“Mom, hurry up! Let’s go faster!”
Lina, seven years old, tugged at her mother’s sleeve with her small hand, standing on tiptoe as she anxiously peered toward the central plaza.
Today she wore her favorite blue dress, and her hair was braided by her mother into two neat pigtails, each tied with a tiny bow at the end.
“I know, I know, my little Lina.”
Lina’s mother smiled gently, looking at her daughter’s flushed, excited face.
“The team of the Divine Chosen hasn’t arrived yet. We have plenty of time.”
“But I can’t wait!”
Lina stomped her foot in impatience.
In her hand, she clutched a Magic Bear Plush she had sewn herself from wood and scraps of cloth.
It had taken her three whole days, secretly using leftover fabric from her mother’s mending.
The Kingdom of Arslan was a land at the heart of the Tingyue continent, shrouded by the faith of the Lishen Church.
Here, girls had a chance of awakening the power of a magic girl in their teenage years.
Magic girls from all corners would enter the Pascal Military Academy to learn tactics and combat, and the most outstanding would be granted the title of Divine Chosen by the Crown of Instruction, inheriting Lishen’s protection and becoming the commander of all magic girls.
In the hearts of all children in the Kingdom of Arslan, the word Divine Chosen was synonymous with hero and hope.
She was Lishen’s agent on earth, wielding the Sacred Sword to cut down the vile Demon Beasts threatening the kingdom, protecting the peace and security within the walls.
Every girl dreamed of awakening magic, donning the heroic battle uniform, and becoming a magic girl respected like the Divine Chosen.
Lina was no exception.
In her small world, Lord Farusil was perfect—strong, beautiful, and invincible.
Every time she returned from battle, she would ride a tall white horse through the city, smiling amidst cheers and showers of flowers, just like the heroes in storybooks.
“Did you hear? This time the Divine Chosen led the team deep into the Demon Domain Forbidden Marsh to investigate Demon Beast activity!”
“Yeah, it must have been tough for them. Just hearing the name of that place gives me chills.”
“Don’t worry, as long as the Divine Chosen is there, no Demon Beast is a match!”
The people around them spoke in excited tones, filled with pride and trust.
That trust had become part of the nation’s foundation, a belief etched into every citizen’s bones.
Finally, from a distance came the crisp sound of hooves on stone.
Lina’s heart pounded.
She squeezed through the crowd, pressing forward.
When the team appeared at the far end of the main street, all the cheers seemed to be strangled by an invisible hand, fading to stunned silence.
There was no triumphant fanfare, no banners emblazoned with snow and sword.
At the front of the procession were only a few simple wagons covered with thick straw.
On the wagons lay bodies shrouded in white cloth.
The cloth was already soaked with dark green, foul-smelling liquid, hardening into ugly stains.
Behind the wagons walked the surviving magic girls.
Exhaustion and despair were etched onto every face.
Their bodies were smeared with mud and blood, hair tangled across faces and necks, uniforms torn, their once-pristine armor marred by gashes and corrosion, skirts ripped to reveal bandaged wounds still seeping blood.
Lina froze.
Her small body stood rigid, her mind blank.
She didn’t understand.
Why… why was it like this?
This wasn’t how the storybooks told it.
Her gaze traveled through the silent, battered procession, coming to rest on the single enclosed carriage among them.
The curtain was drawn aside a crack.
Farusil sat quietly in the shadows of the cabin.
The blue armor that symbolized honor was now torn in several places, the left shoulder plate entirely missing, revealing the slashed lining and hints of blood beneath.
Her iconic, moonlight-blue hair was messily tied with a band, stray strands clinging to her pale face, sweat and dust making her look less distant and untouchable.
…Like an ordinary person.
She didn’t look at anyone, only lowered her head, hands tightly gripping the long sword resting on her knees.
As if sensing a gaze, Farusil trembled.
She raised her head instinctively.
Her eyes met a pair of clear, wide eyes at the very front of the crowd.
In that instant, Farusil saw everything in Lina’s gaze.
It was pure worship.
Unwavering trust.
The most original fantasy of a hero—written in storybooks, sung in songs.
But heroes did not lead comrades to their deaths.
Heroes did not, when facing strong enemies, have shameful thoughts of sacrificing subordinates to save themselves.
Nor did they, like now, return to the royal city with a battered team and several cold corpses, fleeing in disgrace.
A stabbing, needle-sharp guilt pierced Farusil’s heart.
Her throat felt blocked.
Even breathing became difficult.
She could not bear that gaze any longer.
Their eyes met for less than two seconds before she wrenched her gaze away as if burned.
She lowered her head again, staring fixedly at the grain of the wooden floor inside the carriage.
She didn’t dare look up.
She didn’t dare meet the girl’s eyes again.
—
The Glorious Hall of the Arslan Royal City was renowned for its grandeur and solemnity.
