Judgment of Fate Kriemhild wasn't bluffing. She said she'd beat, stomp, yank, and tear—no fire involved—and she meant it. But this was the woman who could swing Siegfried's massive sword, Balmung, the "Wrath of God." Perseus, pinned beneath her, didn't stand a chance.
"Stop—"
Thud!
"Don't—"
Wham!
Every time Perseus tried to speak, Kriemhild's fist crashed into her face. That melancholic, sharp, pretty-boy face—beloved by swooning girls—twisted under the blows, barely recognizable.
Still, Heroic Spirits are tough. As long as the spiritual core's intact, this was just surface damage. After Kriemhild vented for a while, Ritsuka finally stepped in to stop the carnage.
"Alright, alright, let her go," Ritsuka called out, catching Kriemhild's attention now that she was listening. "We've got bigger things to deal with."
"Tch. Got my hands dirty," Kriemhild muttered, her face cold as ice. She grabbed Perseus by the collar and dragged her over to Ritsuka like she was tossing out trash.
"Didn't know you had the Nibelung Ring," Nero said, daring to speak now that Kriemhild had cooled off.
"It's a cursed thing. Can't use it too much," Kriemhild replied flatly, dumping Perseus on the ground like garbage. "Pathetic. Weak body, weak spirit. Hard to believe this is a legendary hero."
Her words made Nero pause. Why did the Sphinx think this was the key to beating Pavone? Sure, in the myths, Perseus wasn't exactly a master swordsman—his strength came from those fancy treasures.
But Perseus wasn't wrong about one thing. She called herself a puppet of fate, and her life was a dance in the gods' palms. Those Noble Phantasms gifted to her? They were rigged to let any average Joe kill Medusa, making it the spark for all her so-called glory.
Perseus, face swollen, eyes bruised, sobbed through tears. "I… I swore I wouldn't be fate's chosen one anymore…"
The words barely left her mouth before Nero and Ritsuka sensed trouble and backed off. Sure enough, Kriemhild's two-meter-long holy sword, Balmung—now a demonic blade—slammed into the ground next to Perseus's head, spraying gravel that sliced her cheek. Kriemhild's black high heel pinned the ground by Perseus's ear as she leaned down, staring into her eyes.
Then she slapped her. Hard.
Kriemhild loomed over the stunned Perseus, roaring, "Then fight back! Stand up and show me!
"What are these tears? What's your will worth? You say you'll defy fate, so what's with this spineless, go-with-the-flow crap?!
"You haven't lived through anything. You haven't suffered. You haven't even thought about what fate really means—"
Kriemhild grabbed Perseus's collar, hoisting her high, her hate-filled glare piercing Perseus's terrified, dodging eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper, dripping with menace, like she'd rip her apart any second. "What an empty, shallow, pathetic whine. You say you won't be fate's puppet—don't you find that laughable?"
She tossed Perseus to the ground, picked up the corrupted Balmung, and pointed its blade at the trembling figure who couldn't muster a single word in her defense. "But I don't find it funny.
"I find it infuriating," Kriemhild said.
She raised the sword, ready to strike. Ritsuka, knowing this wasn't a bluff, shouted, "Stop! Spare her!"
Perseus was their ticket to the Sphinx's help. No matter how much Kriemhild despised her, Ritsuka had to make sure she reached the Sphinx alive.
Kriemhild sighed softly and lowered her sword.
But her eyes stayed locked on Perseus. "For the Master's sake, I'll give you one last chance.
"Now, stand up, grab your—"
A voice cut her off.
"Emergency!" Mash's projection appeared, her tone urgent. "Senpai, Miss Nero! Something's happening in Ratvenchi Town!"
Nero's gut tightened. "Demons attacking?" she asked.
It wasn't that she was some saint who couldn't stand death. But the lord and Beatrice had helped them out a lot these past few days. Nero couldn't just let them die.
Repaying kindness—that's how decent people operate.
"Can we reach Kenshin and the others?" Ritsuka snapped into action, checking on their allies. "What about Hernan?"
"They ran into a Demon God Pillar. Hernan went to back them up!" Mash's reply was like a death sentence for the townsfolk. "But it's not demons. It's…"
Her hesitation made Nero's heart race. "What is it?" she pressed.
"A witch trial," Da Vinci took over, her voice heavy. "The demonic aura's driven the townsfolk into a frenzy. To calm them, the lord agreed to hold a witch trial."
Witch trials. Religious mob persecution targeting women suspected of demonic possession or witchcraft. The more isolated a place, the worse the disasters—plagues, demon attacks, demonic corruption—the easier it was for these so-called "judgments" to erupt, pinning blame on a convenient scapegoat. Ratvenchi Town, hit by a mysterious plague, demon assaults, and demonic aura in just a week, was the perfect breeding ground.
Even Da Vinci struggled to say it. She'd lived through this dark chapter, from the late Middle Ages to the end of the Renaissance. These acts of human ugliness spread like a warped tumor across Europe, feeding on misery.
Hearing this, Nero finally understood the nagging unease she'd felt talking to the lord earlier.
"Who's been accused?" Nero asked, her blood running cold, her tongue stiff like it was frozen. The question itself felt like a battle.
"About ten women, all ages," Da Vinci replied grimly. "I know what you're thinking, and I'm sorry."
Those three words said it all, but Da Vinci kept going, delivering the answer that set Nero's rage ablaze.
"A girl named Beatrice is among them."
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