"Senior, wait! Wait for me...!"
She was dreaming.
In a darkness where she couldn't tell front from back, Wolka was drifting further and further away. Eventually, his figure vanished into the distance beyond her reach, leaving Yulitia all alone in the void. It was a recurring nightmare—the sight of him disappearing into the unknown.
"No, I don't want this! Don't leave me behind!"
No matter how desperately Yulitia reached out, the distance between them grew by the exact length of her stride.
No matter how desperately she ran, Wolka remained just as far ahead.
"I’ll work hard! I’ll be a good girl, I promise!"
This was the manifestation of the vast gulf Yulitia felt between herself and the man she admired. It was the physical expression of the indelible irritation and fear that had settled like dregs at the bottom of her heart.
She screamed.
"Senior—!"
She jolted awake.
The early morning light had begun to dispel the shadows, revealing the familiar ceiling of her own room.
"Ha... ha..."
She gasped for air, chest heaving. When she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, she found herself drenched in a sticky sweat despite the cool morning air. Her next breath wasn't one of relief; it was a cold, trembling exhale that felt as though it might freeze in her lungs.
She sat up, her body feeling leaden. She hadn't slept well at all, but the sheer horror of the dream left her with no desire to close her eyes again.
Wolka. He was the swordsman Yulitia revered and loved more than anyone else in the world. He was the path she had walked thus far, and the only path she intended to walk from now on.
The silver lightning she had witnessed during his duel still flickered in the back of her mind, as vivid as the moment it happened. It was a transcendent technique that ignored the constraints of space and physically severed magical formulas—things that should have been impossible to touch. It was the pinnacle of the sword, a state he described as "turning the envisioned future into reality." Every time he immersed himself in battle, it felt as though he was reclaiming the sensation of the day he slew the Reaper, becoming one with that divine lethality.
Normally, such a display would have only deepened Yulitia’s obsession with the Quick-draw Technique.
In truth, she loved his sword with every fiber of her being. She believed the Quick-draw Technique was the most beautiful, refined art in existence. On the night of his victory, the memory of that silver flash had been so dazzling that her heart wouldn't stop pounding, keeping her awake until the early hours of the morning.
But once the initial excitement faded, a small, cold pain remained—like a needle pricking her heart.
Wolka was a broken swordsman. He had lost an eye and a leg; his body was a map of limitations. If he fought with everything he had, his prosthetic would shatter, leaving him immobilized.
Yet, in those fleeting moments when he could fight properly, his skills reached the "State of No-mind."
He had reached a height where Yulitia, no matter how much she stretched out her hand, could no longer touch him.
Of course, she was happy his swordsmanship hadn't been lost. As his disciple, she was immensely proud of a master who continued to evolve despite his wounds. But simultaneously, a voice in her heart cried out: I don't want this. I don't want to be left behind. Please don't leave me alone.
It was a wretched thought. It was as if she were wishing he wouldn't get any stronger.
Wolka had suffered irreparable injuries because of her. He lived in constant pain because of her. To harbor such selfish feelings—thoughts that denied his very way of life—was loathsome.
Yulitia was nowhere near him in technique, nowhere near Atri in strength, and nowhere near Liesel in magic. She possessed no unique weapon. Within Silvery Grey, she was the only one who was expendable.
"Ugh... hng..."
She was a genius once praised by her father, who claimed she would one day become a Holy Knight. The girl who had spent her life effortlessly overtaking everyone in her path was now drowning in desperation.
"I'm sorry, Senior... I'm so sorry. You're the one in pain, you're the one trying so hard, and yet all I can think about is myself... I don't want to be left behind, I don't want to be alone... I'm so selfish... I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
For the first time in her thirteen years, she was a prisoner to the terror of being surpassed and abandoned.
It was the second day of Wolka's recovery.
The first day had been chaotic—the Saint of Hakua had hijacked his bed, the schemes of a vampire named Alphana had come to light, and he had nearly been crushed by his overbearing companions. Still, the lines of his sanity had held.
