...
{3rd Pov}
"Drip, drip, drip."
She stood exactly where she had been left, unmoving and unresponsive, like a corpse that had long since lost all reasoning, all memories, and any trace of will.
In truth, that was all she was now.
A corpse.
An empty, unmoving shell that no longer questioned anything, that no longer thought, that no longer resisted.
She only obeyed.
She only followed orders.
She only existed to slaughter, carrying out whatever command had been given to her without hesitation or awareness.
The last order she had received had been simple: stand there.
So she stood.
For days, for weeks, for months, without complaint or awareness of time passing.
She remained in place unless a new command arrived—one that required her to move, to act, to kill innocent people with the overwhelming power she still possessed.
Outside of those moments, she returned to stillness, as if she had never moved at all.
Now it was raining.
Even so, nothing changed for her.
She remained inside the hidden stronghold of the Witch Cult, located deep within the hills between Kararagi and Lugunica.
The structure itself was old and poorly maintained, its walls cracked and its ceilings unreliable.
Water seeped through those cracks, gathering into droplets that fell at irregular intervals.
She stood in one of the inner rooms, lined with other corpse soldiers just like her.
They were arranged in silence, each one motionless, each one waiting for orders that would eventually come.
From a thin crack in the ceiling above her, water slowly gathered before falling.
Each droplet landed on the top of her head with a faint, repetitive sound.
"Drip… drip… drip."
She did not react.
She was dressed in the standard robe of the Witch Cult, the dark fabric covering her entire body from head to toe.
Only her face remained exposed, and even that was not by choice but by design.
In situations of urgency, the Witch Cultists needed to be able to identify their available assets at a glance, selecting the most suitable warriors and assigning corpse soldiers like her to roles that matched their abilities and combat prowess.
Her visibility was nothing more than a practical measure, a way to make her easier to use.
Her exposed face showed no expression.
Her blue eyes were dull and lifeless, completely devoid of emotion, while her long red hair fell down her back in unkempt strands, resting against the dark robe that concealed the rest of her body.
There was no tension in her features, no sign of awareness or thought, only a blank, neutral stillness.
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Her eyes, in particular, stood out the most—they held no light, no spark of life, resembling nothing more than those of a dead and inhuman corpse.
Because that was exactly what she was.
A corpse soldier.
A weapon created from the dead body of the former Sword Saint, stripped of identity and purpose, repurposed into something that existed only to obey.
Her sole function was to take innocent lives, to act against the very ideals that her living self-had once upheld and fought for without hesitation.
She remained standing in silence as the water continued dripping steadily from the crack in the ceiling above.
The droplets fell onto her hair, soaking the strands little by little, yet she showed no reaction, no acknowledgment of the sensation.
Then, without warning, something changed.
Her head began to move, slowly tilting upward as if guided by an unfamiliar force.
The motion was stiff at first, unnatural, like a body being forced to move after remaining still for far too long.
Gradually, her lifeless eyes began to shift, and for the first time, a faint trace of awareness flickered within them.
The dull emptiness started to fade.
A faint light returned to her eyes, weak but undeniable, as if something buried deep within her was forcing its way back to the surface.
The change was abrupt yet incomplete, unstable, as her body struggled to respond to it.
Then she gasped.
Her body lurched forward suddenly, breaking the rigid stillness she had maintained for so long.
A shaky breath escaped her lips as her balance faltered, as though she was no longer able to support herself in the same unmoving state she had been locked in for months.
"W-Where am I? Mi Señor, where are you?" she said in a confused and unsteady tone, her voice shaky as if it had not been used for a long time.
She forced herself to regain her balance, her body still feeling unfamiliar and uncooperative.
As she steadied herself, her eyes moved around the room, taking in her surroundings. T
he moment she properly focused, her entire body froze.
Shock and confusion spread across her face as she saw figures standing all around her, each one dressed in the robes of the Witch Cult, their postures stiff and unmoving, just like corpses.
For a brief moment, she thought they were alive.
Then realization struck her instantly.
They were corpse soldiers.
Without hesitation, she reached for her sword, her instincts taking over before her thoughts could properly catch up.
Her movements were quick, practiced, driven by years of experience that still remained within her body.
She grabbed the hilt and pulled the weapon free in one smooth motion, preparing herself for a confrontation.
