Fern's boots tore through the undergrowth as she ran, breath tight in her chest, staff drawn close.
Stark's mana flickered like a candle guttering in wind, thin… erratic… fading. That alone made her quicken her pace. Stark wasn't subtle; his mana always burned loud and bright, like a bonfire trying too hard to impress. For it to shrink like this…
Her fingers tightened around her staff.
She pushed through a curtain of branches and burst into a clearing—
—and froze.
"Fern…"
The word came out slurred, weak, almost swallowed by the forest air.
Stark was slumped against the base of a tree, armor split and soaked in red.
His face was ghost-pale, streaked with dirt and blood. His breathing was shallow, almost trembling.
His axe lay abandoned in the grass. Deep wounds, stab wounds, multiple, bled freely along his torso, shoulders, arms. Whoever did this hadn't meant to kill him quickly. They wanted him to suffer.
Her heart plummeted.
"Stark-sama!" The sound tore out of her, sharper than she meant. She darted to him, dropping to her knees. "How did this happen?"
He lifted his head, barely. His eyes were unfocused but he still tried to look at her, tried to speak.
"I… I lost… to the demon," he rasped. "She's more skilled than I… I thought… didn't kill me… said… my fault…"
"Don't talk!" Fern snapped, voice cracking with fear.
He tried to lift a hand but it fell uselessly to his side, fingers twitching. Fern pressed her staff forward, mana swirling sharply around the top.
Levitation.
Stark's body lifted from the ground in a gentle pull of magic. Fern stood and guided him upward, keeping him stable with both hands. Even suspended, blood dripped freely from him, pattering onto the leaves below in soft, horrible taps.
"We'll get you to a healer," she muttered under her breath, more to herself than him. "Just stay awake. Stark-sama, stay awake."
He groaned. His eyelids drooped.
"Stark-sama!" Her voice broke again. "Don't sleep. Look at me."
His eyes fluttered… opened halfway… then rolled.
No. No, no, no—
Fern gritted her teeth and fed more mana into the spell, boosting their speed, pulling him through the air as she half-ran beneath him. Branches whipped past them. Her legs burned.
"Stark-sama, talk to me!" she shouted up at him. "Say something."
His lips barely moved. "…Fern…"
She almost stumbled.
"Good. Keep talking." Her breath hitched. "You're going to be fine. Don't close your eyes."
But his head sagged to the side, breaths shortening, growing faint.
Fern swallowed hard and pushed harder, mana glowing around her like a thin, desperate halo.
"Just hold on," she whispered. "Please… hold on."
Frieren's bootsteps softened as she followed the nun down the hushed stone corridor, her expression unreadable beneath the dim torchlight.
The scents of incense and dried lavender drifted faintly from the prayer hall behind them, trailing her like a fading veil of peace: one she didn't particularly need. Stark being injured was… inconvenient, maybe. Surprising? Not really.
He tended to overextend himself, get emotional, get reckless. But defeated? By that demon girl whose mana barely registered as noteworthy? No. Stark was stronger than that. He had fought goblin bosses, orcs, dragons, faced menacing serpents before, and even if he'd lost, it should have been nothing beyond bruises or maybe a deep cut.
Not this.
Not something serious.
She kept walking.
The nun stopped before a plain wooden door, hands clasped politely, though her gaze contained a careful warning.
"Miss…?"
"Frieren," the elf answered curtly.
"Yes, Miss Frieren. Your teammate's condition is not well, so… please brace yourself."
Frieren blinked once at that, slow, deliberate. Hm. Odd phrasing. Stark was too sturdy to be not well. He'd probably fainted from embarrassment or something similarly stupid.
Still, she pushed the door open.
A wave of sharp herbal fragrance struck her nose: medicinal powders, crushed leaves, bitter roots steeping in bowls of steaming water. Underneath it lingered something coppery and raw.
Blood.
