Chapter One
Farewell
"Separation"
On a vast green hill, gentle breezes brushed the grass of the yard surrounding her small wooden countryside house—the house that gathered me with the people dearest to my heart. As we were accustomed to spending dusk in the yard, chatting beneath the crimson sky of sunset, the sun now lingered on the edge of farewell, dyeing the heavens in its captivating red, as though sending its goodbye to all, hoping for the promise of a new day.
I stood before her, words failing to leave my heart before my lips. I did not know whether her beauty was the cause of my silence, or if it was my longing and sorrow instead. She had always possessed that uncanny power to scatter my thoughts and unravel my focus.
Her wavy red hair fluttered before me, as if pleading with me not to leave my wife and my newborn child behind. Those eyes—eyes that ensnared me with their beauty—had always carried words her lips failed to speak. I could see sorrow settling over them, dimming their brilliant gleam, yet she still retained that unique aura I could never fully describe. At times she was serene, as though the sky itself had been created to clothe her in purity and calm; at others, she bore a weight no one could carry, as if the sea—with all its depth and darkness—amounted to nothing beside the pain and grief held within her gaze. Is love truly blind? I had no answer.
I did not know what to say. I stood before her, my tongue powerless, hoping my eyes might speak what my heart could not.
"Will your journey be long this time, Alex?"
As always, she interrupted my reverie—but her words felt like knives carving into my chest.
"Of course not, my dear Mary," I replied.
I was trying to soften the air between us, yet farewells never grow sweet—especially between lovers. It would be kinder to kill them than to tear them apart.
"You truly are unbelievable," Mary said. "You haven't even stayed here for three full months."
"But I was by your side until everything settled," I answered.
Mary furrowed her brows and lowered her gaze to our child cradled in her arms with warmth and tenderness. He was wrapped in a brown blanket, which made his pale skin stand out beautifully. His tiny lips fit his rosy cheeks so naturally, and the reflection of the red sunset upon his face made him seem as though he, too, mourned my departure.
"What a terrible father you are," she said. "Will you leave us just like this?"
"Don't worry. I won't be gone for long," I replied. "I want my child to grow up before my eyes."
I embraced my wife gently, trying to calm the heart trembling with pain. I placed my hand upon her head, stroking her hair, and soon felt her rapid heartbeat, her breath struggling to hold back tears from spilling.
"Haven't you grown tired of seeing the sea?" she asked.
I smiled—a quiet, sorrowful smile.
"I don't travel because I love the sea. You know that."
"And yet, you will travel anyway," she said bitterly.
I stepped back gently and placed both hands on her shoulders.
"Believe me, my work is important. You know I must do this—for us, and for our child."
"Fine," she said softly. "But promise me you will protect our child."
"I promise," I replied. "I will return."
I kissed the forehead of my seven-day-old child, then my wife's, embracing them one last time before turning away. I walked forward until my family vanished from sight.
I lingered, staring at the last place where I had seen them. A storm of emotions etched itself upon my features—fear of leaving them alone, sorrow for departing—but above all, longing seeped into my heart, born of our separation.
I tore my gaze from the hill and fixed it ahead. I clenched my fist tightly and looked down the road draped in darkness. The stars glittered in the sky—what a coincidence, as though they were consoling me on my path. Yet the moon chose not to bid me farewell that night, perhaps displeased with me for reasons unknown. Thoughts piled relentlessly in my mind, until some slipped from my lips against my will.
"I truly hope I can keep my promise this time, Mary. I want to build a better place for you both. So please wait for me a little longer. I will do everything I can to fix it all—just wait for me, and continue what you have begun."
"The Runaway"
Among the towering forest trees, their branches tangled high above to cast shade upon the ground below, aided by their lush green leaves—yet they could not fully block the sunlight. Golden rays slipped through the small gaps between leaves, painting patterns upon the earth as though crafting a living canvas.
I stood among those vibrant trees, marveling at how they endured despite the harshness of their surroundings. What a shallow question, really—it was simply the instinct to survive.