However, the moment the blade left its sheath, she noticed something was wrong.
Her grip faltered slightly as her eyes shifted to the weapon in her hand.
This was not the Life Sword she was accustomed to carrying at her side.
The balance felt different, the presence of the blade unfamiliar.
Instead, she was holding an ordinary sword—one that lacked the unique qualities she expected.
Even so, there was something about it that felt strangely familiar, as if she had used it long ago.
That inconsistency made her pause.
It was then that another detail caught her attention.
Her clothes.
Her eyes moved down to her own body, and the moment she realized what she was wearing, her confusion only deepened.
The fabric, the design, the color—there was no mistaking it.
She was dressed in the robe of the Witch Cult, the very same attire worn by the figures surrounding her.
"I-Impossible… why am I wearing these robes?" she muttered under her breath, her voice filled with disbelief as she tried to make sense of the situation.
Her gaze lifted again as she looked around more carefully this time, observing the corpse soldiers standing alongside her.
Now that she paid closer attention, something about them seemed familiar.
Their presence, their arrangement, even the atmosphere around them—it all felt strangely recognizable, though she could not immediately place why.
Gradually, she relaxed just a little, though the tension did not completely leave her body.
To be honest, fear was not something that easily took hold of her.
Even when faced with overwhelming opponents, even against someone who could be considered her own grandson, the possessor of the 'Sword Icon,' she did not feel fear.
It simply wasn't in her nature to hesitate in the face of danger.
When her eyes fell upon one of the corpse soldiers, her entire body tensed.
The figure stood among the others, but what set him apart was impossible to ignore—he had eight arms, and his face was unmistakably familiar.
Shock spread across her expression.
'That's impossible,' she thought immediately, her mind rejecting what she was seeing.
That person should have been dead.
Not just dead, but completely erased beyond any normal means of return.
Even resurrection should not have been possible.
He had been killed by the very Concept of 'Sword' itself, struck down by Reinhard van Astrea.
A death like that was absolute, something that could not simply be undone.
As the possessor of the Sword Icon, she understood better than most just how overwhelming that power was.
Even a half-awakened Sword Icon was enough to defy conventional rules, to sever things at a conceptual level.
A complete strike from it left no room for exceptions, no loopholes, no second chances.
And yet, the man stood there.
Her breathing grew heavier as her thoughts began to spiral, her chest rising and falling unevenly.
Memories started flooding back into her mind all at once, disorganized and overwhelming, forcing her to relive moments she had no time to process properly.
Then, as the realization began to take shape, her legs gave out.
She fell to her knees.
A sharp, unsteady breath escaped her as everything started to connect.
The situation, her condition, the place she was in—it all pointed toward something she could barely accept.
She was supposed to be dead.
Her last memory was clear.
She had died after that battle against the skeletal monster, the one who had called himself Ainz Ooal Gown.
He was no ordinary enemy, but the possessor of the 'Death Icon,' a being whose very existence represented the end of life itself.
There had been no doubt about the outcome.
She had been killed.
"T-This… Am I back in time?" she muttered out loud, her voice unsteady as she tried to grasp at the possibility.
But even as the thought formed, she realized something else.
That shouldn't have been possible.
Not under any circumstances.
She hadn't just died—she had been killed by an Icon.
They were conceptual embodiments, existences that stood far beyond ordinary power, and as the possessor of one herself, she understood better than anyone just how overwhelming they truly were.
Her 'Sword Icon' granted her the ability to cut through things that should not have been possible to cut—Fate, Karma, destiny, and even abstract concepts themselves.
There were no conventional limits to what it could sever.
However, that power did not come without a cost.
She could only use it for a limited period of time before it began to take a severe toll on her body.
Unlike that being, Ainz Ooal Gown, who wielded his Icon on an entirely different level, with far greater control and endurance, she and Subaru were still merely human.
Their souls were not strong enough to fully withstand the burden that came with such authority.
Her hands slowly tightened into fists as the memories became clearer, sharper, more painful.
That outsider had not only destroyed their world but had also taken away the most precious person in her life—Natsuki Subaru.
The thought alone caused a surge of emotion to rise within her, though her expression remained controlled.
Even so, the weight of that loss pressed heavily against her chest, refusing to fade.
