From the window of my small room, I can watch the civilians of Nébiatine, visibly uneasy. Their murmurs fill the air, and their furtive glances betray their anxiety.   

Dame Rikami’s Mana is staggering, almost tangible, an aura that weighs on the atmosphere like an invisible storm. Yet the legend claims no one has ever seen her use any magic. How is that possible?   

That question haunts me as I observe her, standing beside Captain Lancelot, her elegant silhouette contrasting with the ruggedness of the snow-covered village. Her power seems innate, a force that transcends traditional spells, only deepening the mystery that surrounds her. 

  

Several days pass, but my recovery is far slower than expected. Our healing mages, though experienced, aren’t trained to handle such severe wounds.   

I have to admit I was incredibly lucky to survive: an arm torn off, sixteen broken ribs, my chest slashed with deep gashes that still ooze beneath the bandages. Every breath is a struggle, and every movement reminds me of the throbbing pain radiating through my body.   

If it hadn’t been Captain Lancelot who found me, I’d be dead—no question about it. That thought lingers, tangled with a deep gratitude toward the man who defied death to save me. 

  

To pass the time in this cramped room, I dive into books brought from Lilyani. These volumes, gifted by the Captain, help me practice speaking like a noble—a necessity, since I’ll soon become one thanks to him.   

I train myself to articulate elegant phrases, polishing my rough soldier’s vocabulary, imagining the marble halls and banquets I might attend. But I also read treatises on magic, ancient texts detailing the flow of Mana and its applications.   

These studies help me grasp its nature: a living energy, malleable, coursing through the world’s veins like an unseen river. Perhaps I could master it once I’m healed, for I must face the truth: the sword is behind me now.   

With one arm gone, wielding a blade would be a lost cause. Magic becomes my new horizon, a glimmer of hope in this darkness. 

  

As I’m absorbed in my reading—a chapter on channeling Mana—the door opens softly. Captain Lancelot enters, accompanied by Dame Rikami. I look up, intimidated by their presence.   

I’d tried to learn more about her, flipping through every book at my disposal in hopes of unraveling her mystery. Given her closeness to Lilyani’s royal family, I figured she must come from a noble lineage, a family that had refined its magic over generations.   

In our world, Mana is passed down and honed over time—the standards of today will be surpassed by our children, elevated far beyond what we know. With Rikami’s rumored power, I thought she might descend from a line tracing back to the arrival of Mana centuries ago.   

But nothing. No mention, no clue. Perhaps she hails from another kingdom? Amérance, with its domineering people, famed for combat prowess but less for magic? Or Estugal, renowned for housing the continent’s greatest mages? I’ll have to look into it when I return to Lilyani—if I survive this war. 

  

The Captain looks at me, a strained smile on his lips, and adopts a solemn tone that puts me on edge immediately.  

“Listen, Leyart,” he says, “given all you’ve been through, and especially your injuries, I’d prefer you leave…”   

I cut him off, a quiet anger rising within me.  

“Captain, do you know why I enlisted in Lilyani’s royal army?”   

He frowns, clearly surprised.  

“No, Leyart, tell me.”   

I take a deep breath, memories flooding back like a wave.   

Ten years ago, when I was just seven, my village was attacked by a militia from Amérance. It was during the war between Lilyani and Amérance. Dame Rikami was holding the enemy army at bay north of the village to defend the town, but a squad slipped past her defenses and descended on us.   

That day, I lost everything: my parents, my brother, my sister, my home… all reduced to a pile of smoldering ashes. As a soldier raised his sword to strike me down, you emerged from a portal, Captain. Alone, you defeated all fifty men of the enemy force.   

You lifted me up, covered in blood and dust, and said,  

‘Your life won’t be easy, little one, and it’s because of me. If only I’d arrived sooner, if only I hadn’t hesitated.’   

My voice trembles as I continue. I was inconsolable, my tears falling onto your hands, but I’ll remember your words for the rest of my life.   

You’d saved lives, yet you blamed yourself. You could have been one of those haughty adventurers, born into the royal family, rich and powerful, never putting yourself at risk or acting for the people.   

But no, you constantly questioned yourself, and you were humble. After that, you left me at an orphanage in Lilyani and paid for everything—my education, my entry into military school.   

You didn’t know it, because I was just one among many, but you became a model for me. I grew up with one goal: to become like you.   