I gazed at one tree in particular, its trunk marred by deep wounds, remnants of stripped bark still clinging and frozen in place. It looked like a pitiful tree, struggling to escape its inevitable fate. What made its will to live even stronger was the parasitic plant coiling around it, trying to consume it and steal its chance at survival—yet strangely, the tree still stood firm, even after shedding most of its leaves.
I let out a mocking laugh. That tree was far too similar to me. My clothes were worn and torn, bearing the same brown hue as its trunk. Around my wrist lay an iron bracelet engraved with the symbol of slavery. What miserable luck—was I spared the execution platform only to walk another unknown path?
I hadn't come here to wander aimlessly, though. I was here to read the torn-edged letter. The moment I finished, I ripped it apart and hurled it away in fury, but the gentle breeze refused to leave the scraps behind, scattering them far from me.
I sighed deeply. "Hah… what a liar you are."
I heard a voice calling from afar—truthfully, it must have been calling for some time, but my distraction refused to let me hear it.
"…Shi—ri…"
"…Shi—ri…"
"Shiri! You there, girl!"
"Hey, girl! Why won't you answer?"
I turned around with icy indifference to see a guard behind me, clad in the black uniform of the watch. The guard's insignia was stamped upon a green cloth tightly wrapped around his massive arm, a sword dangling from the belt at his waist. He glared at me with clear irritation.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"We're moving now. Come on."
I turned and changed direction, following the irritating guard, fury boiling within me. Did the sky rain down annoying people, or was I simply a magnet for fools?
"Annoying bastards," I muttered.
I left the forest and headed toward the gathering site, where several horse-drawn wagons stood alongside many people—some armed with swords and spears. Guards and drivers were stationed there, along with the cargo being transported: large wooden crates, locked with heavy chains, their contents forbidden from emerging except under strict necessity.
It was a sight I had grown accustomed to—perhaps I had seen it four or five times before. What I remembered clearly, however, were the expressions etched onto the faces of the people inside those cages. Life offered many choices, yet ended in fixed conclusions—one of them being those wooden cages, sealing the remainder of one's life in slavery and humiliation.
As I walked toward the wagon meant for me—the very one I had escaped earlier to flee into the nearby forest—a guard looked at me with mockery and disdain.
"You're the runaway slave?"
Perhaps I wanted to amuse myself by provoking this empty-headed fool. I didn't look at him, simply walked past and replied coldly,
"Yes—but I'm the killing slave. And I'm not running now."
Anger surged across his face. He stepped forward abruptly, blocking my path.
"Are you mocking me?"
The spark of rage flared in his eyes as he grabbed the stick in his hand, raised it, and seized me by the neck.
My throat tightened; breathing became difficult. Yet the sight of his fury eased my own anger—his pain was worth mine. I smiled coldly, staring straight into his burning eyes.
"I'm merely correcting the title they gave me. Why are you so angry?"
His grip tightened, but I did not raise my hands to push him away. I fought the urge to cough as the lack of air burned my lungs, which only enraged him further.
"Seems you don't wish to arrive in one piece."
Salvation appeared as I glanced at him indifferently.
"I don't know which of us won't arrive in one piece."
The wagon driver rushed over, having heard the commotion. Seeing the guard choking me in fury, he intervened quickly, addressing the guard first, then me, trying to pry the massive hand away.
"Enough! Calm down. We don't want trouble here. You—get into the wagon and don't cause a scene. We're moving near the camp. Let her go—killing her here gains us nothing."
But a fool remains a fool. The guard refused to release me, unwilling to taste defeat and wounded pride—the nature of the weak.
"What use is this slave anyway? She needs discipline."
"We don't decide value here," the driver snapped. "Let her board."
My coughing finally broke free.
"We should cut out her tongue before she leaves. That wouldn't harm her."
"It would harm us," the driver replied sharply. "She's under our protection. Let her go unless you want trouble."
"…Fine."
He released me reluctantly, casting a venomous glare my way. I ignored him and climbed into the wagon with the other slaves, leaving the guard and driver arguing behind me.
"So the nuisance begins again," I muttered. "I wish it would all end quickly."
Whispers filled the wagon.
"Is that really her?"
"Yes, it's her."
