Deep Night.
Lucimia lay on her side, back to Desty, eyes shut, sleep steady; her breath rose and fell like a tide, untouched by dinner’s oddness.
By contrast, red-haired Desty tossed like a hooked fish; sleep fled like mist. She stared at the ticket Lucimia gave her, thoughts swarming like bees.
She’d actually bought me a ticket… The line looped in Desty’s mind like a refrain circling a lantern.
Only now did clarity pierce like dawn: maybe Lucimia wasn’t arguing ideals at all; she simply didn’t want me dead.
“She’s… worrying about me?” Desty stared at the thin slip like a fallen leaf, at a loss.
Think it through, and it fits, stones settling in a stream.
When Desty and Anjelo clashed over ideals, Lucimia stepped out of that storm and said she wasn’t interested.
Since the Town of Tranquility, she saved my life, held me from drowning like a gentle current, then eased my brain bleed like a hand of light.
Later, when we met that old granny, she steered me from fire-element magic like a wind shifting a flame.
Put myself in her shoes, and I finally knew why she flared like flint when I helped Shebelle before her, and made me apologize.
All the way here, she kept saying we can’t leave without a ship, kept urging me to sail away, safe as a harbor.
She even bought me a new longsword for my sake, and a ticket ahead of time, so a way out wouldn’t slam shut like a locked gate.
“Mm…”
As thoughts piled like snow, guilt rose like smoke.
Desty clenched the ticket like a lifeline, drew a deep breath, then sighed heavy; her fingers eased, the paper rustled like a reed.
She still couldn’t choose; the road felt forked like a river split by stones.
She’d stepped onto this path with death sewn into her resolve, a scar stitched in advance.
She’d promised her late parents, under a quiet sky, to become a Holy Knight who guards everyone, who leaves no one behind.
If she retreated here, she’d break that vow like a snapped blade, and she couldn’t accept it.
Yet Lucimia’s care was real, warm as coals in winter; the first warmth since her parents left.
She closed her eyes, pressed her forehead to the ticket like prayer, and let the past surface.
In Sepaan’s Royal Capital, she graduated second from the sword academy, joined the Purification Church, became a Purification Knight with a bright badge.
Before that, she had no friends; not even one voice to catch like a thrown rope.
Why? Because she’d said she’d join the Purification Church and become a Purification Knight, a vow laid like an offering on a cold altar.
It should’ve been an honor, yet classmates mocked her as foolish, like crows heckling a spring swallow—just as Lucimia called her an idiot.
After graduation, classmates scattered like leaves: city guard, noble retinues, the army, hired blades guarding coin.
Some became adventurers, trading blows with monsters, but never touching Evil Entities, as if they were plague-stars drifting in the dark.
Only Desty chose to be a Purification Knight, a lone candle against fog.
On graduation day, seeing everyone choose other roads while she chose Purification, loneliness pooled in her chest like rainwater.
She looked to the top graduate, a girl, and asked, the words drifting like breath, “What did you choose?”
The girl glanced back, cold as frost, and said, “Royal Guard.”
Royal Guard… Desty rolled those words on her tongue like pebbles, a mix of flavors.
“Why? You’re first place; joining the Purification Church as a knight would be better, right? With your sword, Evil Entities wouldn’t escape, like wolves cut off by a bright blade.”
Hearing Desty, the girl frowned, lines drawn like knife-marks. “Why do you think I worked so hard to be first? For what?”
“Huh? For what? Isn’t it to become a knight? That’s me, simple as a straight blade.”
“Heh, you’re a fool.” Her laugh was a dry wind. “I worked to be first so I could be Royal Guard, swim in money, live how I want, far from those terrifying Evil Entities.”
“I don’t want to die somewhere for no reason, and look ugly in death, like a twisted tree. I’m young; I want more years. If I must die, I won’t die ugly!”
Her voice rose like a storm. “I don’t want to be like those knights, dealing with Evil Entities every day. Maybe you’re fine today; tomorrow you drop dead in the street! Some go mad, less than human! Don’t you know knights die at eighty percent?”
Her words hit like hail. Desty’s worldview cracked; anger hissed up like steam. In a flash she drew her longsword and stepped in.
“What do you mean? Are you saying knights who die protecting humans deserve it?” Her voice cut like ice. “How did I never see you were like this?”
Seeing Desty’s storming intent, the top graduate refused to bow; she drew her sword too, her shout ringing like clashing iron. “Don’t slander me! Which word said that? I’m speaking for myself. Everyone chooses their path; the Church doesn’t force anyone to be a knight!”
“You…” Desty fell silent, the truth like a stone in her throat; the Church and academy never forced choices.
“You what?” the girl pressed, sharp as a hawk. “If your brain-dead self wants to die, I’m not stopping you. But don’t stop me from living well!”
Desty bit back fury, knuckles trembling like taut strings on her grip.
At last she snapped; a White Sword flashed, a flying arc like moonlight. It grazed the girl’s cheek, sliced her hair, and left a thin cut.
Startled, the girl dropped to the floor like a felled sapling. She touched her face; seeing blood on her fingers, her reason shattered like glass.
“Ahhhh! You dared ambush me! An ambush! And you call yourself a knight? You dog!” Her howl ripped like torn cloth.
She lifted her blade to strike back, but Desty’s cold gaze froze her like winter.
“Hmph. You’re bound for the Royal Guard, right? Would a killer duel you fair? If I’d been an assassin, you, or your ward, would already be dead.” Her words fell like knives.
With that, Desty slid her sword into the scabbard, metal whispering like rain, and left the academy, the girl stunned behind her.
In that graduating class, only two joined the Purification Church to become knights, two sparks in a dark field.
The other was a quiet boy, gentle as spring water; sadly, he died on his second mission.
From then on, of the new Purification Knights, only she remained, a lone banner in the wind.
She remembered her classmates, who never cared whether she lived or died, only mocked like crows: if you want to die, go; we won’t care.
Lucimia had said similar words, but her actions held care, real as weight: she bought Desty a sword to guard herself, a ticket to leave first chance, shielded her with special magic from disease.
Her mouth said she didn’t care, yet her steps kept Desty safe, like a lantern walking beside her.
Desty opened her eyes, and looked at the black-haired girl on the other bed; her gaze drifted, a boat lost in fog.
“…What should I do?” Her whisper fell like ash.