She had to admit something to herself.
After obtaining the 'Sword Icon' all those years ago, she had grown lenient.
Not careless, but confident to the point where she no longer felt truly threatened.
With that kind of power—power that elevated her into the embodiment of a concept, something that operated on principles higher than Od Laguna itself—there had been nothing left that could stand against her.
She had believed herself to be invincible.
Not just in a practical sense, but in a literal one.
Because the Sword Icon did not merely mean that she embodied what a sword represented in a symbolic or abstract way.
It meant something far greater than that.
It meant that the very 'Concept of Sword' itself had been given form through her existence.
She was not simply a wielder of that concept.
She was its embodiment.
That was what an Icon truly was.
It did not bring someone closer to the source of a concept—it made them the source itself.
The user did not borrow power or channel it from somewhere else; they became the origin point of that concept in a direct and undeniable way.
However, even that kind of absolute authority was not without its limitations.
The strength and stability of an Icon were still dependent on the soul of its bearer.
Against beings whose existence surpassed Od Laguna, or against others who possessed Icons of their own, that supposed absoluteness began to show cracks.
She had seen that weakness firsthand.
That was how that Outer God had appeared, descending into their world and tearing everything apart.
It had destroyed her world, her sense of peace, and the life she had built without hesitation.
More than anything else, it had taken away the one person she valued above all—Natsuki Subaru.
And it had done so for a reason.
Subaru, like her, bore an Icon—or at the very least, a fragment of one, an Icon Shard.
The 'Death Icon' had marked him as a target, and that Outer God had come specifically to eliminate him.
It was not random, and it was not meaningless.
Just as she herself had once hunted down others to complete her own Icon—slaughtering Cecilus Segmunt, Kurgan, and Julius Juukulius, and even defeating Reinhard van Astrea—the same principle applied here.
Icons were limited in number.
The fewer there were, the greater the power each remaining possessor could claim.
That was why Subaru had to die.
Her hands tightened further into fists as the memories fully resurfaced, each one more painful than the last.
She remembered everything clearly now.
There was no confusion left, no uncertainty to hide behind.
The overwhelming feeling of helplessness returned to her, just as strong as it had been in that moment.
She could still see it—the scene playing in her mind without pause.
Her Mi Señor dying right in front of her, while she stood there, unable to stop it.
Tears began to gather in her eyes before spilling over, running down her face one after another.
She did not even bother to wipe them away as they fell.
She already knew the truth—there should have been no way to bring him back.
Someone killed by the 'Death Icon' could not be resurrected through normal means.
That kind of death was absolute, final in a way that left no room for exceptions or miracles.
And yet, despite understanding that, she had never expected something like this to happen—returning to the past when she herself existed as nothing more than a corpse soldier.
'I-Is he alive? Did he return with me?' she wondered, the thought forming hesitantly in her mind.
It was a fragile hope, one she did not fully trust.
Even if she had somehow been sent back in time, that did not guarantee that everything had been restored along with her.
The circumstances of his death were not normal.
He had been killed by the 'Death Icon,' an authority that granted its user the power to kill without restriction, ignoring the very concepts of space, time, destiny, and even the soul itself.
A death like that was not something that could simply be undone by turning back time.
Still, she could not stop herself from hoping.
She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, though her body still felt unstable.
The situation around her should have been alarming.
She was standing in the middle of a Witch Cult hideout, surrounded by corpse soldiers, wearing the same robe as them, and existing in a point in time that should have already passed.
None of that mattered to her right now.
None of it held any weight compared to the single thought dominating her mind.
Him.
Her Mi Señor.
Her Señor Subaru—Natsuki Subaru.
Because he was her Señor, and she was his Señorita.
She instinctively reached for her Icon, trying to grasp that familiar presence within herself, only to realize something was wrong almost immediately.
The connection felt faint, unstable.
Her complete Icon—the one she had once fully possessed—was gone.
In its place, there was only a weak and incomplete link to what felt like an Icon Shard, something fragmented and insufficient compared to what she once held.
Even so, she refused to stop there.
She forced herself to focus, trying to reach deeper, pushing past the instability.
There was only one way to confirm what she needed to know.
Let the world respond.
Let Od Laguna itself acknowledge the bond that once existed between them.
