“Catherine, I’m counting on you.” Abigail wore a mocking mask, but her tone held iron.

Catherine kept her face a blank mirror. She nodded, tending the bite-scarred iron gauntlets.

Metal rasped like frost over stone, filling the prep room like a cold river. Neither woman liked chatter, so silence felt clean.

Everyone thinks she’s an archer because she often draws a bow. That’s a surface ripple. Her gift suits the bow, but her root is a knight. A trainee of the Wingfolk’s Holy Light Guard, a banner raised in dawn.

Now, better call her a former knight. That banner hangs in dust.

Libisi killed a martial student from the Hero Academy. Then he changed Catherine’s face, slipped her into that student’s skin to compete. She owes an apology to the other Catherine, the name-twin—no defense holds. Because of her, the girl died.

A warrior meant to guard the world caused a guarded soul to fall. What kind of knight is that? The thorn sits in her chest.

Catherine lowered her lids like falling feathers. Grief swelled, and the Shadow inside her spread like ink in water, restless and alive.

She can feel it: at the lowest place in the world lies a black sea without shore. From its deep, cold tendrils keep catching her ankles, dragging her down. She wants to swim upward; her limbs move like stone.

Slow, but sure, the grip tightens, step by step. She’s marched into night, mind and flesh both staining the color of soot.

If she could, Catherine would act on her own, even cross a line. Let suspicion bloom, let them kill her. She’d welcome the last snow.

But even death can’t be asked for. Every move needs the Demon King’s leave. Her cheek twitched; Abigail adjusted her armor with calm hands and never saw the face that wanted to cry and had no tears.

She doesn’t know what the Demon King did to her body. She only knows this: in Andor’s arms, the Demon King’s Giant Scythe pierced her heart. She thought that was the end—warrior’s fate, plain as winter. She only rued breaking her promise to Elina.

So, when the scythe bit her heart, she pushed Andor away with blood-slick palms. The blade only traced his chest. That was all she could save. She truly hopes he lives with Elina—no, with everyone—lives warm and happy under the sun.

Catherine’s known Elina for years. They wandered many roads together. When her dearest fell in love, Catherine was glad to lend a hand. Wingfolk act serious as judges, but they understand the worth of love.

Yet when she opened her eyes again, she saw the Demon King smiling like a child with a new toy.

She endured torture that scraped the soul, cruelty that burned like salt. When the Demon King seized her family and steered her hands to kill, she didn’t break because her parents said:

“This isn’t your fault.”

Without that, she would’ve shattered like thin glass.

Catherine laughed at herself inside. She still reaches for light and good, but her resolve feels bleached and thin, a hollow banner flapping in dry wind.

She remembered the Demon King’s satisfied smile. Maybe his aim wasn’t to smash her in one blow, but to grind her down grain by grain. So she thought.

He set her in the Hero Academy, let her make friends behind a mask. New bonds, new warmth, new dawns to expect—

—and then he’ll lift a hand and ruin it all.

Catherine slid on her steel gauntlets without a ripple. She opened and closed her hands, a clamp of iron. They sat loose. She took them off and tightened the straps.

Time has taught her the Demon King’s wish: torment her, lead her inch by inch into despair and dark, and act with that goal like a compass.

Let everyone die because of her—that’s a jeer carved for a protector. Even the most steadfast Grand Knight-Captain would sway under that wind. Her own will isn’t mountain-strong; she joined the Guard because talent blazed brighter than resolve.

Catherine is keen. Wingfolk magic rarely puzzles her. She learned the Captain’s signature strike. She aced strategy like a clear sky. She’s no fool. Yet she sees no path through this thicket: as long as she remembers love and joy, she’ll bask in this temporary spring; and when frost returns, the stronger the hope, the deeper the fall.

Mortals have limits. That was her first sigh, like mist leaving the lips.

Darkness is vast and mighty, not to be provoked. That was her second thought, heavy as rain.

“Time to head out. The fight’s about to begin.”

Someone pushed open the prep-room door. He carried Academy-issued supplies. HolyWater and alchemy brews come in fixed models—one way to soothe common students.

