She walked across the cobblestone square, lost in thought. His eyes were fixed ahead, deep as if probing the very essence of existence.
"Do you think it's merely a legend, or does it truly exist? And if it does, do you believe obtaining it would come without a price?"
Her thoughts were interrupted when a small child collided with her, and both of them tumbled to the ground. Apples rolled in every direction from the basket he had been carrying.
A loud voice rang out from behind—a chubby man shouting,
"Thief! Thief! He went that way, sir!"
He pointed straight at them, and the guards were already approaching.
Sikakama looked at the boy—he was younger than her, skinny and pale, with a small mole beneath his left eye. She whispered,
"You…"
The child was frantically gathering the scattered apples, his hands trembling with fear.
A hand reached out and grabbed his arm—it was Sakakama's. She pulled him up and said quickly,
"Run!"
They darted into the crowd and hid behind a stone wall, just as the guards rushed off in another direction.
Sikakama let out a sigh of relief and turned to the boy.
He had brown hair, a small mole near his left eye, and his ragged clothes made it clear he was poor.
"They're gone now," she said softly. "You're safe."
The boy remained frozen, staring at her in shock.
She picked up one of his fallen apples and took a bite, smiling warmly.
"I like apples too."
Then she added,"What's your name?"
He replied softly, almost whispering, "Milo."
"And I'm Sikakama. Nice to meet you, Milo."
She reached out her hand in a fist, expecting a playful bump. But the boy just stood there, staring at her, confused.
Sikakama smiled softly, then gently took his small hand, curled it into a fist, and bumped it lightly with hers.
"That's how friends do it."
A faint, genuine smile finally crept onto Milo's face—perhaps the first warmth he'd felt in a long time.Then Milo smiled, holding the rest of the apples in his hand, and began to walk away.
Sikakama waved at him with a calm smile.
Amid the dense crowd in the square, Sikakama moved cautiously. Her eyes scanned every face. Her breath was fast—yet silent—as if her instincts warned her she was being followed.
A man appeared — dressed in dark clothes.
Over his uniform, a flowing cloak draped from his shoulders, cascading down his back to the soles of his boots. The man stood motionless, exuding the cold discipline of a trained hound unleashed.
She stared at him for a moment before quickly turning away.
But before she could take more than a few steps, another man who looked exactly like him blocked her path from the opposite side. No, there were five. They now surrounded her in a half-circle, silent and deliberate, like shadows closing in with measured steps.
"They don't look like guards..." Sikakama whispered, her voice low and laced with suspicion.
A festive parade marched between them, thickening the crowd and buying her a few precious seconds. Sikakama didn't hesitate. The moment the path cleared, she bolted. The men followed, weaving through the crowd with silent precision.
She dashed into a narrow alley—only to find a dead end. Still, she didn't pause. Her eyes darted up the tall walls, and just before her pursuers reached her, she was already climbing.
Like a cat, she leapt from wall to wall until she reached the rooftop of a red-tiled building.
For a brief moment, she paused to catch her breath—
Then a sudden movement behind her.
She turned.
There they were again.
Each stood on a rooftop across the narrow street, watching her.
There was only one way left: forward.
Sikakama took a step back—then sprinted and jumped across.
Her crimson cloak flared like wings behind her, catching the sunlight midair.
She landed smoothly and kept running across the rooftops.
The men chased relentlessly, closing the gap with every leap.
Panting, she fixed her eyes on an open window ahead and made her decision.
She jumped.
Glass shattered around her like falling stars. Her body flipped in the air, and she landed on the wooden floor in a roll, quickly recovering to continue her escape.
She dove out another window, crashing onto a cart full of hay. The hay shifted under her weight, but she regained balance and kept running—just a few steps ahead of her pursuers.
The creaking of the cart was still fading when she noticed a shadow slipping through a side alley.
She froze, breath shallow, eyes darting.
Four men pursued Sikakama across the slanted rooftops of the city.
High above, on a weather-worn bell tower, a shadow released an arrow.
Then, a golden arrow—shaped like an eagle's wings—sliced through the air with a sharp whistle.
It struck one man in the shoulder — he fell, crashing into the alley below.
Then, a figure in gray dropped down from a protruding stone balcony. He glided across the sloped tiles, closing in on the second man.
With swift brutality, he drove his sword straight into the man's chest. And before the body fell, he yanked the sword free and hurled it like a spear — it pierced the third man clean through.
A final arrow cut through the silence, landing in the fourth man's throat. As his head snapped back, his fading eyes locked onto the distant archer.
Sikakama looked up.
A figure stood atop a high rooftop, cloak billowing in the wind, a bow in his hands, strands of hair spilling out from beneath his hood.