If that connection still remained, even faintly, then it would mean he was not truly gone.
She pushed further, straining against the weakness of her current state, and somehow, she managed to call upon it.
But nothing happened.
There was no surge of power.
No overwhelming presence of Divine Authority wrapped around her body.
No rise in mana, no reaction from the world, no response at all.
The connection remained dull and silent, as if it led nowhere.
It did not answer her.
Her heart dropped.
The realization hit her all at once, and her body could no longer hold itself together as she broke down where she stood.
"No… no… no… please, don't let it be like this…" she muttered at first, her voice trembling, barely audible.
Then the tears came again, faster this time, falling down her cheeks one after another.
They did not stop.
Her breathing became uneven, her chest tightening as the weight of the truth crushed whatever composure she had left.
Soon, she was crying openly, her voice breaking as the sound escaped her throat without restraint.
What was even the point of being alive anymore?
Why had she been brought back to the past if this was the result?
She did not care who or what had caused this miracle, who or what had pulled her back from death.
None of it mattered anymore.
There was only one thing that mattered, and it had already been answered.
Her Icon had not responded.
She understood what that meant.
She had lost him completely.
He was not alive anymore.
Even if another version of Natsuki Subaru existed somewhere in this time, it did not matter.
That would not be her Subaru.
Her cries did not remain unnoticed for long.
The sound of her breaking down echoed through the corridor, drawing the attention of the Witch Cultists stationed nearby.
Within moments, several of them came rushing toward the corpse soldier quarters, their footsteps hurried and uncoordinated as they reacted to something completely unexpected.
When they arrived, the scene before them made them stop.
There, in the middle of the room, was the corpse soldier of Theresia van Astrea, collapsed on her knees, crying openly.
Her shoulders trembled, her voice unrestrained, completely unlike the motionless weapon they knew her to be.
"What is happening here?!" one of the higher-ranking Witch Cultists shouted as he forced his way through the others, pushing them aside to get a clear view.
The moment he saw her, he froze.
His expression twisted into disbelief as he stared at her, unable to reconcile what he was seeing with what he knew to be true.
"Ridiculous… how can she cry?" he muttered, his voice rising sharply.
"There is no way she could regain her emotions!"
Without wasting another second, he drew his sword.
The sound of metal leaving its sheath cut through the room as he stepped forward, his intent clear.
There was no hesitation in his movements as he raised the blade and swung it down toward her.
Theresia did not react.
She did not move, did not attempt to dodge, did not even look up.
The blade struck cleanly, slicing through her arm and severing it completely.
The detached limb fell to the ground with a dull thud as cold blood sprayed outward, staining the floor and nearby surfaces.
Even then, she did nothing.
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She did not flinch nor did scream.
She continued crying as if nothing had happened, her focus entirely detached from the physical damage inflicted upon her body, as though the pain did not exist or simply did not matter.
The Witch Cultist slowed his movements, his initial aggression fading into something else as he observed her more carefully.
His posture relaxed slightly, though his grip on the sword remained firm.
"It seems she has not regained her reasoning…" he said, his tone shifting, curiosity beginning to replace his earlier anger.
"But perhaps something else is influencing her current behavior."
A grin spread across his face as he stepped closer.
His boots pressed down into the fresh blood pooling on the ground, causing it to splash slightly.
Some of it flicked upward, landing back onto her face, mixing with the tears that continued to fall without pause.
She continued to bleed, the blood still flowing steadily from the severed arm, pooling beneath her and spreading across the floor.
However, none of her cries, none of her grief, and none of the pain she felt had anything to do with the wound.
Compared to what she had lost—compared to losing her Señor—physical damage like this meant nothing to her.
It did not register as important, nor did it demand her attention.
Her sobbing continued without pause, her body trembling as everything she had held together finally collapsed.
The Witch Cultist, now visibly irritated by the noise, raised his sword once more.
This time, there was no hesitation in his intent.
He stepped forward and positioned the blade near her throat, preparing to silence her completely by cutting her down where she knelt.
And then—
It happened.
A faint buzzing noise filled the room.
It was subtle at first, barely noticeable, but it was enough to make everyone stop.
The Witch Cultists froze in place, their movements interrupted as they looked around in confusion, trying to identify the source of the strange sound.
