This world teems with self‑proclaimed righteous souls, not a sneer—just a weather report of the times, reeds crowding a riverbank.

Everyone wants to lend a hand to justice, to make the world brighter, lanterns lifted against the fog, working without rest.

Yet, absurdly, most clashes are justice against justice, bright blades crossing under the same sun, and far fewer against the dark.

Evil is a long, wide river—yes, that’s right—better to sheath twin swords of light, store grain, and face the flood when strong… so they say.

But I can’t. I simply can’t, hands faltering like wet tinder in the rain.

The moment you grip a creed, the scales tilt; what runs crosswise to your justice won’t fit neatly as “evil.” Certainty rusts the needle; neutrality drains away, and all you can call it is “not my justice.”

Like me now: I don’t dare name who’s good or who’s cruel; I can only swing here, hollow and weak, a reed cutting at mist.

Weak. Clumsy. Foolish. A scarecrow sagging in rain—that’s me.

“…a curse…”

A faint lament leaks from the long sword, wind through reeds, and my mood sinks like a stone into a pond.

The grimoire won’t hold my eyes; Beatrice’s administration sits untouched; even sword drills slip like sand. My thoughts churn to mud. For a heartbeat, I want to hurl the blade into the wet yard, but good schooling tightens my grip like a bridle.

Three days of fine rain show no sign of clearing; thin threads bead on my blue‑azure hair, knotting it into ugly strands. Cold seeps through cloth into skin and muscle, needles pressing to bone.

“Your Highness, the rain’s coming down in sheets—please, come back inside.”

Abigail hears his old butler calling from the room, faithful as a hearth for years. He knows dry towels and warm water wait, steam curling like white vines. He still doesn’t want to go—stone stubborn under rain.

I can’t do anything, Abigail thinks, fingers numbed like winter branches.

What if I could overturn the sky? What if I could upend the earth? What if I could raise the dead? I still can’t do what I must. I can’t save Raven; I can’t even fling this sword in a fit, with mud clinging like chains.

Because Abigail knows it’s pointless—no gain. Throw it, and he’ll fish it from the mire, wipe it, wax it; a loop of futility. So reason whispers: dry the long sword, put it away, and wait quietly for the Heretic Inquisition’s message, or thorns will grow in the path ahead.

Whether it’s his country or his blade, both are bound by scabbards and statutes, tight as laced armor.

Suddenly he feels like a puppet—a graveward or gateward Construct—moving by etched magical circuits. Even with a spark of self, he can’t stray beyond the grooves; awareness without a road is a lantern with no wick.

This is a problem of thought, not of force—a locked door, not a missing hammer.

Abigail lifts his gaze. The fine rain falls steady, indifferent to how much blood stains the earth; even thunder holds its tongue, and only silk‑soft water descends.

He lets go of impulse like smoke from a brazier, chooses the cold clarity of reason, and walks back inside.

“Ah, I’m here, I’m here. Sorry—I practiced for a bit and caught an insight, like a fish flashing under the surface.”

“Your Highness is diligent. In time, at the prince’s station, you’ll be a pillar aiding His Majesty.”

“That should be right.”

And he smiles, a paper‑lantern smile to keep the old butler from worry—a kind mask, shining and false.