The air rang with the clash of swords.
In a wide training ground, roughly twenty metres across, two figures moved against each other in a fierce exchange.
A young woman with blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, her brown eyes sharp and focused, wore a white breastplate over a blue tunic. She wielded a long, sharp sword, striking and parrying with practised ease.
Her opponent was a young man with black hair and grey eyes that gleamed with quiet persistence.
They exchanged blows without pause, both wearing faint smiles, while the guards watching from the edge of the yard muttered among themselves with visible envy.
"That's Athtar and Margret, isn't it? I heard they've been married for over a year now…"
"Right. The commander, of all people—always so cold and untouchable—suddenly drops the news that she married her trainee. How long were they hiding that?"
"Give it up, mate. Forget about Margret while you still can."
The men laughed as their friend, who'd quietly admired Margret for years, sulked. He'd only learned she was married when she announced it herself—and to Athtar, of all people. That quiet, unassuming young man no one ever paid much attention to.
The sparring came to an end. Margret sheathed her sword and wiped the sweat from her brow, then glanced down at Athtar, who lay flat on his back, breathing hard.
She smiled softly, her cheeks flushed, and leaned over him just slightly. "What's wrong? Already worn out? And here I thought you had the stamina of a frenzied beast…"
A ripple of embarrassment passed through the watching men. Athtar's face turned crimson as he shot upright and threw a murderous glare around the yard. The knights quickly averted their eyes, as though they hadn't heard a thing.
"You can't just say things like that in public, Margret! Have you no shame?"
Margret tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. "Why should I be ashamed to show my love?"
Athtar's face flushed even deeper, steam practically rising from his ears. One of the knights made a throat-slitting gesture behind Margret's back, but Athtar—still red-faced—raised his middle finger in reply.
"Enough loitering! Who told you to stop? Start running. Now."
Margret's voice cut through the air like a blade, and the knights scrambled with a chorus of hurried affirmations.
"Yes, Commander!"
She watched them until they disappeared around the corner, then let out a quiet sigh and relaxed her shoulders. She turned to find Athtar standing beside her, his sword resting lightly in his hand. Despite his youth, he was taller than her—she had always been rather short.
He looked up, sensing her gaze. "What is it?"
"Let's go all out tonight…"
"Wh—"
Athtar's face went red again, and Margret burst out laughing, clutching her stomach. "Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless."
He rolled his eyes, sheathed his sword, and began walking toward the other knights. "I'm going to finish my run. Don't follow me."
She laughed again as she watched him jog off, her smile lingering even after he'd joined the others and a brief scuffle broke out among them before they continued their laps.
Margret sighed and turned toward the palace.
The Royal Guard consisted of several regiments; she commanded one of them. She made her way inside, heading for the kitchen—a habit she'd kept even after her promotion. She never liked ordering servants around.
As she entered the corridor leading to the kitchen, she saw a familiar figure.
A young woman with long blonde hair and cold blue eyes stood in the middle of the hall. She wore an elegant white dress, now stained with a dark brown mark running from her waist to her thighs—coffee, by the look of it.
At her feet, a black-haired maid knelt on the ground, trembling. The princess had her foot pressed against the maid's head.
"You think an apology is enough? You ruined my favourite dress. Killing you wouldn't satisfy me."
"I'm sorry… please, Your Highness… have mercy…"
Evelyn pressed down harder, about to crush the maid's skull, when a hand gripped her arm and pulled her back.
She turned, startled, and found Margret standing beside her—close enough to have reached her without making a sound.
"That's enough, Your Highness. Do you want to cause more trouble?"
Margret's voice was calm, but her grip was firm.
Evelyn pulled her arm free with an annoyed huff and looked down at the trembling maid. Then she turned and walked away without another word.
"Thank Margret, you filthy thing…"
The maid immediately knelt before Margret, weeping, trying to kiss her hands in gratitude. Margret gently pulled her upright.
"Don't thank me. Just be careful around Her Highness—she's sensitive and quick to anger. Take a few days off until things calm down."
She wiped the girl's tears with her thumb, and the maid nodded, still crying quietly, before hurrying away.
Margret sighed and continued toward the kitchen.
Further down the corridor, Evelyn stood with her hand pressed to her arm where Margret had grabbed her. She was about to turn away when she heard footsteps approaching behind her.
—
When Margret stepped back into the yard, the sky had changed.
It had been clear just moments ago—crisp and bright, as early morning ought to be. Now, dark clouds had gathered, rolling in from every direction, as though the sky itself were uneasy.
She scanned the yard until she found Athtar, and called him over.
He came quickly, falling into step beside her with his usual cold expression.
"The weather turned too fast," she said, a hand pressed to her chest. "Something doesn't feel right. Our kingdom was never the kind where the weather shifted so suddenly."
"I have no idea," he said, glancing up. "We were in the middle of training when the clouds started gathering. The men there were trading old legends about it—that this is what happens when the gods go to war."
Margret smiled faintly. "That's impossible. The gods have been allied for ages. There hasn't been a divine battle since before the churches were founded."
Even the old records of such things were written in languages so ancient they were barely decipherable—kept in temples and universities as relics, not history.
Then the rain began.
It fell lightly at first, barely a drizzle. But both Margret and Athtar, seasoned knights, felt a shift in the mana around them. Something touched them—and they realized it was the raindrops themselves.
"We should call it a day," Margret said.
"I agree."
"You're not just saying that to skip training?"
"I wouldn't dare, Commander."
"What a diligent knight you are."
They shared a quiet laugh, and Margret ordered the knights to stop training and take up their posts throughout the palace. The air was still heavy, strange. Better to be cautious.
—
That evening, after their patrol ended, the couple set off toward home.