Theresia's crying suddenly stopped.
Her voice cut off mid-breath as her body stiffened.
Her eyes widened slightly as she recognized it instantly.
That sound—no matter how faint, no matter how distorted—it was something she could never mistake.
It was familiar.
More than that, it was something sacred to her.
A connection, a shared bond that existed only between her and Natsuki Subaru.
Then, through the weak interference, like a broken and buzzing radio struggling to transmit properly, the sound became clearer.
"I love it when you call me señorita—"
Her heart stopped.
For a brief moment, everything else disappeared.
Hope surged within her, sudden and overwhelming, replacing the despair that had consumed her just moments ago.
The sound continued to push through the distortion, the lyrics forming more clearly as the buzzing stabilized, growing slightly stronger with each passing second.
"I wish I could pretend I didn't need ya—"
The Witch Cultists looked at one another in confusion, their expressions shifting as they tried to locate the source of the faint voice.
It echoed through the room without direction, making it impossible to pinpoint where it was coming from.
Some of them turned their heads, others stepped back slightly, but none of them could understand what they were hearing.
"But every touch is ooh-la-la-la—"
"It's true, la-la-la—"
"Ooh, I should be running—"
"Ooh, you keep me coming for ya—"
The voice continued, weak but steady, carrying through the air like a distorted transmission.
The Witch Cultists grew more unsettled, their confusion turning into unease as they failed to find any explanation for it.
At the same time, something else was happening.
The faint connection within her—the last remaining trace of her Icon Shard—began to weaken further.
It was subtle at first, but she could feel it clearly.
The presence that had barely been holding on was now starting to fade, slipping away little by little.
"Land in Miami—
The air was hot from summer rain—
Sweat drippin' off me—
Before I even knew her name, la-la-la—
It felt like ooh-la-la-la, yeah, no—"
The sound grew weaker.
So weak that the Witch Cultists began to question whether they had even heard it at all.
Their movements slowed, their attention wavering, as if the sound was slipping beyond their perception.
But for her, it remained.
"Sapphire moonlight—
We danced for hours in the sand—
Tequila Sunrise—
Her body fit right in my hands, la-la-la—
It felt like ooh-la-la-la, yeah—"
Now, it was so faint that only she could hear it.
Her breathing became unsteady again, but this time, it was not from despair.
She listened closely, holding onto every word, every fragment of the sound as if it was the only thing keeping her grounded.
At the same time, the last trace of her Icon Shard continued to disappear.
The connection thinned, weakened, and then began to break apart entirely.
Then, suddenly—
The buzzing intensified.
For a brief moment, the sound became clearer again, stronger than it had been just seconds before, as if making one final attempt to be heard.
And at that exact moment, her Icon vanished completely.
"I love it when you call me señorita…"
The voice echoed one last time before cutting off abruptly, the song ending unfinished, leaving behind only silence.
She remained exactly where she was, still on her knees, her posture unchanged.
For a brief moment, her face returned to complete stillness, empty of any visible emotion, as if everything that had just happened had been erased from her expression.
"W-What was that?" the superior Witch Cultist demanded, his voice tense and sharp.
"That whisper… it was complete gibberish. Tell me honestly, which one of you was doing it?"
He turned his glare toward the others in the room, his eyes filled with suspicion.
The subordinates immediately shook their heads, some stepping back slightly under the pressure of his gaze.
None of them dared to speak, their confusion just as genuine as his.
Meanwhile, something changed in her.
At first, it was subtle.
A small shift in her expression, barely noticeable.
Then, a quiet chuckle escaped her lips.
It was weak at the beginning, almost unstable, as if she herself did not fully understand it.
But within seconds, it grew louder, turning into unmistakable laughter.
Her shoulders began to shake as the sound continued, mixing with the tears that were still falling from her eyes.
It was laughter, but not empty.
It was filled with something else—joy, relief, something that had replaced the despair that had consumed her just moments ago.
The Witch Cultists flinched at the sudden change.
The superior's expression hardened instantly.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward and lashed out, driving his foot into her with full force.
Her body reacted immediately.
Her petite frame was thrown backward, crashing into the wall behind her with a loud impact.
The force of the blow was strong enough to crack the surface of the wall, fragments breaking away as she hit it.
