Before they sent her there, the man held her body, tears streaming down his face as he told her: *Find your true destiny. Don’t let illusions cloud your heart.*

But… what *was* destiny?

Blood-red sky. Pitch-black earth. Shattered bodies. A sword-wielding girl. Life extinguished. Death claimed this land.

*What is destiny?*

She saw men collapse, gripping muskets, gasping crimson blood onto the dirt. Others wept as they drove daggers into their own hearts.

*Is it slaughter? Did I find destiny so easily?*

*Don’t let illusions cloud your heart.*

She cleaved through a charging soldier. His dying whisper cut through the smoke and blood mist of battle, drifting weakly into her ears:

"*It’s all… destiny…*"

*Even you knew your destiny?*

She straightened, eyes icy as she surveyed the remaining survivors. She didn’t know the word "ants"—or she’d have seen them as worthless as such. Silent, she raised her blade again—

Rivers of blood flowed.

She opened her eyes. A hand patted her shoulder. "Sorry…"

"Your Majesty, the victory in this war owes everything to the mechanical dolls. I implore you to approve mass production—"

As the man led her into the imperial audience chamber, she spotted a disheveled middle-aged man fervently pitching something to the Emperor.

He turned. His eyes held a swirling cosmos—brilliant, orderly, alive with spinning stars.

"Your Majesty, I’ve brought her."

"Hmm." The Emperor rubbed his temples, waving the man off. "I know. The dolls proved their worth. But I never want to see another war like this. I’ll consider your proposal. Dismissed."

The man bowed, shooting her a greedy glance before leaving. She didn’t understand why.

"Your Majesty, this is the Crimson Saint." The introducer smiled, as if unaware how many human lives stained that title.

"Hilean. You may go." The Emperor nodded.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Hilean bowed and exited.

"*Finally*… some peace." The Emperor snatched off his crown the moment Hilean left, dropping it onto the table with a weary sigh. He grabbed a sheet of paper, glancing up at her. "Let me read your file aloud, our dear little puppet."

She wanted to say she wasn’t a puppet—she was all gears and steel—but stayed silent.

"War-use Android Maiden Type-I. Codename: Shal." His eyebrow lifted. "A pretty name."

"My father chose it."

"*Father?*" He scoffed. "The name’s lovely. The rest? Not so much.

"Battles: Fallriver Crossing. Northlin Siege. Noxel Border Campaign. The Frolda Meat Grinder." He raked fingers through his hair. "Confirmed kills: 1,492. Including two generals, thirteen brigadiers, fifty majors… At Frolda, you single-handedly slaughtered hundreds outside the fortress. Earned the name *Crimson Saint*." He dropped the paper, covering his eyes. Her crimson hair reflected in his pupils. "There’s more—Redblood River, the Sunset Incident—but I can’t stomach it."

"...Oh." Shal replied.

"You’d be a national hero by human standards," the Emperor said, his sharp face still young—thirties, maybe. "Statues. Honored for a thousand years."

"But I’m not *human*. I’m an *android doll*."

"Exactly. So we can’t reward you like one." He picked up a quill.

"I don’t want rewards." Shal shook her head.

"You won’t get any. Humans don’t award puppets. You’ll be pointed at in fear on the streets. Used to scare children into silence." His voice cut off. After a pause: "Pointless telling you. You feel nothing. Anyway—you noticed the other dolls returned to the capital with you. But they’re gone now."

"Are they dead?" Shal tilted her head.

"No. We’re not *that* heartless." He sighed. "We won’t build android armies. They’ve been returned to their creators."

"I miss my father."

"Too late for that." His words were ice shards. "After hearing of your… *triumph* at Frolda, your creator—Winkwell—hanged himself. Left a note: *‘May I atone for my sin of creation in hell.’*"

"If he’s dead… who explains my destiny?" The words slipped out.

"*Destiny?*" He flicked the quill. It landed perfectly in the inkwell. "You get no rewards. No home. Your only path? Leave the castle. Flee the capital. Hide from humans. Rust away in some forgotten corner of the world. That’s all."

As she reached the door, hand on the knob, the Emperor called out one last question:

"Shal… have we met before?"

"No, Your Majesty." She closed the door softly.

Outside the castle, human eyes tracked her on the first street—stares sharp with shock and fear.

"Mama, why’s everyone looking at that lady?"

"*Hush*. That’s no lady. That’s the Crimson Saint from the rumors!"

Whispers layered over each other, hitting Shal’s ears exactly as the Emperor predicted. She *was* fear. She *was* chaos. Her only purpose now was to vanish from humanity.

She quickened her pace, aiming for the city gates. Find a place with no humans. Sleep. Then… break down.

*Wait. "Die" is for humans. Androids… break.*

*But the humans I killed—they died. The androids I killed… did they just… break?*

Lost in thought, she looked up—and found herself at the edge of the capital.