Their house sat on the outskirts of the kingdom, about half an hour's walk from the city centre. They enjoyed the walk—it gave them time to talk, to wander through side streets, and sometimes to stop for a meal.
Athtar passed a certain place, a clothing shop, and for some strange reason, the moment he saw it he seemed to glimpse fragments of something—fragments of a memory of his own. In it, he was buying clothes for some obscured figure whose identity he didn't know; just a figure wrapped in a black cloak that concealed every feature. He felt a little foolish—he had never once visited this place in his life. He dismissed the thought entirely and carried on walking beside his wife.
That night, they stopped at a small restaurant built on a raised terrace. From its open side, one could see nearly the entire kingdom spread below—a sight visible from almost anywhere in the kingdom—with a massive statue at its heart: a woman reaching toward the sky, her hand raised in silent invitation to something higher.
Every time Athtar saw it, something stirred in his chest. A strange sense of belonging. He didn't understand it, and didn't linger on it.
After dinner, they started their walk home.
The rain had returned, heavier now. People hurried past, faces tight with unease. Something was wrong—something no one could name.
Then the thunder came.
Bolts of lightning split the sky, striking again and again, and the royal palace trembled.
Margret's heart seized with terror as she saw the heavens crack open. The entire kingdom of Kaivan shook under a storm that felt less like weather and more like wrath.
She searched for Athtar in the chaos. When she found him, they pulled each other into an embrace, seeking warmth amid the unnatural cold.
"Goddess Ilthara… protect us…"
"Spare us, please…"
The faithful began to pray, their voices lost beneath the howling wind.
And then the clouds parted.
In a terrible, crystalline image, the people of Kaivan saw it: a figure—the Demon King—standing above the heavens, plunging his spear through the chest of their goddess, tearing out her heart, and consuming it to devour her powers.
Blood rained from the sky.
Red and heavy, it fell upon the kingdom, drenching the streets, the rooftops, the people themselves.
The goddess had fallen. The sky itself had fallen.
—
Margret and Athtar stared in disbelief. But the shock did not end there.
All around them, royal knights approached, their armour splattered in blood—fresh blood, as though they had just emerged from a massacre.
"What is this? What do you want?"
One of the knights held up a scroll bearing the king's seal and spoke in a cold, flat tone.
"By order of the crown, Margret of the Royal Guard is hereby charged with high treason—an attempted coup against the king. The sentence is death. Immediate. We have the authority to execute you here and now."
Athtar's mind went blank. "That's madness! She's never betrayed anyone! No one loves this kingdom as much as Margret does! This is a lie!"
But the knights drew their swords and attacked without hesitation.
Margret pushed Athtar aside and fought back fiercely, her sword singing through the air. But then a golden light suddenly flared, piercing clean through Margret's waist — she screamed and dropped to her knees, gasping for breath.
The knights turned in surprise.
"Princess Evelyn!"
Evelyn stood behind them, her sword still wet. She pointed it coldly at Margret, who knelt, gasping for breath.
Athtar tried to move, but the knights held him fast. He struggled, but he was too weak—still just an apprentice, helpless.
"Your fate ends here, traitor."
Evelyn's blade fell—swift, unstoppable—aiming for Margret.
And Margret moved.
With the last of her strength, she threw herself at the guards holding Athtar, slashing their arms, forcing them to release him.
"Go, Athtar! Run!"
She threw him away from her with all her might, buying him a single moment of freedom.
A sword pierced through her back, the blade emerging from her chest.
Then another blade found her — one of the knights' swords opening a second wound at her waist — and she spat blood as she looked weakly toward Athtar. But the sight of her husband, the beloved of her heart, gave her the strength to resist a little longer, to hold on a little longer, to try to live just long enough to save him.
Evelyn stood a few steps away, watching coldly.
Margret—who had always been so afraid of pain, who cried even when she cut her finger while chopping vegetables—she turned to look at Athtar one last time.
She was not screaming. She was not crying.
She raised her head with pride, standing firm on her feet—not bent, not broken—steadfast as a commander, and as a wife.
She smiled.
"Athtar… go… live…"
A blade swept across her neck, severing her head from her body. Her head flew through the air before falling to the ground.
Blood splattered the knights, the ground, the rain-soaked stone.
Athtar screamed.
He ran.
He ran through the forest, past the arrow that bit into his back—though it was not deep—past the fire and water spells that scorched the earth behind him. He ran away from the capital, toward the forest. He ran until he collapsed inside a cave, bleeding, broken, his consciousness fading.
He stared at the rock he had chosen to lie upon, his vision blurring.
"Goddess… Ilthara… anyone…"
His voice was raw with grief and hatred, his eyes brimming with pain and deep sorrow, his face reddened by his own blood and the rain of blood pouring from him.
"If you really exist… take my body, my mind, my future… everything. Just destroy this kingdom… this cursed kingdom that took everything from me…"
A bitter silence.
No answer.
He wept. It seemed as though the gods were mocking him, laughing at him as they watched him die miserably like a wretched animal. He would die here, alone, and be forgotten across the river of time.
He closed his eyes.
And felt himself slip into the dark.
...
[Loading Data... System]
[0%…]
[…]
[100%]
[Installing... Data... System...]
[Installation complete.]
[Scanning…]
[Data incomplete. Required: Consciousness Fragment.]
[Data incomplete. Required: Consciousness Fragment.]
[...]
In the darkness of that cave… after the rain had finally stopped…
Two grey eyes opened.
Brimming with vengeance.
[Welcome, Host, to the System.]
[Please upload a Consciousness Fragment for the system to function.]
[Please…]
[A Consciousness Fragment…]
...
TO BE CONTINUED