The slow scrape of a stool. Fern's shoulders tensed beside the bed, her back rigid as if struggling to hold herself together.
A priest hunched over Stark's unmoving form, hands moving quickly: rags red-soaked, fingers pressing new mixtures into open wounds before binding more cloth tightly over them. The man's brow was beaded with sweat despite the cold air.
Frieren stepped in.
Her eyes slid to Stark.
And for the first time in a long time, something in her expression barely shifted.
Wounds.
Stab wounds.
Not one.
Not two.
A constellation of them across his arms, shoulders, chest: places meant to incapacitate but not kill. Deep punctures, angled with precision.
Deliberate cruelty, or worse, intentional restraint.
Frieren's breath stilled in her throat for a small, exact fraction of a second.
How?
The demon girl shouldn't have been capable of this. Not with that mana. Not with that… whatever strange technique she had. Stark should've overwhelmed her. At worst, traded blows and won. At minimum, retreated.
Her mind ran the numbers automatically. Mana flow. Physical strength. Predicted trajectories. The demon girl's movements…
Frieren's appraisal and years of experience had told her that the demon was weak. Not this strong. Skilled, but not this skilled. Nothing about her should have allowed this outcome.
So…
How?
Frieren lowered her eyes, the quiet of the infirmary settling over her like a shroud as Fern's words hung in the air.
"…how?" she whispered again, but this time it wasn't about the wounds. It was about the outcome, about Stark lying half-dead before her, pale beneath layers of blood-soaked bandages, breaths shallow, muscles twitching every time the priest's fingertips brushed a torn edge of flesh.
She stood beside Fern, the two of them facing the bed like twin pillars carved from unease. Stark's skin trembled under the priest's hands; his shoulders jolted whenever the needle passed through.
Frieren exhaled faintly. "…Fern. Tell me."
Fern's hands were clasped tightly in front of her, knuckles white. "He… he lost consciousness when I was bringing him here, so he couldn't say much." Her voice cracked with frustration she rarely showed. "But he did confirm it was her. That demon girl. She did all of this."
Frieren's brows drew in by a fraction—her version of a gasp.
She was really this strong…?
Her gaze drifted downward, to the pale mess of Stark's torso and arms. The priest was working quickly: his hands steady, but his breaths were uneven, tense.
Frieren stepped closer, leaning over slightly to get a better look.
"…Father," she murmured. "What's wrong with these wounds? They look… odd."
The priest didn't immediately answer. He wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve, then steadied his needles again.
"I have never," he said, voice tight, "never seen wounds that behave like this."
He pointed with a trembling fingertip.
"These are not clean cuts. Not jagged either. They're… layered. Almost like the blade that made them shifted shape as it pierced. See here: this line is a narrow stab, but it blooms wider inside, like a hooked edge tore it open. And this one: this should have been a straight puncture through the deltoid, but the muscle fibers are ruptured diagonally, like something twisted or split apart mid-entry."
Frieren narrowed her eyes.
The priest continued, voice quickening as he tried to keep stitching the moment he parted the torn tissue.
"And every time I suture it, every time the wound pulls itself back open. It's like the tissue remembers the impact and replicates the tear. I've tried cross-stitching, layered stitching, pressure stitching… none of it holds. Even the edges burn slightly, like the blade carried residual energy or mana."
"Does Divine Magic not work?" Frieren asked.
"I tried." He swallowed. "It didn't respond. Not even the lowest healing incantations."
Fern's eyes widened. "Not even the… basics?"
"No." The priest shook his head. "That's why I resorted to traditional methods. And even those—" He lifted the bloody thread. "—aren't working either."
"Do you have any idea why?" Frieren pressed.
"My best guess," the priest muttered, "is that the weapon was coated with a poison that disrupts healing… or worse, it was a cursed blade. One designed to resist divine interference. Some ancient weapons do that, blades made to sever more than flesh. To sever vitality."