Its dome was carved from a single block of Moonstone, absorbing sunlight by day and glowing with gentle radiance at night, ensuring the hall never knew darkness.
The floor was paved with polished white jade from Southwind Valley, smooth as a mirror, reflecting the dome’s glow and the gilded reliefs on the pillars.
A faint aroma of fine incense filled the air, isolating the hall from the city’s noise and creating a holy, otherworldly atmosphere.
When Farusil led her battered troops into this sacred place, a jarring scar tore through its purity.
They were still dressed in the ruined uniforms brought back from the Demon Domain Forbidden Marsh.
Caked blood and dried mud gave off a lingering scent of rust and decay, clashing insultingly with the pristine hall.
Inside, a group of elegantly dressed officials and nobles mingled, speaking in low voices.
When they saw the group that looked as though it had crawled from hell, the smiles on their faces froze.
Some noblewomen even covered their noses and mouths with silk handkerchiefs, as if the smell was a deadly plague.
The Minister of Logistics, a middle-aged man named Barto, stood at the front.
His face was bloated from indulgence, with two carefully groomed moustaches above a mouth that always wore a false smile.
Seeing Farusil, his smile grew wider.
He strode forward with a spring in his step, incongruent with his size.
“Ah, Lady Divine Chosen! You’ve returned safely! Lishen’s blessing, truly, Lishen’s blessing!”
Farusil said nothing, her eyes devoid of warmth.
Behind her, Irene could no longer restrain herself.
She stepped forward, her face flushed with anger.
“Lord Barto! Lishen’s blessing? I’d like to ask you—where are Supply Point Four, Five, and Seven? Why was there not even a dry ration in the Ashrock Post?”
Her sharp voice cut through the hall, drawing every gaze.
Barto’s smile faltered for a moment.
His shifty eyes darted around, then he put on a pained expression.
“Deputy Irene, I understand your feelings.”
He spoke with oily formality.
“The mission into the Demon Domain Forbidden Marsh was perilous. Losses are inevitable. But you cannot accuse the logistics office without evidence. We followed protocol exactly, delivering all supplies to the designated points. The documentation bears the Royal Seal, every shipment accounted for.”
“Documentation?”
Irene stared in disbelief, then laughed bitterly.
“While our sisters chewed tree bark and drank foul water in the marshes, you checked records and stamps in the royal city? Should we bring their corpses back and lay them before you before you admit the supplies never existed?”
“Insolence!”
Barto’s face darkened.
He screeched, “Lady Farusil, is this how you discipline your subordinates? Shouting at a royal minister in the Glorious Hall, without a trace of courtesy! As for lost supplies, in a place like the Demon Domain Forbidden Marsh, overrun by Demon Beasts and bandits, any misfortune is possible. Perhaps Demon Beasts destroyed them—or perhaps…you were simply too incompetent to find the correct locations?”
The last words were delivered lightly, but stabbed into Farusil’s heart like a poisoned needle.
Incompetent.
A flood of young faces flashed through her mind.
Lilian, who loved weaving flower crowns during breaks—her body melted by acid into sludge.
Mina, always complaining about harsh training but never missing a session—her insides shattered by a shockwave as she shielded her comrades.
Kaya, the shyest one, who blushed at the sight of her—her chest pierced by the Shadow Hound’s bone blade, eyes fixed on her to the very end.
Eleven in all.
Eleven vibrant, young lives.
Their sacrifice now dismissed as incompetence by the greasy man before her.
Cold rage surged from Farusil’s spine to the crown of her head.
The air around her plummeted in temperature, a thin frost spreading across the floor.
She moved.
No one saw her action.
One moment, she stood still as an ice statue.
The next, a sharp sound—“shing”—rang through the hall.
Before anyone could react, Farusil stood before Minister Barto.
Her left hand clamped around his throat, lifting his bulky body off the ground.
Her right held Frost Snow, the sword’s icy blade glimmering at Barto’s trembling neck.
The edge sliced his skin, a trickle of blood sliding down onto his silken cravat, blossoming into a crimson flower.
The Glorious Hall fell into absolute silence.
All were stunned.
Guards gripped their halberds, unsure whether to intervene or remain still.
“You…you…”
Barto’s face turned the color of liver as he stared at Farusil’s bloodless visage in terror.
“You…madwoman…”
Farusil ignored his struggles.
She stared at him, her blue eyes ablaze with fury, all calm and reason burned away.
“Tell me.”
Her voice was low, but like a cold wind from the abyss, made every listener’s soul tremble.
“My soldiers…how many of their names do you remember?”
Under her gaze, Barto shook violently, unable to speak.
“Speak!”
Farusil’s grip tightened, the sword pressing deeper.
At that tense moment, a languid yet commanding voice, tinged with irritation, echoed from the depths of the hall.
“Farusil, the Pascal Military Academy invested heavily in your training—not so you could point your sword at your own people.”