So, Captain, if I must die tomorrow, it’ll be on the battlefield, at your side. Even injured, even half-dead, I’ll wield my sword—or whatever I can—for Lilyani, for the Zodiacs, for my Captain! 

  

Lancelot looks at me, visibly moved, his green eyes gleaming with an emotion I’ve never seen in him before.  

“It’s your choice,” he says softly. “I won’t stop you, but take good care of yourself.”   

Rikami, meanwhile, stares at me from the corner of the room. Leaning against the wall, one foot propped up, she’s impassive, her face an unreadable mask.   

It’s impossible to guess her emotions or form an opinion on what she thinks of the situation. Then she speaks, her voice cold and sharp as a blade:  

“Know that courage and loyalty will lead you straight to your grave.”   

Her words hit me like a slap, delivered with such conviction that I’m left speechless, with no reply to offer. But my decision is made. I will fight, no matter the cost. 

  

I rise, ignoring the pain radiating through my chest, and ask my wife to accompany me to the armory.  

“I need a new weapon,” I say, my voice firm despite my trembling.   

Walking is still a struggle, each step drawing a grimace, but in a few hours—or tomorrow at the latest—I’ll be on my feet. My wife supports me, her arm around my waist, and we move slowly toward the armory, crossing the icy streets of Nébiatine. 

  

When we arrive, my colleagues rush toward me, bombarding me with questions:  

“How are you?”   

“What happened in the forest?”   

“Is it true you faced a Krampus?”   

Their voices blend into a warm cacophony, but this isn’t the time for reunions. I can’t linger with them.   

With my wife’s help, I head straight for the weapon stockpile, searching for a sword lighter than the one I had before. My right arm alone couldn’t handle the weight of a long blade.   

Rummaging through the dusty weapons, I spot an old short sword, abandoned in a corner for years judging by the rust and cobwebs. I pick it up, testing its balance.   

Despite its condition, it feels right—light, manageable, perfect for a one-armed man. A good feeling washes over me, a sense of comfort after so much despair.   

My wife, standing beside me, smiles as she sees a flicker of light return to my eyes.  

“Does it suit you?” she asks softly.   

I nod, gripping the hilt with determination, and we head together toward the training camp. 

  

I can’t yet use my sword—it’d be too risky with my fresh wounds—but I can train in magic, putting into practice what I’ve learned from the books.   

I’ve discovered a technique to cast a fireball, a breakthrough I’d never achieved before. Until now, I could ignite my sword, start a fire, create light, or warm a room, but I couldn’t detach the Mana from my body to project an attack.   

This book, gifted by Lancelot, taught me the process: separate the Mana, shape it, then release it. It’s time to put that into practice, to see if these yellowed pages hold truth. 

  

Hours pass at the training camp, under a gray sky threatening more snow. I focus on channeling my energy, my hands trembling, reciting the incantation’s words.   

A colleague more skilled in magic approaches and helps me better manage the Mana separation process.  

“Imagine a thread,” he advises, “a thread you gently pull from your body. Don’t force it too much, let it flow.”   

With his guidance, I finally manage to cast a fireball—once out of five tries, then once out of ten, to be honest. The flame bursts forth, flickering, and dies out quickly, but it’s better than nothing.   

Before, I couldn’t do it at all, and this small victory reignites my hope. 

  

As I continue training, a thick fog rises suddenly, so dense I can’t see more than six feet ahead. A wave of rapid flashbacks hits me: the Krampus’s attack, the blood on the snow, the excruciating pain of my arm being torn off.   

An inner voice screams to run, to flee this unseen threat. But no, I made a promise—to Lancelot, to myself. I can’t leave now.   

My fate is sealed on this battlefield. It’s time. 

  

The city bells toll an alarm, a deep chime echoing through Nébiatine’s streets. Soldiers gather before the gates, their armor clanking in the tense silence.   

Captain Lancelot takes his position at the North Gate, his imposing figure towering over the ranks. Dame Rikami stations herself at the South Gate, her katana glinting under the pale daylight.   

In the distance, we hear monsters trudging through the snow, their heavy steps cracking the frozen crust. But what sends a chill down my spine is an aura I sense from afar—insane, diabolical, malevolent.   

It’s utterly strange, an energy I’ve never felt before, and certainly not from such a distance. What could it be?   

My heart races, but I join the ranks at the North Gate, ready to hear the Captain’s speech. It’s time to win this battle. To finally go home.