"I see…" Frieren murmured, the gears turning behind her calm façade.
A low groan escaped stark's throat. His eyes cracked open, unfocused at first… then sharpening slightly when they landed on her.
"…Frieren…" he breathed.
She stepped closer. "Stark. How did this happen? What weapon did she use?"
The priest paused his stitching long enough for Stark to try answering.
"I… I don't know…" Stark whispered, eyelids fluttering. "It was a sword with…"
His voice thinned out into nothing. His head tilted to the side as consciousness slipped from his grasp again. His body twitched once from a spike of pain, then sagged into stillness.
The father resumed working immediately. "In caseI can't handle anymore," he paused. "I would suggest you take him and head North."
"North?" Fern asked.
"There is a man I know, he might be able to help."
Frieren stepped back, folding her arms, her expression dropping into one of deep calculation. She stared at the floor as if the answer might imprint itself on the stones.
An adolescent demon capable of producing such wounds.
An adolescent demon capable of overwhelming Stark.
An adolescent demon with cursed weapons…?
Her mind pried at the possibilities.
"Frieren-sama…" Fern's voice came gently.
Frieren lifted her gaze.
Fern was staring at the floor, the shadows under her eyes darker than usual.
"You said," Fern whispered, "that we could defeat them. That we were stronger. But we didn't win."
Frieren had many answers: logic, tactics, centuries of experience that could explain a thousand things.
But none of them applied here.
None of them felt true.
So she said nothing.
Silence stretched between them, not cold, not distant… but heavy with the weight of something new.
Doubt.
She didn't know how, but she had a feeling that the demon is… she will meet her again.
And next time they meet…
"That demons must die,"
The village appeared gradually, not as a sudden reveal but as a thinning of the forest, trees giving way to broken fences and crooked silhouettes that once passed for homes. Subaru slowed mid-air, then descended cautiously, boots touching dirt that had not been stepped on in a long, long time.
Nothing moved.
No footsteps.
No breath.
No heartbeat.
She stood still, eyes half-lidded, letting that strange awareness spread through her again—the thing she didn't have words for. It wasn't sight. It wasn't sound. It was more like pressure. Like feeling the shape of the world pressing back against her existence.
Nothing pressed back.
"…Empty," she muttered.
Her shoulders sagged a little. Relief, maybe. Or disappointment. She wasn't sure anymore which one she preferred. Crowds meant danger. People meant questions. Questions meant explanations she couldn't give without sounding insane.
An abandoned village was perfect.
She walked between the houses, each step crunching softly on gravel and old leaves. Roofs had partially collapsed, wooden beams sagging inward like tired spines. Doors hung loose on rusted hinges. Windows stared at her like blind eyes.
Whatever happened here, it hadn't been recent. The air smelled old: dust, mold, dry wood, and something faintly metallic that might've once been blood or might've just been her imagination.
She paused.
Again, that sense.
She closed her eyes and focused.
Nothing.
No mana signatures. No demonic pressure. No human warmth. Just emptiness stretching outward in a quiet radius around her.
"…Guess this is demon senses," she said quietly. "Terrifyingly convenient."
She shook her head and got to work.
If she was going to survive, really survive, not just reset her way through disasters, she needed supplies. Something useful. Anything.
She entered the first house carefully, the axe, held loosely in her hand. The floorboards creaked but didn't give way. Inside, the place had been ransacked long ago. Drawers pulled out. Shelves bare. A table overturned like someone had flipped it in a panic and never come back to set it right.
She checked anyway.
Nothing.
The second house was much the same. Broken pottery. Rotting cloth. A child's wooden toy lying on its side, half-buried in dust.
She didn't touch that one.
By the third house, fatigue was beginning to sink in, not physical, but mental. The kind that crawled up your spine and whispered that even effort was pointless.
Then she saw it.
A strip of fabric draped over the back of a chair, surprisingly intact. Not torn. Not rotted. Just… forgotten.