Today, Yulitia was taking over for Liesel to support him.
Or so he thought.
"Yulitia."
"..."
"Yulitia? Hello?"
Something was clearly off.
She was "spacing out" in the most literal sense. She had arrived early with a heavy declaration of "You don't have to do a single thing, Senior!" which was normal enough. But while clearing the breakfast dishes or cleaning the room, he kept catching her standing stock-still, staring into the middle distance.
Even now, she didn't react to his voice. She didn't move an inch.
"Ah—! I-I'm sorry, Senior! Um, did you need something?"
It took several seconds for her to "reboot."
This was definitely strange.
Looking closer, Wolka realized she looked exhausted. Her lovely smile, which usually brightened the room, seemed forced and frail today. Even moving across the room appeared to drain her energy. Her complexion wasn't bad, so it probably wasn't a cold.
He decided to be direct.
"Are you feeling alright? You look tired."
"Eh...?"
"Maybe you overdid it training with Atri yesterday. If you're not feeling well..."
"I-I'm perfectly fine!" Yulitia interrupted, her voice a pitch too high. "I was just... lost in thought! I'm full of energy, really!"
She was a terrible liar. He suspected she was forcing herself to stay because she’d promised to be the one in charge today. Supporting him was supposed to be a low-stress task; she should have prioritized her own health.
"I’m really okay, I promise! I want to be useful to you! I’ll do my best...!"
When she looked at him with a face that suggested she was on the verge of being discarded, he couldn't find the heart to turn her away.
Maybe she’s just having an off day, he thought. Forcing her to rest might be making a mountain out of a molehill. I’ll just keep an eye on her.
"If you start feeling worse, you have to tell me, alright?"
"Y-Yes..."
Her reply was stiff. She looked down, clutching her chest as if she were being pursued by a shadowy anxiety.
He wondered what could have possibly happened.
Later that morning, a very unusual guest arrived.
The sun was high, and the Holy City was in full swing. While Atri was helping Liesel prepare to go out, there was a sharp, brisk double-knock on the door. Assuming it was a nurse or a sister, Wolka called out for them to enter.
"Pardon the intrusion, young man."
Entering the room was a woman Wolka had never seen before.
His first impression was simple: She’s like a flame. She had long, powerful golden hair shot through with streaks of red, and a face so handsome and sharp it would put most men to shame. Her gait was backed by a burning, undeniable confidence. The phrase "magnificently dignified" fit her perfectly; she looked like a noble fire given human form.
She was clearly a knight of high standing. The armor of the Chrys Knights she wore was leagues beyond the standard gear Rosche used. The silver had a deeper luster, and the gold and red engravings suggested a high rank. She even wore an elegant, fur-lined cloak. She was tall—nearly 170 centimeters—and possessed a commanding beauty that even Wolka found impressive.
"A pleasure to meet you. Forgive my lack of a formal appointment."
Her voice was resonant and clear, filled with vitality. Even a simple apology sounded regal coming from her, and yet there was nothing arrogant about it. She felt like a breath of fresh air. Even Liesel, who normally bristled at outsiders, seemed too stunned to be on guard.
"Who are you?" Liesel asked. "You look like a knight."
"Me? Oh, I’m something like Rosche's superior. I’m not anyone of great importance, but for today... you can just call me Bell."
Rosche’s superior. That explained the high-grade gear. Wolka tried to introduce himself, but she waved him off.
"I’ve already heard plenty about you all. I’m just a boorish parvenu from the frontiers; please, don't stand on ceremony. My visit is strictly personal."
She was the definition of magnanimous—the kind of person who naturally took charge of a room. So this is what real leadership looks like, Wolka thought. Cool. I wouldn’t mind being an adult like that.
Yulitia timidly brought over a chair. "U-Um... if you would like to sit..."