She stood still in the alley, panting, the chase momentarily over—but the danger far from gone.
She stood silently by the wall, watching them.
It seemed they had taken a different path.
A faint noise broke the quiet—something shifting between the crates in the narrow alley.
Sikakama froze, her eyes fixed on the shadows, breath caught in her chest. The rustling grew louder until, suddenly, a crow stumbled out.
Its head was stuck inside a glass cup, wobbling left and right, unable to see.
Sikakama let out a quiet sigh of relief and stepped closer.
"Hello, my friend," she whispered gently.
She crouched beside the bird and carefully removed the cup. The crow shook himself, feathers ruffling, then spread his wings and leapt skyward. With a sharp flap, he perched atop a broken wall, tilting his head curiously at her.
Sikakama moved past the crumbling stones into the forsaken part of the city. The streets lay in ruins, cobblestones torn and scattered, as if abandoned for centuries.
Then—another sound. She halted, stiff, her eyes darting left and right.
The sound came again, this time above her. Slowly, she lifted her gaze.
"Hello," said a voice—polite, calm.
Her eyes widened in shock. The crow was staring down at her, its beak parting to speak.
"A… a talking crow?!" she gasped, disbelief flooding her face.
The crow gave a low, steady reply:
"Of all the strange things you've seen today, my words are what surprise you?"
Still stunned, she tilted her head back to keep him in sight, struggling to believe her own eyes.
"What are you doing here, in the abandoned half of the city?" the crow asked, his tone edged with warning. "It's dangerous."
Sikakama exhaled slowly.
"I'm looking for a legendary sword."
"And why do you want it?"
"Because I want to become a knight!"
" And Why do you want to become a knight?"
Sikakama lowered her head, offering no answer.
"Then follow me," the crow said firmly, spreading his wings. "I'll be your guide, repaying the favor."
He soared into the night, leading her deeper into the shadows.
Streets lay in ruins, stones torn from the ground, as if abandoned for ages.
She followed cautiously forward and entered a place surrounded by a circular wall—roofless and open to the night sky. In the center stood a massive statue of a woman, wielding a sword and dressed in warrior's armor.
The moonlight poured down from the open sky above, illuminating the statue with an eerie glow. Sikakama advanced, her eyes locked on the statue without a hint of hesitation.
The black crow fluttered through the empty sky and landed confidently atop the statue's head, releasing a mournful caw that echoed through the eerie silence, filling the air with mystery and dread.
The silver moonlight reflected off the sword hidden beneath the statue, causing it to shimmer with a radiant glow.
The crow cried out above her, as if warning of danger.
But something stabbed her from behind—sharp and dark like a shadow.
Her blood scattered in the air, glinting like rubies under the dim light.
"Is... this magic?" she whispered, and collapsed to the ground.
Then, something tore through the darkness… something she couldn't see, but it was drawing closer.
"The mouse is surrounded."
His figure was reflected in her eyes as he drew closer.
And she remembered when she was just a child, sitting quietly in the lap of a blonde woman whose face remained shrouded in shadow. The woman was reading to her from an old book, its cover marked by the image of a cloaked warrior raising a sword high, as crowds beneath him cheered with adoration.
Then came another memory—herself as a small girl gazing at the city from afar, glowing with golden lights in the evening. It shimmered like a dream, distant and untouchable.
But that moment quickly faded.
her mother fell ill and she couldn't do anything.
She had gone out to gather wild apples. But when she returned, her mother was already gone—lying still inside the hut, as if asleep.
She didn't cry. She just sat beside her in silence, her heart hollow. Her hands were trembling as she held a knife close to her neck, then she caught sight of a book.
Then, footsteps.
A strange man entered the hut.
He leaned down, checked her mother's pulse, and gently lifted her in his arms.
Without saying anything, he walked out.
Sikakama followed quietly, staying just far enough behind.
She watched him dig a grave between the trees and bury her mother with quiet care.
Then he left… just like that.
She didn't know who he was, but something told her—he wasn't just a passerby.
Now she stood before a grave. Then her knees followed. She collapsed beside the grave, curling against it, as if waiting for someone who would never return. And she decided to follow him.
She wore her mother's red cloak and left the forest without a word. She climbed to the rooftop of a quiet house. The wind caught her cloak, lifting it behind her like wings as she stared at the distant city—its spires, its towers—her eyes reflecting a fragile glint of hope… fading, but still alive.
Her final gaze was fixed on the giant statue. She lay on her back, staring up at it, blood dripping from the corner of her mouth. Her hand reached toward it, trembling, as if begging… or saying goodbye.
Then he came.
From behind, the man seized her—lifted her into the air, fingers tightening around her throat.
