“I have full confidence in your training program. I know you’ll see them through,” the Arkmarschall said without looking back at Halwen. He walked slowly, as if time did not exist for him, as if the order to send two barely combat-ready children to spy on the Reich’s mortal enemy was not insanity.

  Halwen wanted to say something, to protest the decision, but what could he actually say? The Arkmarschall had agreed not to send them—so long as he was the one to tell the girls.

  But Halwen couldn’t tell them. This was the first time in years he had seen a light in Lina’s eyes. Not just a hollow iris, but something like hope—something that had been snuffed out after her failed Grace experiment. An experiment Halwen had told her was safe.

  And now, just when she had found a new hope, he was supposed to be the one who extinguished it?

  Damn snake. He knew I wouldn’t be able to do it.

  He could spare the girls from the heavy training, from the burdensome expectations Leopold placed on his agents. But his heart simply couldn’t take it. He knew doing that would snuff out Lina’s hope all over again.

  So he chose to be selfish. He chose to stay his hand and keep his mouth shut, letting the plan go forward unchanged—only because he wanted his nephew to feel alive once more.

  His steps were heavy as he walked back to the girl’s room. Orders remained unchanged. As if the system didn’t care what revelations had just unfolded.

  What kind of training should I make for these girls? He thought.

  When he finally reached their door, it hissed open. The girls were already waiting..

  Halwen’s unease deepened as he saw the two girls.

  “Uncle Halwen?” Lina’s voice snapped him back. “Is something wrong?”

  Halwen straightened. He wanted to say yes. That everything was wrong. But what would it change? It would just make them fall apart. And that would risk their lives in the upcoming trial.

  What’s done is done. All he could do now was make sure they didn’t die the moment they crossed into enemy ground.

  “…No,” he said. “Come along, you two.”

  Lina and Vierna walked ahead of Halwen. They moved with ease, even though they were walking through a place that had always treated them as subjects rather than human beings. They passed rooms where they had once screamed as scalpels pierced their skin, where countless procedures had been tested on them. Yet they walked through it now as if they were simply moving through their own home.

  They even raced each other to see who was faster, as if the place had not been built to cut them open and study their insides.

  The sight horrified Halwen as much as it relieved him to see color return to Lina’s life. He knew it was wrong, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to stop it.

  All he could do was watch as whatever this was played out.

  Outside, the sun hung directly above the Einhartturm, casting its light down like judgment. Its rays struck the silver-polished marble of the plaza, illuminating everything—except the decay that lingered.

  A breeze drifted through the facility’s outer courtyard, gentle as a woman's hand trailing over her partner’s skin.

  But that same wind carried the stench of yesterday’s slaughter. Blood. Mana. Seared flesh. None of it had fully left this battlefield of a town.

  Vierna walked beside Lina, her hand never letting go.

  Lina wore no mask now. Her scarred face could be seen by anyone.

  Together they passed through the fractured streets of Einhartturm’s plaza, where grief hung thicker than incense.

  Mothers wept in front of stern-faced officers—some begging, some screaming—demanding to know why their sons and daughters hadn't returned.

  Fathers shouted through clenched teeth. One lunged at a levy officer and was quickly restrained, dragged away still cursing.

  Children marched in formation nearby, their boots clacking in perfect rhythm—still drilling, still reciting drills, as if yesterday’s slaughter had been just another exercise.

  Elsewhere, the town stank of effort. Workers dragged mana beast carcasses into reinforced carts, leaving behind trails of blood that stained even polished stone. Others scrubbed their thresholds, their walls, their doorways—desperate to purge the scent of death from their homes.

  A group of levy children resting from their drills stood near the edge of the plaza. One of them pointed at Lina and Vierna.

  Vierna’s chest tightened.

  For a moment, she feared the worst—that their stares would shatter Lina’s fragile confidence, that they'd see the scars, the unmasked face, and flinch.

  So she squeezed Lina’s hand.