"Ah, thank you, lovely young lady."
"L-Lovely...?"
The female knight was so handsome that Yulitia seemed completely dazzled. Bell was clearly the type who was more popular with her own gender than the opposite. Atri, sensing the woman’s strength, had her eyes narrowed in a sharp, calculating stare.
Bell sat down and looked at Wolka with a sharp grin.
"I’m here for one reason, Wolka-dono. You."
"Me?"
"I wanted to thank you personally. I hear the boy has been in your care quite a bit."
"The boy...?"
"Rosche, of course. I told you I was his superior, didn't I?"
A superior doesn't usually call their subordinates 'boy,' Wolka thought. And she didn't look nearly old enough to treat Rosche like a child, unless she was like Liesel and much older than she appeared.
"He used to be about this high," Bell said, gesturing to the height of her chest. "Just a brat. I taught him the basics of the sword myself. He’s a bit of a peacock these days, but when he was a kid, he was a genuine prodigy. They called him the 'Sword Prodigy.'"
"What?"
Wolka’s eyes widened. Rosche was a child prodigy? The 'Sword Prodigy'? Since when was that guy that impressive?
Liesel and the others looked just as surprised. Bell nodded knowingly.
"So the boy hasn't mentioned it. Figures."
"It’s the first I’ve heard of it," Wolka admitted.
"Well, he doesn't consider those days particularly fond memories. A singular genius is often a lonely creature. Rosche was no exception. There wasn't a soul his age who could stand beside him. Aside from a few understanding superiors like myself, he was effectively isolated within the Knight Corps."
Wolka processed this. Rosche was a bit of a narcissist, but he was a genuinely good person. Wolka had assumed he was popular with everyone. Come to think of it, though, he’d never seen Rosche acting particularly friendly with his fellow knights.
He also realized Rosche's narcissism was probably a filtered version of Bell’s own confidence. They had the same self-assured aura.
"But then you showed up, Wolka-dono."
Bell gestured toward him with a stylish flick of her wrist.
"To the boy, you became a true friend—someone who could actually walk the same path. In a life that had grown dull and stagnant, you were a fierce, sudden flame. That brilliance must have scorched his heart."
"That’s... a bit much," Wolka muttered. "He’s a man who spends half his time laughing at his own jokes."
"You don't believe me? This isn't just politeness."
"It sounds like a very heavy friendship."
"It’s simply the weight of what you’ve given him."
All they ever did was spar and occasionally grab a meal. But now that he had this "Sword Prodigy" ammunition, he looked forward to teasing Rosche about it later.
Bell placed a hand over her heart. "If it’s not too much trouble, I’d ask that you remain his friend for a long time to come."
"You don't even have to ask," Wolka replied. "We haven't settled our score yet. I’m not letting him retire on a tie."
They were currently tied at 49 wins, 49 losses, and 12 draws. Of course, that was only since they’d started keeping track. In the early days, Rosche had beaten him senseless. Wolka suspected he was actually way behind in the grand total.
"Heh... it seems even the gods have a sense of timing," Bell said, rising from her chair. "It was a pleasure meeting you today. Until we meet again."
She left as quickly as she had arrived, a whirlwind of charisma.
Once her presence faded, Atri spoke up. "...That woman. She was very strong."
Liesel and Yulitia nodded in agreement.
"Indeed," Liesel said. "No ordinary knight."
"If she’s Rosche's superior, that makes sense," Wolka added.
He paused to think. If a knight that powerful was only a Captain, what kind of monsters were the Holy Knights? He tried to recall the "Original Work."
The Holy Knights were supposed to be on par with the protagonist. The three in the Holy City were mysteries, but the four in the Royal Capital—the Sevens—had been legendary. But his memories from twenty years ago were fading. He remembered Elfiette, the Canon of Creation, and the Canon of the Saint, but the rest was a blur.
Except for one fact.
A fact he didn't want to face yet.