Subaru approached it slowly, like it might vanish if she moved too fast.
She lifted it.
"…Oh," she murmured.
The fabric was nice. Softer than she expected. Thick enough to be warm, thin enough to breathe. Some kind of woven cloth, maybe meant to be a scarf or shawl. The color was muted—dusty brown with faint patterns stitched into the edge.
She brought it closer, rubbed it between her fingers.
Still good.
A strange, quiet satisfaction filled her chest.
"Okay," she said softly. "That's one thing."
She stepped outside, holding the cloth up and staring at it thoughtfully. Her gaze drifted upward, catching her reflection in a cracked window.
Small frame.
Frilly dress.
Twin tails of short hair.
And those damn horns.
She sighed.
"…Yeah. That's still a problem."
She folded the cloth, then unfolded it again, experimenting. Wrapped it once. Twice. Adjusted the angle. Tugged here, smoothed there. The fabric slid easily over her hair, settling into place.
A turban-like wrap.
She tilted her head left. Right.
The horns disappeared beneath the folds.
"…Huh," she said, blinking. "That actually works."
It wasn't perfect. Anyone looking closely might notice the shape beneath. But from a distance? From a glance?
She looked human enough.
That mattered more than she wanted to admit.
She tied the end securely, testing it with a few sharp head movements. It stayed put. Relief loosened something tight in her chest.
"Good," she whispered. "Good start."
Encouraged, she resumed searching.
House after house. Shed after shed.
Nothing useful.
No food.
No weapons.
No medicine.
Just remnants of lives that had ended or fled, leaving behind hollow spaces where warmth used to be.
By the time the sky deepened into a darker shade of blue-black, her steps had slowed. Her thoughts grew fuzzy at the edges. She checked the sky instinctively, trying to gauge time by the stars: still unfamiliar, still wrong.
"…Midnight," she guessed. "More or less."
Her body didn't protest much, but exhaustion weighed heavy anyway. Emotional exhaustion. The kind sleep couldn't fully fix but was still better than staying awake.
She estimated the distance again in her head. The lake. The battlefield. The forest.
"At least thirty kilometers," she murmured. "Probably more."
Far enough.
She chose a house near the edge of the village, one that still had most of its roof intact. Inside, the air was dry. The floor uneven but stable. One room still had a bed frame, though the mattress was long gone.
She closed the door behind her, sliding a broken chair under the handle: not that it would stop anything serious, but habits were hard to kill.
She cleared debris from one corner, then laid the cloth down carefully. It wasn't much, but it was something.
She sat.
Then lay back.
The ceiling above her was cracked, moonlight slipping through like pale fingers. Dust motes drifted lazily, glowing as they passed through the light.
Her body sank into the floorboards.
"…Today sucked," she said quietly.
No one answered.
She pulled the cloth closer, wrapping it around her shoulders. The fabric was warm. Comfortingly solid.
Her eyes slowly closed.
For now, she was alive.
For now, she was alone.
For now, the world was quiet.
For now, she was going to rest.
Tomorrow? She'll head North.
They were running.
Boots slammed against dirt and roots, breath tearing out of lungs in ragged, animal gasps. Branches whipped past, leaves clawing at skin and clothes as the remaining bandits fled without formation, without pride, without even looking back.
One by one, the screams came.
A shout cut short.
A wet sound.
A body hitting the ground too hard to be alive.
The man at the back heard all of it.
He didn't dare turn around.
His sword felt too heavy in his hand, arm shaking so badly the blade rattled faintly. He could hear his own heartbeat louder than anything else, pounding in his ears like a war drum announcing his death.
"Keep running," he whispered to himself, voice cracking. "Just keep running—"
Another scream. Close this time.
Too close.
The forest thinned ahead, moonlight spilling through the trees. Relief flared for half a second—then died as his foot skidded on loose gravel.