  But the children didn't look like they were mocking them.

  They waved and smiled towards them.

  The sight of people welcoming them was enough to stop Vierna in her tracks. An unfamiliar feeling, yet a pleasant warmth, flooded her heart, but a question still lingered.

  She remembered when she went into town during her days at the orphanage, in another town besides this one. She recalled how people avoided looking at her as if she carried some kind of plague. A myriad of faces and expressions passed through her memory, but the one that burned the most was the look of pity—the one that stabbed her heart the deepest.

  Suddenly, a bell tolled in the distance—loud and crystalline, snapping Vierna back to reality. There was something strange in the sound as it rang, a pull she couldn’t quite explain. A certain emotion rose in her heart, but the strongest feeling was a strange urge to go somewhere she had never been before.

  She felt the air change as she paid closer attention to her surroundings. The voices were gone—the shouting, the crying, the raging. Even the child soldiers who had waved at them earlier now stood still, their faces blank as voids. If they had peeled their faces off right then, it might have looked no different.

  People moved, but there was something strange about the way they walked.

  “Let’s go, girls.” Halwen’s voice snapped her back, and the three of them resumed walking toward their destination.

  The plaza was packed—rows upon rows of people standing in eerie order, as if drawn by a single compass.

  Lina and Vierna were placed at the very front of the crowd.

  Halwen said nothing. He was standing behind them—but somehow, it felt like he was further away than ever.

  It didn’t feel like a town meeting. It felt like a formation.

  And in the center of it all, the dais stood empty.

  Then came the bells again. Their toll echoed through the plaza with cathedral-like grace, solemn and vast.

  Without fanfare, a figure appeared at the center of the empty dais.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  He raised his cane and tapped it twice against the polished marble.

  Tap. Tap.

  And the entire town obeyed.

  The crowd fell silent. Even the wind seemed to hush. Perfect absolute silence blanketed over the town.

  All eyes now faced the dais.

  "The ones who caused the daemon to evolve faster than projected," Leopold began, his voice clear and resonant, "were the Imperium.”

  “We slew the southeastern Saint," he continued, "alongside the evolving daemon. All of it—thanks to the Silberschade. Your shield. Your sword."

  He reached into the air, a rune appeared at the thin air from it, a severed head, its features unmistakable.

  Gasps rippled through the crowd. Chatters and murmurs sparked like kindling before an inferno. Whatever force had driven that eerie, puppet-like march earlier clearly hadn’t erased emotion completely.

  It started with a few claps. A tentative cheer. A lone shout.

  Then more—louder, stronger. Like a wave remembering how to crash.

  Voices lifted. Fists rose. Feet began to stomp in unison.

  "Huzzah! Huzzah! Long live the Silberschade!"

  It echoed, not as a command, but as truth. The townfolk meant it.

  Leopold continued "Einhartturm has endured centuries of frontline hardship. But look at us now. Invincible. If we can crush threats of this scale with minimal preparation, then what hope does the Imperium have?"

  His voice darkened.

  "While those in Rangdenfallt gorge themselves in grandiose halls, celebrating with needless fanfare and indulgent decadence— We endure. We prevail. We are polished like a blade."

  He lifted his cane again, pointing toward the crowd.

  "Your blood is our blood. Your sacrifice—our pride. And for every life you’ve given in service to this city… I, the Arkmarschall, am grateful."

  The cheers hadn’t stopped, as if happened now it resemble more like a war cry.

  Then Leopold’s voice turned thunderous:

  “No divine right. No noble blood. Only resolve. Only Men. Men and women of Einhartturm, standing shoulder to shoulder to defend our home."

  He spread his arms as if to embrace the entire square.

  "And as your Arkmarschall, I am proud to have been chosen for this destiny.

  To lead this fine, prestigious and immortal city."

  The crowd flared up, even more than before. Thunderous like a storm, relentless like a stampede of fury.

  And the One-Eyed Snake stood tall above them all.