The Sevens... the supreme decision-making body of the world... would eventually collapse after losing half its members.
He shook the thought away. He wasn't ready to deal with the end of the story.
A short while later, Rosche himself showed up.
"Rosche," Wolka said immediately. "Were you really called the 'Sword Prodigy' when you were a kid?"
Rosche’s theatrical smile vanished instantly. His blue eyes sharpened. "Who told you that?"
"A woman named Bell stopped by this morning."
"...I see." Rosche rubbed his chin, then quickly regained his composure, flicking his bangs back. "Indeed! I was born with such overwhelming talent that the name simply attached itself to me. I’m a cursed man, truly."
"Right, right. Anyway, she calls you 'boy,' doesn't she?"
Wolka hoped to see him get flustered, but Rosche just shrugged. "I’ve never managed to win a single spar against her. I suppose I’ll be a child in her eyes forever."
Wolka was stunned. Rosche has never won? If that monster of a man couldn't win, Wolka would probably be turned into dust before he could draw his sword.
"So, what did she tell you?" Rosche asked. "I feel as though my secrets have been laid bare."
"Mostly just that I should look after you," Wolka said.
"She said you didn't have many friends!" Yulitia added with a helpful, bright smile. "And that meeting Senior was the best thing that ever happened to you!"
Yulitia’s directness was brutal. Rosche winced, but he didn't deny it.
"Hahaha! Well, the secret is out, it seems."
"It’s okay," Yulitia said sympathetically. "I was the same before I met him. I understand exactly how you feel!"
Wolka realized their backgrounds were similar. Yulitia had been a genius isolated by her family’s jealousy; Rosche had been a genius isolated by his peers’ resentment.
"Do you remember the day we met?" Rosche asked, looking nostalgic.
"Yeah. It was the first time I’d been thrashed like that since my Grandpa," Wolka replied. They had met shortly after Silvery Grey moved to the Holy City. Wolka had been training in a vacant lot when Rosche had challenged him.
"I think I was a different man back then," Rosche said quietly. "I was arrogant. I believed no one could understand me, and I looked at the world with cold eyes. My challenge to you... it was just a way to kill time."
Rosche looked as if he were apologizing, but Wolka didn't care. Most spars started with curiosity.
"But you," Rosche continued, his eyes lighting up. "You didn't get angry when you lost. You grabbed my collar and demanded a rematch on the spot. You told me not to dare walk away with a win."
"I might have been a bit of a sore adventurer back then," Wolka admitted.
"You were smiling," Rosche laughed. "You kept coming at me, covered in dirt, adapting to my every move... and by the end of the day, you actually knocked me down."
"It took about a hundred tries, but I got you once," Wolka recalled.
"I remember picking you up that evening," Yulitia added. "You were both lying on the ground, exhausted. I was so surprised."
"It was a shock," Rosche said sincerely. "That day, my cold world was shattered. 'I won't lose next time'—I think that was the first time I’d ever felt that kind of drive."
He slapped Wolka’s shoulder, a bit too hard. "And that’s why you’re my greatest friend! Be honored!"
"Yeah, yeah. Same to you."
Rosche’s narcissistic laughter filled the room as he teased Wolka for being a "clumsy blockhead."
Despite the distractions, Yulitia was still struggling.
After Rosche left, she continued her streak of bad luck. She cleaned the same spot four times, knocked over a vase, and even cut her finger while prepping lunch. By the afternoon, she was muttering to herself, looking more cornered than ever.
"Yulitia, seriously. What’s wrong?" Wolka asked, his concern mounting.
"I-I'm sorry! I’m just being a burden today...!" Her self-loathing was spiraling.
"You're not a burden. I’m just worried. Maybe you should go back to the inn and—"
"No!"
At that moment, Yulitia dropped a stack of dishes. The sound of shattering ceramic echoed through the room.
"Are you hurt—?" Wolka reacted instinctively, lunging out of bed. He forgot he didn't have his prosthetic leg. He tumbled to the floor with a pathetic thud.
