A month had passed since Sacrifice was shot through the head.
It had not been a peaceful month.
It began, fittingly, with an arrow through her knee.
Since then, her growing reputation had only made things worse. Wherever she went, trouble followed. Refugees sought her out, desperate for help she never promised to give. Mercenaries hunted her, eager to carve their names into her story.
Fame, she had learned, was just another kind of target.
And hers was getting larger by the day.
It was starting to get on her nerves.
Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—she had developed new Arts.
She called them Torch and Flashbang.
Both only made the problem worse.
Torch allowed her to create and shape fire through verse-like incantations. Not wild flames—but controlled, precise heat. Hot enough that, during one encounter, she sliced a steel shield clean in half as if it were paper.
Flashbang, on the other hand, produced a sphere of fire without heat—only light. Blinding, overwhelming light that erased vision in an instant.
The first time she used it—
She blinded herself.
A brief pause.
She adjusted the method afterward.
Now—
She was helping a woman give birth.
In a bar.
[Sacrifice]: Congratulations, madam… It's a boy.
A short pause as she cleaned her hands.
[Sacrifice]: And… I assume this is the last one?
She glanced at the bar owner.
Then, at his daughter, who was already hugging the newborn with quiet joy.
Then at the rest of the room—
Nine other daughters.
Thirteen newborns in total.
Some of them are twins.
Sacrifice blinked once.
Processing.
[Bar Owner]: Thank you, Fire Witch, for helping us.
A pause.
Sacrifice looked up.
[Sacrifice]: …Is that a new title?
A nearby mercenary shifted, barely holding back a grin.
[Female Mercenary 1]: Yes, boss.
A small pause.
[Female Mercenary 1]: We just heard it today.
Sacrifice exhaled quietly—
—and stepped out of the bar.
Outside, stone tables and mismatched chairs were scattered across the open ground. Lantern light flickered in the night as mercenaries from different groups drank side by side, laughing like there was no tomorrow.
No tension.
No blades drawn.
Just noise.
[Reth]: Told you, boss.
He gestured lazily at the scene.
[Reth]: Bars are safe zones. It's an unspoken rule—if someone destroys one, every mercenary hunts them down.
Sacrifice glanced over the crowd.
Then back at him.
[Sacrifice]: You're all hopeless.
A beat.
[Sacrifice]: A bar in the middle of nowhere has more order than your royal capital.
Reth let out a short laugh.
[Reth]: That's because kings don't drink with their enemies.
Sacrifice's gaze lingered on the crowd a moment longer.
[Sacrifice]: …Then perhaps they should.
[Reth]: Come on, boss. We'll reach the Scar Market tomorrow. No need to be this negative.
Sacrifice didn't look at him.
[Sacrifice]: You're saying that because you're not the one keeping everyone alive.
A brief pause.
Her gaze shifted.
[Sacrifice]: That reminds me… how is your arm?
Reth raised it.
Stitches ran across the length of it, crude and uneven, holding together flesh laced with jagged Originium crystals.
It looked less like a limb—
And more like something repaired too many times.
[Reth]: Well… It's better than a week ago.
A faint, crooked grin.
[Reth]: Who knew they'd throw an Originium bomb at me?
[Mordred]: And who thought you'd grab it and try to throw it back?
He snorted.
[Mordred]: Seriously, if not for her, you'd be called "One-Arm Reth" by now.
Reth's eye twitched.
[Reth]: It's Reth.
A step closer.
[Reth]: Not "Ruth," Madera.
This time—
Mordred's expression darkened.
[Mordred]: Say that again.
The air shifted slightly.
Sacrifice's gaze drifted toward the horizon—
And for a brief moment, she saw it.
A shadow.
Standing still in the distance.
Smiling at her.
Then—
It was gone.
She didn't react.
But she didn't look away either.
Over the past month, Protector had told her everything she needed to know about Oaths—and the ones who carried them.
She had learned that Oaths were not just bindings.
They had form.
They had presence.
They were… alive.
But they did not reveal themselves easily.
Only those who had lived long enough—
And suffered enough—
Could see them clearly.
Only those who had pushed their Oath to its limits…
Were allowed to face what they had truly become.
He had described hers.
Not gently.
Never gently.
A broken, horned figure.
Its ribs exposed, as if its body had forgotten how to remain whole.
Two dark wings stretched from its back—twisted, heavy, more like blunt instruments than anything meant for flight.
One arm held a staff crowned with a cup, where two serpents coiled and drank in silence.
The other carried a worn medical bag.
Its face—
Partially stitched.
One eye sealed shut.
Its mouth is bound by a thread.
And the remaining eye…
The pupil is split and sewn down the middle—
One side red.
The other blue.
It wore a doctor's coat.
And in the upper pocket—
A heart.
Still.
Beating.
Protector had told her one more thing.
Quietly.
Carefully.
As if the words themselves mattered.
[Protector]: Oaths don't just reflect what you are, they reflect what you chose to become… and what it cost you... Don't ask about mine, he is more blind than you.
Sacrifice blinked once.
Then turned away from the horizon.
Her voice was calm.
Dismissive.
But her hand tightened slightly at her side.
Behind her—
For just a moment—
Something shifted.
As if a pair of unseen wings adjusted in the dark.
[Somewhere else]
A dimly lit room. Maps spread across a worn table, edges pinned down with knives and empty shell casings.
A woman leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded with boredom.
[W]: It's been a month.
A faint tilt of her head.
[W]: And we still haven't found her.
Her gaze shifted lazily toward the man across the table.
[W]: Is that why you're here, Scout?
The man didn't sit.
Didn't relax.
He stood straight, eyes scanning the map as if it might change when he wasn't looking.
A brief pause.
[Scout]: And the situation has worsened.
His finger tapped a marked region.
[Scout]: Next week, a council will be held.
Another tap.
[Scout]: The fate of this nation… its leadership… and the surrounding regions will be decided.
The room felt colder.
[Scout]: They will choose between full-scale war—
A pause.
[Scout]: Or returning to that fragile peace.
W let out a quiet, amused breath.
A faint smirk.
[W]: That's a generous word for something already falling apart.
She pushed herself off the wall, stepping closer to the table.
[W]: And where does our little "Fire Witch" fit into all this?
Scout's gaze didn't move.
[Scout]: At the center of it.
A beat.
[Scout]: Whether she understands it or not.
Silence.
Then—
W smiled.
Not kindly.
A small pause.
[W]: I was starting to think this job would be boring.
[Chapter end]
[Sorry for the delay—someone seems to enjoy piling more onto my plate for some reason.]
[Also, I'd love some feedback: what did you think about the execution and meaning of the oath, and what it represents? Does it work for you, or should I consider revising or removing it?]