  Leopold raised his cane again. The whole crowd stopped.

  Without a warning, a circle of magic bloomed beneath Lina and Vierna’s feet. That was why they had been placed where they stood—so they could be summoned to the dais the moment he desired.

  Light flared. And in a blink, they appeared—standing beside him as if conjured from thin air.

  The crowd fell silent.

  “Some of you may already know who these two girls are,” Leopold said.

  And of course they did. Two girls pushing supply trolley through blood and chaos to deliver what little supplies they could? The troops had talked. The story had already become a rumor.

  “Lina and Vierna were the first to force themselves onto the frontline. Delivering supplies by hand and foot. Through blood and pain, they marched with only one desire: to help the fine people of Einhartturm.”

  The pair stood frozen. They hadn’t expected this. The crowd stared, expressions unreadable. The air felt too heavy to breathe. It took every ounce of will not to buckle beneath it.

  Then Leopold's voice thundered

  "This is the true face of your town. People who defy destiny. Who contribute in whatever way they can. Look at them and remember: heroes are not born. They are made. Made by choice. By action. They didn’t have to stand at the front. They only had to contribute. And that is enough. I don’t care about your bloodline. Your coin. Your status. I care that you try. That you stand. That you defend your home."

  The silence cracked. One voice called out—then another. Hands clapped, fists raised, boots stomped. Emotion surged like a dam breaking.

  In the distance, the bells tolled again—clear, commanding, divine.

  Cheers erupted—thunderous, rapturous.

  “Silberschade! Silberschade!”

  “Lina! Vierna!”

  The crowd roared, their names swelling into a chant.

  From shadows and scars, they had been pulled into light— and the crowd welcomed them as if they had always belonged there.

  After a while, Leopold raised his hand and slowly curled it into a fist. A sigil appeared out of nowhere. Purple and black magic circles formed, and as they did, something emerged from behind him—some kind of construct.

  All metal. Like a gallows, but wider. Cruder. Etched with old runes and reinforced with steel scaffolding.

  Tied to it were people. Men. Women. Children. Bound at the wrists and ankles, some gagged, others blindfolded. Suspended from the scaffolds, like livestock awaiting slaughter. They trembled. Or wept. Or stared out blankly.

  Leopold stepped forward.

  “Even in the most pristine city,” he said, voice calm, “there is bound to be rot. It’s inevitable.”

  He turned to face the crowd, expression unchanging.

  “These people—” he gestured toward the captives, “if you can even call them that— looted your homes. Deserted you while you bled to protect the heartbeat of this city.”

  His tone sharpened. “Some collaborated with the Imperium. Fed them your names. Poisoned the very air you breathe.”

  A hush fell over the crowd. They listened—eyes fixed on Leopold, breaths caught mid-throat. Like a congregation hanging on every word of a prophet.

  Leopold turned to the girls, then he traced a sigil.

  A single pistol materialized in the air—sleek, single-shot, conjured with precision.

  “The only fitting way to remove disease,” he said, “is to cut it out before it spreads. And who better to wield the blade than our hero?”

  He held it out—not to anyone in particular, but between them.

  Vierna realized now—what the weight of that “determination” truly meant.

  To allow them to modify, carve, and unmake her. To have her body split, her soul scorched, herself rewritten.

  It was a price. And she had paid it willingly. Why? Because back then, she still held the currency.

  But now?

  The place she called home demanded the same price again—only this time, from someone else. That “home” had consumed what she offered. And it was pleased.

  It welcomed her. It wrapped her in comfort and kissed her brow like a daughter returned.

  But not as a person. As a part.

  And now, like any mouth needs a tongue, like any jaw needs teeth—

  it needs her to feed.

  Vierna looked at the gun. She didn’t need to look at Lina to know they felt the same.

  She wanted to but the Arkmarschall’s gaze held her still.

  I was the one who asked her to stay for me. And it’s only right that I’m the one who does this.

