The west coast of the Empire.
Waves crashed against the reefs, bringing with them not white foam, but a viscous, breathing thing.
Those monsters crawled out from the sea, their bodies looking as if they had been torn from a womb before they were fully formed—their limbs reflected a sickly luster under the moonlight, and liquid oozed from the folds of their joints. Every monster's body rhythmically expanded and contracted, as if something beneath the skin was struggling to burst forth.
The defense line broke.
Some men were still holding their rifles, barrels pointed down, their hands shaking. Some threw down their weapons and ran back, stepping over their comrades without looking back. More people knelt on the ground, no longer having even the strength to flee.
The sea breeze blew voices into fragmented shards—someone shouting the name of a god, someone cursing an officer, someone crying so hard they couldn't catch their breath.
The tide surged in wave after wave, as if the entire ocean was pouring onto the shore.
Voices gradually thinned out.
Blue liquid surged out from the husks of those things, spreading among the gravel, emitting a stench of rotting seaweed mixed with rust.
Human blood, however, was red, vividly and piercingly bright.
The two colors met on the wet sand, seeping into rock crevices and smeared across the reefs. The coastline changed into a different color—like a bruise, like a wound before it rots, like a territory on the map of the Empire about to be erased.
The corpses moved.
The blue liquid seeped into the open wounds of the soldiers lying among the reefs, crawling along their blood vessels. Something squirmed beneath the skin, and bones let out unnatural, brittle cracks, sounding like someone was dismantling a human body section by section with pliers.
The fingers moved first, curling like a cramp, nails digging into the gravel until the nail beds flipped up.
Then came the limbs; the joints were oriented incorrectly, twisting at angles impossible for a human body. Elbows folded backward, knees bent sideways, and the entire person looked as if they had been stuffed into a body that didn't fit.
They stood up.
Uniforms still hung on their bodies, and their boots were filled with seawater and blood. But the faces were different—the eye sockets were so sunken that the bone behind them was visible, the mouths were opened too wide with jaws nearly dislocated, and the sounds coming from their throats felt as if they were rising from a very, very deep trench.
The first to see it was a private who was still firing. He recognized the face walking toward him; it was the squad leader who had been loading magazines next to him ten minutes ago, the veteran who had been bragging last night about going home to marry a wife.
He shouted something, his voice torn apart by the sea breeze. The barrel strayed, and the bullet hit a reef, splashing a mixture of blue and red water.
When the thing lunged, he was still calling the squad leader's name, still saying "It's me, it's me."
The defense line shattered completely.
No one cared about formation anymore; no one followed orders. Some fired at their own people because they couldn't distinguish who was who, who was still alive, and who had turned into something else.
Someone knelt on the ground vomiting, eventually only dry-heaving, bile mixed with streaks of blood spewed onto the beach.
The waves continued to surge, and the monsters from the sea mixed with the things standing up from their comrades' corpses; the moonlight couldn't reveal a difference. Or rather, no difference was needed—they were all moving in one direction, toward the people who were still alive.
Footprints were everywhere on the beach, some moving forward, more moving backward. Shoes, helmets, and broken rifle butts were scattered across the ground; some weapons were still smoking, barrels pointing toward the sky as if seeking reinforcements from a god.
The sea breeze scattered the cries and brought in new screams of agony. Blue and red continued to spread over the gravel until, slowly, even the boundary line was indistinguishable. The Empire's defense line was about to vanish completely on this coast.
And then—
Light appeared on the coastline.
It wasn't moonlight. Moonlight could not produce such a color—it was as if molten gold had been poured into the darkness, as if someone had torn the sun to pieces and scattered it upon the mortal world.
That light was moving; with every step on the gravel, the sound of armor clashing could be heard.
The sound of a sword unsheathing was very soft, so soft it was drowned out by the roar of the waves. But when the sword light swept through the air, even the wind stopped for a moment, and the waves seemed to shrink by half.
The first monster, still in a lunging posture with its mouth full of jagged teeth, was split right down the middle. Before the blue liquid could even surge out, its husk fell onto the sand, never to move again. The cut was as smooth as if it had been handled by the sharpest surgical blade.
