Chapter 65
The impact was greater than she expected—air burst from Mia’s lungs in a single rush. Above her, the enemy’s face twisted. It might have been a smile of victory… or perhaps—just perhaps—it looked like despair.
The enemy raised his weapon for the final blow.
The battle axe, descending from above, carried overwhelming force. Mia still had not mastered the art of deflecting attacks, so raising her sword to block might prove meaningless.
Yet even so, she could not die here. She still had things left to do.
The moment she lifted her sword, the enemy’s eyes locked with hers. Etienne’s words echoed in her mind—that reports spoke of strange behavior among enemy soldiers.
…Different.
The man’s fury was undeniable, blazing with intensity. But unlike the unnatural, dazed rage she had seen in the priests, this was not hollow.
No, the anger before her was wholly human.
It was the kind of fury born of grief, of loss, of the burning desire for revenge.
That meant their future advance would have to account for this.
But for now, she had to win this battle before she could report anything to Etienne. Fighting alone against many, without the aid of divine power—she had endured it countless times on battlefields of her past life, but it was never something one grew used to.
Mercy had no place for the weary. More enemies surged toward her like waves. She staggered as she forced herself to her feet. Her arms felt like lead, heavy and dull. Perhaps it was due to a lack of training… or perhaps from too many sleepless nights.
Without divine power, Mia was no different from an ordinary soldier. No—ordinary soldiers would never attempt to face several opponents at once. In that sense, she was different. But the truth was undeniable: she no longer possessed the strength to overwhelm them.
“Urgh…”
Clang! She parried a strike from beneath—one of the fallen soldiers thrusting his blade at her legs. Then arrows whistled down over her head. Behind her, a dagger flew through the air.
How desperately she needed divine power. Mia gritted her teeth and lifted her sword once more.
Her vision narrowed to a single point, her entire focus burning in that spot. Her lungs seared with the heat of battle and the remnants of past injuries. Every breath was a ragged gasp.
Sweat—or perhaps unnoticed tears—mixed with blood from a cut on her forehead, stinging her eyes.
I have to. I have to drag it out somehow.
For the last time, Mia reached deep inside herself.
Please. Just once more.
She forgot her anger at the goddess in the temple and prayed with desperate fervor to Aetos, clinging to the familiar warmth, to the rushing current of power that had always been there.
And for a fleeting instant—
She felt it again. Like the final ember glowing faintly beneath the ashes, the sacred power flickered within her.
Her heart pounded. Her hand stretched forward.
Once more, the goddess had not abandoned her. The power that had saved her countless times before answered in her most desperate hour—
…What?
But as quickly as it appeared, it vanished. The divine strength she had grasped dissolved into nothingness. The void that replaced it struck her with the force of a physical blow.
It’s only that I can’t use it—not even a strike has landed on me yet—so why…?
Her body faltered. Her vision blurred. The battlefield dissolved into a smear of color and motion.
The ground rushed up to meet her face.
And then came darkness.
“Mia!”
She had collapsed.
Etienne’s heart nearly stopped. He hadn’t been watching her every second of the fight—battle made that impossible—but he knew she was struggling. Still, she couldn’t have taken a decisive blow. That much he was certain of.
His voice tore through the clash of battle, a desperate cry reaching the soldiers. He hacked his way through the enemies between them, each strike burning with urgency.
At last, he reached her side and dropped to his knees. He seemed blind to the danger still lurking around them.
Mia’s face was pale, her skin slick with sweat, glistening under the harsh light like wax. Etienne pressed two fingers to her neck.
She’s still here…
Holding his breath, he felt a faint, irregular pulse. She was alive.
“Medic!”
He shouted, gathering her limp body into his arms. Her head lolled against his chest, swaying weakly.
Who would believe that this woman—this fragile figure—was the one who had survived the merciless world of politics for years, the wielder of crimson divinity who could shift the tide of war? Now she seemed so small. So breakable.
Even someone who seemed unshakable…
Something inside Etienne froze solid.
The battle around him faded into irrelevance. Mia hadn’t been struck down by an enemy’s blade—she had simply crumbled without cause. That fact filled him with dread.
The outcome of the fight was already decided. Paber’s cavalry, hardened by their time in Glen, were crushing the enemy with ruthless efficiency.
His presence wasn’t needed. At least, that’s how Etienne justified what he did next.
As though the two of them alone stood in the eye of a storm, the clash of war seemed to stop in their corner of the battlefield.
With one hand gripping his sword, Etienne pulled Mia closer. Anyone daring to approach her now—he would cut them down.
He waited for the medics, then carried her himself toward the rear. Every step came with a thousand questions racing through his mind.
What happened?
Was she wounded in some unseen way?
If she was in danger, why didn’t she use her divine power?
The only person who could answer lay unconscious against him. And that, to him, felt like cruel misfortune.
Night air pressed heavy over the makeshift camp. The acrid smoke of hastily lit fires mingled with the metallic tang of drying blood. Shadows stretched long, finger-like, across trampled grass.
The soldiers’ chatter had dwindled. In its place hung a silence so taut it seemed to weigh on every soul.
It should not have been everyone’s burden. The battle had been fierce, yes, and injuries were many, but no lives were lost. The tension came from one thing only: the collapse of the woman who meant too much to their commander. The suffocating air was entirely the legion commander’s doing.
Etienne stood outside the medical tent. His once-white uniform was stained with mud and blood from the battle only hours ago. Normally, he was notorious for an almost obsessive neatness, even in war. But now, before the crisis of his “beloved,” such things had no place.
His restless fingers toyed with the hilt at his side. Whenever unease or fear crept in, the weight of a weapon in his hand gave him a strange comfort.
But not this time. Nothing eased the torment replaying in his mind—the moment she fell. To him, it felt like a nightmare he could not wake from.
Inside the tent, the air was stifling. The army physician, Bertrand, bent over Mia’s still form, his face lined with worry, showing the helplessness of a man who had met his limits.
The pungent scent of herbs filled the space, but it could not mask the underlying smell of dread and despair.
“Is there any change?”
Unable to contain himself, the commander broke the silence as he entered. His voice was rough, edged with the fear he could not completely suppress.