  So she stepped forward. Leopold pointed his finger at a boy—a boy she was meant to shoot. He hung near the center, no older than ten. His hair was matted with soot, and his bare feet dangled inches above the stone. He cried in small, broken gasps, too weak even to scream. The sound barely carried, just a thin, wet whimper that trembled in his throat. Snot and tears streaked down his dirt-smeared face as he tried to call for someone—anyone—to help him.

  Then Leopold hovered his hand, offering Vierna the gun. But it looked less like an offer and more like a signature line—a contract.

  Every part of her that was still sane saw it clearly: a snake’s hand, waiting for its fang to find its place in the maw, and to do what a fang was meant to do. Devour.

  But the other part, the one still searching for purpose in all this madness,

  saw something else. A father’s hand. A guiding light.A holy baptism of blood and meaning.

  She reached out. Took the pistol from the Arkmarschall’s hand.

  She had convinced herself that this was the right thing to do. But if that so, then why were her fingers trembling as she raised the gun? Why did her body still resist? Why did every fiber still scream no?

  Every candle that once lit her way flared in protest. A desperate blaze, flickering against the dark. Her compass spun wildly, its needle broken—no north, no path.

  Apparently, this was a ghost’s doing. A former self that still longed for warmth, camaraderie, and love. A part that was truly a child— Not a tool wearing a child’s mask. This ghost clawed its way upward, Desperate to be resurrected. Like something forgotten—but too stubborn to fade.

  Leopold crouched beside her. Like a father teaching her daughter. His hand gripped her arm, steadying the aim. Helping her carry the weight of deciding the fate of the traitor.

  “Do it.”

  And when she heard it,

  it was like a bell chiming inside her skull.

  The contract had already been sealed.

  The fang had finally found its place in the maw.

  Bang.

  The boy dropped—sagging against his restraints, suspended just inches from the platform. His small body jerked once, then went limp. Tears and snot still streaked his dirt-smeared face, frozen mid-cry. A thin trail of blood ran down his neck and dripped from his chin, mingling with the dark pool spreading beneath his bare, dangling feet.

  The crowd was stunned. Frozen. A breath held across the entire square. A child had just executed another child.

  And then—from somewhere in the crowd, a voice shouted

  “Death to the traitors!”

  It was impossible to tell who said it. Maybe planted. Maybe real. No one knows for sure. A provocateur? Possibly.

  Once again, the bell suddenly banged—total, immediate. It was as if the gun had been fired again. As if a switch had been flipped inside the crowd. Others joined. One by one. Then all at once.

  A thunderous chant overtook the plaza.

  A thunderous chant overtook the plaza. Maybe it was fake. Fabricated. But did it really matter? From Vierna’s perspective, it didn’t look that way. It looked real. It looked like genuine celebration.

  Leopold turned to face the masses.

  He raised the Vierna’s hands high into the air—guns still warm in her palms.

  They cheered as if divinity had just been revealed.

  Halwen stood at the edge of it all, paralyzed. He knew this place was wrong.

  But never—not even in his worst imaginings—had he thought it would go this far.

  What was this? Even to name it felt impossible. Orchestrated. All of it. The bells, the speech, the perfect choreography— It wasn’t ceremony. It was conversion. A ritual to normalize brutality. To twist the compass. To claim the girls.

  Halwen’s thoughts broke. Unspooled. He’d worked with Leopold long enough, hadn’t he? Shouldn’t he have known what kind of man the Arkmarschall really was?

  You think that if you stare long enough at something—anything—you begin to understand it.

  But this man, the longer you looked, the less you understood.

  His hand trembled, sweat dripping like blood from a wound too gaping to close. It was a mistake. Working with the Arkmarschall was the worst mistake he ever did. And now he was complicit on bringing his innocent niece and her friend into this twister of moral degradation and psychological manipulation.

  And now? He was too late to stop any of it.

  Does the bell felt strange?