Her body slumped slightly from the impact, and a bruise quickly began to form across her stomach where the kick had landed.
Even then, she did not stop.
Her laughter continued.
She coughed slightly, a bit of saliva escaping as her body struggled to recover from the hit, but it did nothing to interrupt her.
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The sound of her laughter persisted, growing more unrestrained, more unstable, as if she had completely abandoned any attempt to control it.
She kept laughing.
Like a madwoman.
"What the fuck is wrong with this corpse soldier?!" the superior snarled in frustration, his grip tightening around his weapon.
"I guess we'll have to reanimate her again."
His voice carried clear irritation, but beneath it was certainty.
Theresia's behavior was abnormal, far beyond what was expected of a corpse soldier, but he had already confirmed something important.
He had tested her himself—cutting off her left arm without hesitation.
There had been no reaction, no resistance, no sign of pain influencing her actions.
There was no way she had regained her emotions.
At least, that was what he believed.
Then, suddenly, she stopped.
Her laughter cut off without warning, leaving behind an abrupt silence.
Her body remained on the ground where she had fallen, but her expression changed.
A smile slowly formed on her face, calm and steady, completely different from the unstable laughter from before.
"There is no need for that," she said.
Her voice was clear.
That alone was enough.
Every Witch Cultist in the room froze.
Their movements halted instantly, as if something had forced them to stop.
Disbelief spread across their faces, quickly followed by something much closer to fear.
They understood what they were hearing.
A corpse soldier was speaking.
Speaking on her own.
"This señorita has found her Señor…" she continued, her tone steady, her smile unwavering.
"And this time, no one will separate us. Even if the Gods themselves come."
There was no hesitation in her words.
Her resolve settled completely as that thought took hold.
Even in her current weakened state, even without her full Icon, her path was already decided.
If she had to kill every sword user in this kingdom to reclaim her Sword Icon, then she would do it.
Even if that included her former grandson, Reinhard van Astrea, she would not hesitate.
If she had to destroy entire worlds to progress further and regain what she had lost, then she would do that as well.
Nothing would stop her.
This time, no one would separate her from Natsuki Subaru.
Not Od Laguna.
Not another Ainz Ooal Gown.
ABSOLUTELY NO ONE.
She slowly pushed herself up from the ground, rising to her feet with only her right hand remaining.
Her movements were steady despite the damage to her body.
The sword she had dropped earlier during her emotional outburst was now firmly gripped in her remaining hand, her fingers tightening around the hilt as if it was the only thing anchoring her in that moment.
The blood that had been flowing from her severed arm had already stopped.
There was no sign of continued bleeding.
She was no longer alive in the normal sense—she had returned to being nothing more than a corpse soldier.
However, that state was not entirely a disadvantage.
In fact, in certain ways, it worked in her favor.
Her body did not react the way a living person's would.
Severe injuries that would normally cripple or kill someone were far less threatening to her now.
Even losing an arm, something that would have been devastating under normal circumstances, did not endanger her existence.
It only affected her balance slightly and reduced her combat effectiveness to a certain degree.
But that was all.
Even without her Icon, she was still a master of the sword.
And as the Maiden of the Sword, she had no intention of losing here.
Her gaze shifted toward the Witch Cultists standing in front of her, her expression calm but cold.
"You people…" she said quietly, her voice steady despite everything that had just happened.
"I know you all will hurt my Subaru… therefore, please die…"
Before the superior could respond, before anyone could even process her words, she moved.
Her body vanished from its position in an instant, her speed far beyond what the Witch Cultists could react to.
In the next moment, she had already appeared directly in front of the superior.
Her sword moved once.
A clean, precise swing.
The man's head separated from his body before he could even realize what had happened.
His body remained standing for a brief second before collapsing, his head hitting the ground with a dull sound.
"Kill her!" another Witch Cultist shouted immediately, his voice filled with panic and urgency.
The room descended into chaos.
The remaining Witch Cultists reacted at once, drawing their weapons as they rushed toward her.
At the same time, the other corpse soldiers stationed in the room began to move as well, their previously motionless bodies coming to life as they followed their orders without question.
They all lunged at her together.
To be continued...
(A/N: Didn't expect her to be the fifth wife yeh? How does it feels yeh? If you give me powerstones I should tell what happens next yeh?!)