find their honor (die) while they’re still young. That’s why passing on the Arsvalem blood is a sacred mission."
"…How do you make a baby?"
"Well, first you pin him down, strip him bare, and then you just… right down to the marrow of his bones…"
It seemed Granny had also passed on quite a bit of unnecessary information.