"Senior! Senior!" Yulitia screamed, rushing to his side. She was pale as a ghost.
"I’m fine, I’m fine," he groaned as she helped him up. "I forgot I was missing a limb for a second. My bad."
"I'm sorry! It's my fault! Everything is my fault!" Tears began streaming down her face.
"Yulitia, stop. It’s okay. But really, you’re pushing yourself too hard. Go back to the inn and—"
"Am I... am I really just an unneeded child to you?"
"What?" Wolka blinked, completely lost.
"I don't want to go! Please don't discard me! I'll be good, I promise! I'll work harder! Just don't leave me behind!"
She was hysterical now, clinging to his chest and sobbing. "I don't want to be alone! Please, please...!"
Wolka was in over his head. He desperately tried to soothe her, finally getting the story out of her in broken fragments. She had seen a nightmare where he abandoned her.
"I see. So that was it."
He felt like a jerk, even if it was just a version of him in a dream. Yulitia was only thirteen. She was the "reliable" one, but she was still just a kid who hadn't received enough love from her real family.
He felt a sense of relief, though. Her fear was based on a total misunderstanding.
"Yulitia," he said, gently pulling her back so he could look her in the eye. "Listen. If someone appeared who was better at the sword, better at magic, and better at cooking and cleaning than you, and they asked to take your place..."
Yulitia’s breath hitched.
"I’d tell them to go to hell," Wolka said firmly.
"...Eh?"
"It’s obvious. You’re our companion because you’re you. Not because of what you can do. No matter how perfect someone else is, if they aren't 'Yulitia,' they mean nothing to me."
He tapped her shoulder. "So don't be anxious. If that dream-me tries to leave you again, just punch him for me."
The fear slowly drained from her eyes, replaced by a deep, shaky breath. "Senior... you're always like this. You've accepted me since the very beginning..."
"Senior!" she said suddenly, her face brightening. "Let me give you a lap pillow!"
"Wait, what?"
"It’s a thank-you! I have to do something right now or I’ll go crazy! A lap pillow is easy!"
She was suddenly full of terrifying energy. Before he could object, she had cleaned up the broken dishes with lightning speed and was patting her lap on the edge of the bed.
Feeling more than a little awkward about having his head on the lap of a girl four years younger, Wolka eventually gave in. He closed his eyes, hoping to hide his embarrassment.
"Rest well, Senior. Just leave everything to me," she whispered.
She’ll be a good mother someday, Wolka thought lazily as he drifted off.
"Senior? Are you awake? You’re... asleep, aren't you?"
There was no answer. His breathing was deep and rhythmic. Yulitia felt a surge of bliss. He trusted her enough to sleep like this.
"Senior..."
The word alone made her heart ache with a sweetness that felt like it was melting her soul. She remembered the day they met. Her talent—the "theft" of other people's skills—had been a curse to her family. But Wolka had welcomed it. He had welcomed her.
And now, he had said the words she had always craved. If they aren't 'Yulitia,' they mean nothing to me.
"Senior—"
She stroked his grey hair.
Again.
And again.
"I understand now. Just like Liesel-san and Atri-san. I can't live without you. I don't need a world that doesn't have you in it. You are my entire reason for existing. Please, never let me go. I’ll be by your side every day. I’ll see your face every day, hear your voice every day, listen to you say my name every day. I’ll reflect in your eyes every day. I’ll think of you every second... I’ll help you, I’ll make amends, I’ll be everything you need... forever and ever and ever..."
Yulitia was smiling.
The light seemed to vanish from her eyes as she stared down at the sleeping man. She looked as though she wanted to devour him, to merge with him, to erase everything else in the world until only the two of them remained.
The one-eyed, one-legged youth slept on, blissfully unaware that his "disciple" was no longer just following in his footsteps—she was falling into a bottomless, beautiful madness.