Sikakama was suspended in the air, the man's grip tightening mercilessly around her neck. A circular seal glowed on her skin, etched with forbidden symbols, spreading darkness beneath her flesh, crawling like black veins through her body. Her eyes rolled back into her skull, her legs dangling helplessly in the void.
No… I can't die here… not like this…
The sky was black, scattered with glowing stars.
Her last gaze held the moon itself, mirrored in the stillness of her eye.
No one ever checked if she was alive... I suppose no one will for me either.
The sky looks beautiful…but why is the moon red?
Just then, a glowing scarlet
parchment appeared before her dimming vision, inscribed with shimmering emerald runes — visible to her alone.
"Those chosen by the Clock shall carve their path with their own hands.
Bound by a curse unto death…
Raise your sword, Crimson Warrior."
A crimson flash burst from her chest, shattering the seal on her neck into floating shards of glass. The man's arm exploded backward, consumed by the force, leaving him stumbling with shock and agony written across his face.
Then, the wind howled.
A red vortex erupted in the center of the room, sending debris and magic swirling.
A crimson light crept between the cracks in the stone floor, forming an ancient sigil that set the earth ablaze in a burning red circle.
Then a ceiling took shape above them, like a glass dome—but crimson in color, shimmering as if woven from magic itself.
The red moon cast its eerie glow through the shattered windows, drenching the battlefield in blood-red light. Then, as if time itself reversed, the broken pillars began to mend—pulled together by threads of crimson magic—to restore to its former state.
The sword glowed brightly, as if ready to return. Sikakama stepped forward and grasped its iron hilt.
As Sikakama drew the sword from beneath the statue, a scream—"Nooo!"—pierced the air from the man, who instinctively reached out as if to stop what was about to happen. But the moment the sword left its resting place, a wave of raw energy erupted outward like a living tide, throwing him backward.
The wave swept across the city at night, twisting through narrow cobblestone streets and tracing the alleys in crimson streaks across the darkness. Two hooded figures stood atop the rooftops, their eyes fixed on the source of the wave, frozen in awe as it expanded.
In a room within a tall tower, a man dressed in black sat before an open book, holding a quill, staring through a stone window as if he felt the force that had engulfed the city. Another figure stood in a dark room, watching through the glass overlooking the city, observing the place from which the wave had originated.
Meanwhile, a woman holding a dark umbrella sat on the edge of the clock tower, her legs dangling, gazing downward as if sensing the pulse of the energy.
Farther off, atop a lonely hill overlooking the city, another person seized a thick rope and pulled sharply. The massive bells of the tower rang out, their echoes reaching a man on horseback. All of them looked toward that direction.
From the fire…
She rose.
A towering woman stepped forth, clad in crimson armor, her face half-concealed by a sharp metal mask shaped like a bird of prey's beak. Her long blonde hair was tied tightly behind her. A flowing red cloak trailed behind her, fluttering wildly in the storm of power.
Both hands gripped a massive blade, which she slammed into the ground — sending shockwaves echoing like thunder.
The man used all his magical power to launch a devastating attack. But the Crimson Warrior gripped her sword tightly and dashed forward with blinding speed, the air behind her splitting with force.
Her first slash cut through the incoming strike, dividing it in two. She kept advancing, her blade cleaving through every magical assault that came from left or right.
From afar, the battle looked like crimson threads clashing with dark violet ones, streaks of pure energy weaving and colliding, tearing through the air and ripping the ground apart.
But the next blast erupted beneath her feet, tearing the ground apart—yet she had already leapt, soaring toward the wall.
With gravity defied, she ran along the vertical stone like it meant nothing, her crimson cloak billowing wildly behind her, dancing in the chaos like a banner of war.
Explosions tore through the wall just behind her, clawing at her heels. She soared into the air, letting out a fierce cry, "I will not lose!" Her sword sliced through the night as she descended toward her enemy, who simultaneously unleashed a wave of dark magic aimed straight at her.
Their forces collided midair with a deafening explosion, sending shockwaves rippling through the surroundings. When the dust settled, the place returned to a quiet ruin—some broken pillars scattered around, and the silver moonlight casting a calm glow, dust swirling faintly on the breeze.
Sikakama lay still, blood trickling from her mouth and staining her lips.
Suddenly, two figures appeared—a man and a woman. The woman stepped forward, her long, thick, wavy black hair flowing freely over her shoulders, blending with the night breeze. Her pale face stood out against her dark cloak, and in her hand she carried a staff with an oil lantern hanging from its tip. She placed her hands gently on Sikakama's face, leaning close until their foreheads touched. Soft, shimmering lines of magic unfurled between them, faint and ethereal, like scattered trails of light—tiny, delicate swallows flickering in and out of existence as they hovered around her.