He stumbled out of the tree line and barely stopped himself from plunging forward.
A cliff.
The land simply ended, dropping into darkness. Wind rose from below, cold and mocking, carrying the distant sound of water crashing far beneath.
"No… no no no—!"
He staggered back, nearly falling again, then spun around wildly, sword snapping up toward the bushes at the edge of the clearing.
"Stay b-back!" he screamed, voice shrill, broken. "I'll— I'll kill you!"
The bushes rustled.
A figure stepped out calmly, as if she were strolling into a tavern rather than a killing ground.
She was short, smaller than he expected. Green hair tied back into a high ponytail that swayed with her steps. Her posture was relaxed, loose, predatory in the way a cat looked relaxed just before it pounced.
Her eyes locked onto him.
Green. Sharp. Focused.
Not a hint of fear.
"It's been a while," she said casually, tilting her head, "since I had some fun."
The man swallowed hard, sweat running into his eyes. "S-stay back! I said—!"
She took a single step forward.
"Still," she sighed, almost bored, "this is boring."
"I SAID STOP—!"
He never finished.
There was no flash, no warning, no dramatic swing he could follow. One moment she was standing there, staff loosely held at her side.
The next—
His world tilted.
The sensation didn't register as pain at first. Just… wrongness. Weightlessness. The ground pulling away.
His lower half slid forward, boots scraping helplessly over dirt and stone before tipping over the cliff's edge. His upper body remained standing for half a heartbeat longer, sword still raised, eyes wide with incomprehension.
Then gravity claimed the rest.
Blood sprayed the air in a brief, ugly arc.
One half fell screaming into the abyss.
The other collapsed in place, lifeless before it hit the ground.
Silence returned to the clearing.
Übel lowered her staff slowly, the tip still humming faintly as the residual magic faded. She exhaled through her nose, unimpressed.
She crouched down near the cliff's edge, careful not to get blood on her boots, and looked up at the moon hanging full and pale in the sky.
"Hm," she murmured, squinting slightly. "I wonder…"
She lifted her staff and casually aimed it upward, as if lining up a shot.
"Could I cleave that?" she wondered aloud.
She imagined it: magic slicing through the night, the moon splitting cleanly in two, drifting apart like cut fruit.
After a moment, she lowered the staff again.
"…Probably not."
She rested her chin on her knee, elbow propped casually, gaze drifting back to the forest where the bandits had fled. The night was quiet now. Too quiet.
It had been a long time.
At least a year.
A year since she'd fought someone who made her blood sing. Someone who didn't fold instantly, didn't scream and die before she could even enjoy it. Most people were disappointments. Weak. Predictable. Fragile.
She sighed, the sound carrying faintly in the wind.
"So boring," she muttered.
Reaching into the inside of her dress, she pulled out a folded parchment, edges worn from being handled too many times. She unfolded it, scanning the official seal and neat lettering with mild annoyance.
"Looks like it can't be helped."
The First Class Mage Exam.
Again.
Last time's memories flickered through her mind: standing in the exam hall, listening to an instructor brag about his impenetrable defense spell. Watching every other mage fail to even scratch it.
Then her turn.
He had asked, smugly, who could stop his defense.
She had raised her staff.
And cut him in half.
Clean. Simple. Efficient.
They had disqualified her on the spot.
She snorted softly. "He shouldn't have asked."
Second time, then.
Second time was the charm, they said.
She folded the parchment back up and tucked it away, rising to her feet in one smooth motion. The moonlight caught her eyes as she turned northward, a slow grin creeping across her face.
She raised her staff and pointed it toward the distant horizon.
"Time to head north," Übel said quietly.
The wind shifted, carrying with it faint traces of mana, distant conflicts, unknown mages moving toward the same destination.
Her grin widened.
"I can smell it," she added, excitement finally stirring beneath her usual boredom. "There will be unmatched fun."
With that, she stepped forward and vanished into the trees.