The staffer handed over the kits and gave the reminder.

“Already? I thought we had more time. Tight schedule, huh.”

Abigail’s mouth complained, but her hands were quick. She picked up her sword and stowed the kit in her tactical pockets.

Catherine wore her iron gauntlets again. She tapped fist to fist—steel on steel, a bell of war—and showed she was ready.

“It’s the top twelve now. The Divine Beings will watch from the arena. Better to be a bit early. Let’s move.”

The staffer spread his hands at Abigail, then patted Catherine’s shoulder, a small steadying wave.

He was Catherine’s boyfriend—no, the dead student Catherine’s boyfriend, not hers. She recalled the details. Libisi had forced the original student’s memories into her with special magic.

Strictly, he pushed them into the “Slaughter” dwelling in her body. Her body ignored its owner and moved. She looped her arms around his neck and brushed his lips with hers.

“Expect me back with a win.” Her smile shone bright, but the light wasn’t born in her heart.

“I’ll be waiting.”

He pecked her cheek and held her in a long, deep hug.

She remembers he’s in the martial division too, but his strength is modest. He works hard, but he isn’t a Hero like Andor. So when Abigail came and said, “I want to defeat a rival in love,” and asked to team up, the boyfriend gladly gave his spot.

He knew his girlfriend was strong. He knew she wanted the crown and the glow. He let her fly. Libisi tore it apart.

The hug was warm—body heat like a small fire cupped in hands. Catherine’s body hugged back, and she herself didn’t wholly reject it. Even knowing his eager warmth can’t melt the clotted cold Shadow inside, she still savored the instant.

Abigail cast one glance at the pair and, proud as a cat, pretended not to see. She left the prep room, leaving space for lovers.

The two shared a few more gentle touches, then leaned into each other and walked toward the arena.

“I can only walk you this far. I help run the festival, but an arena under a thousand eyes isn’t my place,” the man said with a wry smile, like rain on stone.

“Don’t say that. Half my steps here were on your steady road.”

Catherine spoke, while her true self watched from a balcony in her mind. She saw Libisi pilot her body as if staging a tragedy. The feelings—beauty, love, bond, kindness—open-armed, not cold. Full of warmth, fated to break.

Even foreseeing the story and its end, she can’t step out of it.

If only she could be just a passerby—ignorant and fearless, bloodless and tearless, iron in the wind, unmoved. She smiled bitterly within. How many times today?

Hand in hand, they came to the arena gate and stopped.

“At least here, we can still be together.”

Catherine, the soul behind her, and Libisi’s mocking face spoke the same line. Their meanings diverged like forks in a river.

They waited. Abigail glanced back once, confirmed her partner was in place, and didn’t disturb their amber moment. Their opponents smiled kindly, as if offering a blessing.

Then the light descended.

It was a vast light, a peerless light, a great pillar stepping down to earth. One look told you it was a height no mortal could reach in a lifetime.

Just seeing it felt like salvation—though no Divine Being holds “salvation” as a domain, so it remained a feeling.

It didn’t blind. It veiled. The form within stayed hidden, like the moon behind thin cloud.

Mortals cannot gaze on a Divine Being’s true body. It is like facing the Demon King. One glimpse and you grasp the concept they bear. A mortal’s rank can’t bear that weight, so you’re washed by that vast idea and absorbed into it.

You could call that a kind of mercy. Everyone stood in the glow, bathing in the Divine Being’s blessing like dawn rain.

The emcee above shouted the start of the match. People woke as from a dream and remembered their roles.

Catherine was still dazed. As her boyfriend nudged her onto the sand, she glanced back, blank as a fawn.

Then she smiled as if joy rose from her heart. She lifted both hands, iron gloves catching the light.

Abigail raised her longsword and set her stance. Across from them, the potion scholar and applied mage finished their checks, straps and runes neat as lines.

The fight was a heartbeat away. It promised to be a full, roaring brawl. Everyone felt it and waited.

And Catherine’s boyfriend, that unremarkable staffer, smiled in a corner no eyes watched. Then he turned and walked away.