The sword swung again.
This time it wasn't a single beam of light, but a whole field of it. Golden lines interlaced in the air, so dense it looked as if someone had woven light into a net and then shredded that net as it fell. Those lines landed on the monsters, slicing through flesh, severing bone, and decomposing joints.
There was no sound, no struggle.
When they collapsed, their bodies were no longer whole. Some were split in two, some were cut into pieces, and blue liquid surged from countless incisions, forming small streams on the beach.
The blue liquid on the beach no longer squirmed. Those things that had just stood up from their comrades' corpses became merely corpses once again after being cut by the golden light. They would not move again, would not stand again, and would not use a familiar face to do strange things.
The waves still surged.
But the monsters within the waves stopped. They crowded together in the shallows, limbs twisting in the water, bodies half-submerged, but they did not move further forward. Something passed between them—not a sound, but something else. It was like a certain scent, a vibration, a warning carved into their instincts.
Something more terrifying than death.
The figure wearing armor still stood on the coastline. Blue liquid stained the silver-white armor, reflecting an eerie light under the moon. The sword tip hung low, and no blood stained the blade, for the "blood" of those things was not worthy of remaining on the sword.
The tide receded slightly.
The monsters shrank back, retreating into deep water, their limbs paddling through the sea and kicking up ripples. As the moonlight shone on them, their deformed bodies could be seen trembling, and low growls could be heard from their throats like some sort of warning signal.
They were passing some kind of message through the seawater.
About that golden rain.
About that existence that should not be provoked.
'Rain, the golden rain, is lethal.'
'Retreat, retreat to the deep sea, that human cannot be touched.'
The sound of the waves gradually faded as the monsters retreated into the deep ocean.
Temporarily, of course.
...
Wheels rolled over the gravel road, bumping enough to make one unable to sit steadily.
Ophelia's hands pressed against her knees, her fingertips picking at the embroidery of her dress.
This outfit was a gift from the Empire, white silk with gold thread embroidered on the cuffs and collar. It was very expensive, and very much in the way.
She had wanted to bring her sword.
Since the age of twelve, that sword had never left her side.
She carried it on her back during training, placed it by her pillow when sleeping, and even hung it where she could see it while bathing.
When the sword was there, her heart was at peace.
When the sword was there, she knew who she was.
But this morning, when the maid entered, she had frowned at the sight of the sword.
"Lady Ophelia, today you are a bride, not a knight."
The maid had spoken very tactfully, her tone carrying a cautious respect, but the meaning was clear—a bride could not carry a weapon.
At least not personally.
It would be unseemly, inconsistent with noble etiquette, and unfitting for the image of a woman about to be married.
Ophelia had stared at that sword for a long time then.
She stared at the sword, thinking of that night on the coastline, thinking of the golden light, thinking of the sound of monsters falling.
Thinking of the strength with which the general had gripped her gauntlet.
Thinking of the silence that filled the hall when the Imperial messenger read the marriage contract.
Thinking of the Emperor's "kind" smile and that sentence: "The Empire will not forget the merits of its heroes."
In the end, she had stuffed the sword into a box.
There was no resistance, no argument, just as she had not refused this marriage.
The carriage bumped again, harder than before. Ophelia's shoulder hit the carriage wall, and the sleeve of her dress brushed against the window frame, leaving a smudge of dust on the white fabric.
She looked down, her finger pressing on the stain, trying to wipe the dust away.
But it wouldn't come off.
The more she rubbed, the larger the gray mark became, a patch of grayish-black seeping into the white silk.
Ophelia stopped her hand and stared at the stain.
She suddenly felt like laughing.
A dress embroidered with thirty meters of gold thread, a masterpiece that the best tailor in the Imperial capital spent half a month completing, was dirtied just like that.
She lifted her hand and looked at her fingers.
There were calluses on her fingertips, and a scar at the base of her thumb left by training when she was fourteen.
Back then, she couldn't hold a greatsword steadily; after three hundred consecutive slashes, her hand had broken out in blood blisters.
Later, the wound healed, leaving this scar.
