◇[The Fugitive]◇
Intermittent short breaths tremble in the clear air.
"Haa— haa, haa, haa—!"
A dense forest.
Avoiding the main roads, she runs.
The sound of snapping branches.
When avoiding obvious paths in the forest, this becomes a troublesome signal.
Yet she does not produce many.
She does rustle branches.
But perhaps no more than three have broken.
Her slender frame probably helps with that.
She avoids stepping on small twigs on the ground.
Silently, yet surely, she dashes forward.
Clothed in the wind.
"————"
She slows her speed.
(The presences… are growing distant…?)
The pursuers' pace has dropped.
She hasn't shaken them off… not yet, at least.
She can't believe they would give up so easily.
At that moment, hesitation arises within her.
Should she fight here, or not?
She spins around, placing her back against a tree trunk.
Taking a stance to meet them head-on.
Her pursuers are—the "Clan of Heroic Blood."
Descendants of the "Heroes from Another World" who once saved the world.
Among those heroes from another world, some bore children on this continent.
It is said that those who inherit heroic blood possess physical abilities and talents surpassing ordinary people.
However, they are said not to reach the level of the heroes who fought and grew through countless battles against evil.
Still—that is only when compared to their heroic ancestors.
It does not change the fact that they are not opponents one can easily defeat.
She has heard that various nations keep the Clan of Heroic Blood under their influence in different ways.
For countries unable to summon heroes, they are valuable military assets.
Her inner conflict continues.
She might still manage against them one by one.
But four at once would be harsh.
She exhales fatigue along with a thin breath.
(It seems impossible to shake them off—does that mean I have no choice but to use it?)
Her "Spirit Formula Armor."
She steels her resolve.
There is no guarantee of victory.
But if she cannot escape, she must sever the connection eventually.
If she cannot flee, she has no choice but to fight.
She calls out to the spirits within her.
(I, Seras Ashrain, desire the Spirit Formula Armor… I offer my peaceful slumber as compensation, and with this contract I dedicate it to you—)
In her mind, she weaves the names of the spirits in the order of their pact.
(Sylphigzea, Felirubanger, Willozea…)
The wind spirit, the ice spirit, the light spirit.
Three-colored lines of light envelop her—Seras—layer upon layer.
Pale green, ice-blue, white lines of light.
When the light fades, she is clad in armor and equipment she had not been wearing before.
Armor and gear that should not have been there.
They have been manifested by the power of the spirits.
Its name: Spirit Formula Armor.
Her appearance is like that of a female knight of light from legend.
She has been described that way many times in the past.
She draws the sword at her waist.
—Crack, snap—
Ice begins reinforcing the blade.
Blue leaf-vein-like ice crawls along the edge, enhancing the sword's performance.
Clack.
The inner part of the forehead guard slides down.
The fallen piece covers her vision.
Spirit Formula Armor, final form.
Of course, the eye covering blocks her sight.
But there is no problem.
Everything is taught to her by the wind.
Sharpening her senses places excessive strain on her nerves.
However, she can grasp the enemy's movements and presence more clearly than with vision.
Predicting their actions also becomes easier.
Seras gently touches her ear.
(The bounty hunter group known as the "Holy Guardians White Walkers," four members who inherit heroic blood… I never imagined they would set their sights on me… I let my guard down…)
Alias "Fang"—Zarash Finebird
Alias "Oni Twin Heavenly Corpse"—Ashura
Alias "Fierce Pressure"—Geobane Sengai
Alias "Sword God"—Magatsu Blaydinus
She removes her hand from her ear.
Perhaps due to the long flight, fatigue has accumulated in her body and mind.
Seras closes her eyes behind the covering.
(They are so renowned in the mercenary world that no one is unaware of their name—highly skilled and vicious. Yet I have never heard a single good rumor about them…)
She has clashed with them several times on her way here.
They were certainly strong.
But from what she could sense, they had not yet gone all out.
They were probably still gauging her strength.
However—it seems they are finally about to get serious.
She further reinforces her resolve with willpower.
(I cannot allow myself to be captured.)
She grips the hilt with both hands and takes her stance.
(I will sever it here…!)
Seras waits for their presences to move.
She sharpens her nerves further to discern the moment of action.
"..."
A single bead of sweat trails down her spotless white cheek.
It has been quite some time since she entered this state.
(They still haven't moved…? No… they must be aiming for something—)
—Shudder—
A chill like being pierced by an ice blade runs down her spine.
Have they finally gone serious?
The game of chase is over.
Playtime is over.
From here, the real hunt begins.
And—Seras unconsciously releases one hand from the sword hilt.
A strange discomfort rises in her throat.
She presses her hand to her mouth.
(Wh-what… is this?)
She feels sick.
An inexplicable nausea assaults her.
Her head spins.
A terribly distorted image.
The strength of the Holy Guardians becomes unclear—whether they are strong or weak.
Her solidified perception is being churned.
She cannot gauge their strength.
She cannot analyze them correctly.
Was she too shallow?
Is she really about to fight opponents this bizarre?
Is she really going to battle opponents this eerie?
The Clan of Heroic Blood.
Was it rash to try fighting those who carry legendary blood?
Should she have just kept running?
Rustle.
At the sudden sound, Seras reacts swiftly.
She raises her ice-veined sword and charges toward the source.
(…! —No!?)
That sound was a feint.
From the bushes diagonally behind her—a presence.
"[Paralyze]"
(—Eh?)
Who is it.
Not the Holy Guardians.
It lacks that overwhelming "strength."
But something is strange.
Something is off.
He is not as strong as those four.
Indeed,
He is not strong at all.
Yet—the spirits are trembling in fear.
Moreover,
(A monster-like presence is mixed in…?)
At the same time, she doubts whether there is any hostility.
Malice feels faint.
Above all,
(My body… won't move…!? Why…!?)
"I sensed intent to attack—but there was something impure mixed into your killing intent. That bothered me."
A man's voice.
What is he saying?
(Impure… in my killing intent…?)
"The four from earlier felt somehow different. That's why I thought I'd try talking to you. That said, I've sealed your movements as insurance."
After great effort, Seras barely manages to speak.
"Wh… what… is your… purpose…? Are you… after all—"
"To put it simply, I got lost. If you know this area well, I'd appreciate it if you could tell me the nearest town or village. I'm not from around here. Thanks to that, I lack common sense about this region. So if possible, I'd like you to tell me various things about the area—"
For a moment, Seras's thoughts stop.
(No sign of lying…?)
The wind spirit that reads truth judges it as "mostly true."
She can also tell from the spirits' sensation that the judgment has high certainty.
(He really is… just a lost traveler? And moreover…)
One large question surges within Seras.
He just said "the four from earlier."
(That's right—)
The presences of those four have disappeared.
What in the world has happened to the Holy Guardians White Walkers?