"She looks too small for those rumors."
"How could someone so thin kill?"
"I imagined her differently."
"I've never heard of anyone surviving an execution…"
I closed my eyes, curled up, rested my head on my arms, and fell into deep sleep. I paid no heed to their words—I had grown used to them. Red eyes, wavy black hair, sharp fearless stares, and that cursed bracelet—I had become a bedtime horror story for children.
What fueled the gossip most was my survival of execution by hanging. Even I hardly believed it. Yet I had seen enough to keep me standing.
After nearly two hours, the caravan halted at a wide area known as the camp. Not all the wagons were present—perhaps less than half had arrived.
The guards organized the slaves into groups, assigning them to commanders. Tasks varied—from personal service to military labor. The knights wore uniforms distinct from the guards: blue most commonly, red less so, and green the rarest, all layered in gray.
Names were called one by one—until the cursed name echoed.
"Shiri Ron."
Silence fell as everyone strained to see the slave shrouded in rumors. Their anticipation soon turned to shock. I agreed—if I had heard tales of a monster only to see a girl barely twenty years old, about 170 centimeters tall, pale-skinned, with striking crimson eyes, I wouldn't believe it either. They wanted a beast in human form—but I disappointed them.
I stepped forward slowly—not because I was barefoot, for I was used to that—but because of the stares boring into me.
"Yes. I'm here."
"Tenth Battalion, under Commander Henry."
"Understood."
I walked toward the indicated leader. Knights with unfamiliar weapons surrounded him, faces etched with expressions I couldn't decipher—until he stepped forward.
A man in his mid-forties, with short golden hair and gray eyes, wearing the green knight's uniform. A long gray tunic adorned with strange green and black patterns, a golden belt holding two long swords, and a flowing cloak trailing behind him with quiet dignity. Gold insignias rested upon his shoulder and chest—marks of experience etched by a life well-worn.
He smiled warmly and stopped before me.
"Welcome—the last member of the battalion. Don't worry about having been a slave, or the past that follows you. We all have dark pasts and worse reputations here. Welcome to the Tenth Battalion. I am Commander Henry."
I was stunned. It was the first time anyone had ever welcomed me like that. I had expected disdain, mockery—perhaps even fear.
"Don't you know who I really am?" I asked.
His calm smile only deepened my confusion.
"Of course. You're the girl who constantly ran from her masters, killed the son of the last one, severed a servant's fingers, and recently survived an execution—bringing misfortune wherever you go."
My eyes widened. In his gray gaze, it felt as though all color had drained from the world.
"And yet you welcome me like this? Aren't you afraid?"
"Why should I be?" he asked simply.
"Huh?"
"I'm not afraid. You're no longer a slave."
"Then what am I? A chair? A table?"
He laughed heartily.
"Neither. You're a knight now—with a team."
I glanced toward the central building. Trouble had begun to rain down again.
"I don't want teammates. I work better alone."
"These are the rules."
"…Fine."
"Loria!"
A tall woman in her thirties approached, with long green hair and blue eyes, wearing a white coat that marked her apart.
"This is our final member," Henry said, gesturing to me.
"She's so small—and pretty!" Loria exclaimed, placing a hand on my shoulder.
I recoiled in disgust.
"Don't touch me. And I'm not a child."
"Then you're fifteen."
"I'm eighteen!"
"You look younger. Didn't you eat growing up?"
"No. I was punished by starvation."
Her face fell, tears welling.
"I'm sorry—I didn't mean—"
"That's enough, Loria," Henry said. "She doesn't like jokes. Shiri, this is Loria, the battalion's doctor."
"This is a doctor?" I muttered.
"Yes!" Loria protested.
"You don't look like one."
She froze.
"Why do you sound like you're going to kill me?"
Henry sighed.
"Loria… this is Shiri Ron."
Her demeanor shifted instantly.
"That explains it… I'm sorry. This place is your new home—"
"Meaningless words," I cut in. "Where do I sleep?"
Henry nodded.
"Loria will show you."
"Why her again?"
"I won't give up," Loria said cheerfully.
"…Annoying."
I followed her in silence as she talked endlessly.