Few people. Fewer open shops. The city climbed in terraces: the Emperor’s castle at the peak, then five descending tiers. Living here meant privilege—but privilege had layers.

Shal sighed, pulling a battered pocket watch from her military uniform. Rust nearly swallowed the metal. Yet she’d kept it for a year.

It held her memories. Of a boy.

*You… you’re a killing machine!*

*Y-you said your name’s Shal?*

*They won’t let me walk with monsters! Stay away!*

*Shal… save me!*

*You saved my life. You’re my only friend now… Don’t ask what "friend" means! Here. Take this.*

*My parents gave it to me. We’re poor. It’s all we own…*

*It’s a pocket watch. They say it helps soldiers survive. I’m giving it to you… ’cause you’re my best friend!*

The timid boy died in his only moment of courage—

*Shal! We’re surrounded! Everyone’s dead…*

*Shal… I grabbed this sword from camp…*

*Just… live…*

"*A customer?*" A door creaked open, shattering her thoughts. A stout middle-aged man grinned.

"Customer…?" Shal asked.

"Come to fix that poor little watch, miss?" He pointed upward. Shal looked—rust-eaten sign: *Clocksmith*.

*…Can it be fixed?* She touched her pocket. Hilean had given her gold coins before she left the castle.

"No problem! Leave it to me!" He beamed.

"Please do." Shal bowed.

"Step inside." He held the door open.

The shop was simple. Only the entrance corridor dazzled—walls lined with ceaselessly turning gears, complex mechanisms driven by simple cogs. At its end lay a room. Inside: a wooden table, chairs, basic repair tools. But the walls…

Hundreds of clocks covered them. Wood, iron, brass. Grandfathers, pocket watches, hourglasses. A dizzying forest of time.

"Stunning, isn’t it?" His hand landed on Shal’s shoulder.

She said nothing.

"Your watch. I’ll take it." He plucked it from her palm, plopping into a chair. His screwdriver twirled with unsettling ease.

Shal stared at a wooden clock on the wall. Its hour hand was frozen at V. The minute hand ticked on, unaffected.

"A clock shop like this," Shal murmured, "surviving in the capital… must be difficult."

The man froze. "Y-yeah. Tough. But we manage."

"Many mechanical shops hide secrets. I heard one clocksmith’s basement holds a full underground steam-mecha arena."

"*Does* such a thing exist? Steam mecha?" His smile vanished. The screwdriver was gone. In his hand: a strange black rectangle.

"War-use Android Maiden Type-I. A fine specimen."

He slid off the rectangle’s casing. A blade emerged—short, humming. He pointed its tip at Shal. A beam of clear light shot out.

Dropping the screwdriver, he circled behind her. "Can’t move now, can you?"

Silence.

"Tsk tsk. Didn’t want to use this. The mo-iron I planted on you earlier would’ve turned you to scrap in ten minutes. But… better safe." He shook his head, almost regretful.

No expression crossed Shal’s face.

"*Crimson Saint*… *Crimson Saint*…" He burst into wild laughter. "Who’d believe *you’d* walk right into *my* shop? So many bounties on your mechanical head—and you stroll the streets like a fool! Hahahaha—"

"You don’t know why they call you the Crimson Saint."

The man's laughter cut off abruptly. He stiffened, staring at Sharl. Turning his head, he saw a hellish vision of blood and carnage in the girl's eyes.

"The reason I survived that battle," her right hand shot out and clamped around his neck, "the battle with hundreds of mages," her left hand snatched away the black dagger, her voice cold and emotionless, "is because I am Sharl. The War Automaton Doll Type I. Winkwell's most perfect creation. My heart's power source is magic immunity."

As soon as the words left her lips, the man's neck exploded like an overfilled water balloon. Flesh and sinews scattered everywhere.

Sharl pried open the hidden compartment beneath the clock's hour hand. Inside, she saw a massive mechanical separation device—three meters tall and two meters wide, like a giant. Three dismembered mechanical doll girls lay on the floor. Their limbs were forcibly broken off. Their heads were removed and placed atop the device.

Sharl looked up and counted. Five mechanical doll heads in total.

"Are they dead? Or just broken?" she thought, turning away. Suddenly, she recalled the Emperor's words: "They were all sent to their creator's side."

So had the creator abandoned them? These murder machines.

Sharl pondered for a moment, then left the secret chamber.

"Winkwell hanged himself."

"May I repent for the sin of creation in hell."

Sharl said nothing. She cleaned the floor, destroyed the device, and closed the chamber door securely.

Finally, she changed out of her military uniform into the male clothes left by the shopkeeper. At the entrance, she sanded the signboard clean. Then she hung a white paper that read: "The shopkeeper is traveling. This shop is managed by Sharl, the mechanical doll girl."

Sharl looked at the fresh sign, expressionless, and walked into the shop.

And so, today's Sharl remained lost on the path of seeking her destiny.