The scar was curved, like a crescent moon, embedded in the skin of her hand.
Now, this hand was going to hold another person's hand.
It would hold the hand of a strange man, swear "until death do us part" before a priest, and then be taken into a strange territory to live in a strange house and lead the life a "noble lady" should have.
Klein.
Ophelia repeated the name in her heart, trying to make herself remember it.
But it was of no use. The name remained nothing more than hollow syllables in her mind, connecting to no image and evoking no emotion.
The Empire had shown her the dossier—a minor country noble with a small territory, knowing a bit of magic and alchemy. The dossier also included a portrait, drawn so haphazardly that one could only tell it was a young man, with his specific appearance completely indistinguishable.
His features were as blurred as if they had been soaked in water, with only the outline barely recognizable.
Ophelia had stared at that portrait for a long time, trying to find something in those messy lines.
She wanted to know what color the man's eyes were, whether they were like the nobles she had seen, carrying scrutiny and calculation when they looked at people.
She wanted to know what the man's hands looked like, whether they were slender, pampered hands, or if they also had calluses and scars.
She wanted to know if the man would despise her—despise the calluses on her hands, despise the scars on her body, despise that she couldn't embroider or dance and only knew how to kill.
In the end, she couldn't see anything and could only conclude that the artist should be replaced.
The scenery outside the window was changing.
Fields turned into forests, and forests turned into wasteland.
Wheat fields became fewer, while weeds grew more abundant; occasionally, a few dilapidated houses could be seen, their windows dark like they hadn't been lived in for a long time.
Ophelia lifted the curtain to take a look, then let it fall back down.
The prosperity of the imperial capital had been left behind; even those orderly wheat fields were gone, and now only desolation remained outside the window.
She closed her eyes and leaned against the carriage wall.
The golden light appeared before her eyes again.
The familiar weight, the familiar trajectory, the familiar feel when the sword swung—the resistance of steel cutting through flesh, the sound of the blade slicing air, the sensation of liquid splashing against her armor as monsters fell.
Those sensations were etched into her muscle memory, carved into her bones, and embedded in her every breath.
She was born for battle.
From the moment she picked up a sword, she knew what she was going to do with her life.
Train, fight, grow stronger, and protect the Empire.
Nothing else.
She had never thought about getting married, never thought about wearing this restrictive dress, never thought about laying down her sword to lead a "normal woman's" life.
But the Empire did.
The Empire indeed would not forget a hero.
But the Empire would certainly not allow an overly powerful hero to remain in the center of power.
That was too dangerous.
So they had to marry her off, marry her to a remote territory, let her live the life of a "noble lady," have children, manage a household, and attend tea parties.
Let her stay far away from the battlefield, far away from the army, and far away from those soldiers who still remembered the coastal battle and the golden sword light.
Let her change from the "Sword of the Empire" into "some minor noble's wife."
The carriage bumped again, more violently this time.
Ophelia opened her eyes and braced her hand against the carriage wall to steady herself.
The hem of her dress was piled at her feet; the white fabric was already dirtied in several places, and more than one golden thread had snapped.
She looked down at those broken gold threads and the stains, and suddenly yanked hard on her cuff.
A tearing sound rang out.
A whole patch of embroidery was torn off, gold threads scattering inside the carriage and glittering on the wooden floor.
The carriage stopped.
The coachman called out from outside: "My Lady, we have arrived."
Ophelia took a deep breath and threw the piece of fabric by her feet.
Her hand pressed against the carriage door, gripping the handle.
The door handle was bronze and a bit cold, as cold as a sword hilt.
But this was not a sword hilt.
This was merely the handle of a carriage door; after pushing it open, what awaited her was not a battlefield, not an enemy, and not a problem that could be solved with a sword.
Instead, it was a strange man, an absurd wedding, and a life she had never wanted.
Ophelia closed her eyes and then opened them.
The calluses on her hand rubbed against the door handle, making a faint friction sound.
She remembered what her instructor had said: "On the battlefield, there are no choices, only obedience."
Back then, she hadn't understood.
Now, she did.
This was just another kind of battlefield.
She pushed open the carriage door.
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