Fragments

She had a dream.

A memory of a distant, distant day long past.

Ever since that day twenty years ago, Almaeira's time had remained frozen.

—Saintess.

The girl once called by that name crossed the sea of sins without incident and gazed up at the Gate of the Underworld.

Around her lay a desolate wasteland, stretching to the very edge of the horizon.

"… My, this is…"

Lustrous platinum hair falling long and straight, sorrowful blue eyes, a white vestment worn threadbare as rags.

A girl so beautiful she seemed out of place, like a white lily blooming in a ravine—Almaeira Serenarie widened her eyes, overwhelmed by the colossal door before her.

Almaeira stood at most 150 su tall, if that, but the Gate of the Underworld was dozens of times taller.

And stranger still, the door appeared to lead nowhere at all—since there was nothing but the door standing there in solitude, that was the only conclusion to draw.

"… Should I… open it, I wonder…"

It was entirely possible that the space beyond was joined together by some magical means.

At that thought, the word "magic" suddenly called a certain man to mind.

The childhood friend she had secretly cherished. The man to whom she had devoted her hidden love—the precious person she had gotten killed through her own fault.

A sharp pang ran through her small chest.

If it were only herself who died, she could accept it. The people's condemnation had been unreasonable, but in the end it stemmed from her own lack of power. Almaeira had been unable to save them.

But there was no reason for Yoal Yaotl to be killed along with her.

"… Haah…"

The Almaeira of that moment was in a kind of self-destructive despair.

In the end, she was nothing but a vain, stubborn woman.

She had walked a different path from Yoal, and even so had tried to be someone they could each take pride in. The grandiose epithet of "Saintess" was nothing more than the result of that.

Whether she had truly wished to save people was itself doubtful—certainly, Almaeira had helped countless people gasping in poverty and pleaded loudly for their salvation. She joined hands with the churches of every district and actually put relief measures into practice. On her own, too, she traveled the land as an unpaid physician, treating every kind of wound and illness.

That was by no means an easy thing. The weak of the real world could never be pure, blameless victims.

At times they were violent, difficult, and would not shrink from crime in order to survive. They were often filthy, giving off a foul stench, and some of them turned hideous lust upon Almaeira.

To save the weak was to face such people head-on. To keep company with them patiently. It was not they who were evil. Poverty itself was the evil. It was poverty that made people wicked.

Easy enough to put into words, but to actually see it through was no ordinary feat.

And yet Almaeira did it—never out of any iron will, pure spirit, or unwavering faith.

In the end, she had only wanted him to acknowledge her.

"… It's fine now, isn't it…"

And so, a world without him held no meaning.

Half sunk in reckless despair, Almaeira gave the Gate of the Underworld a firm push.

The cold metal door groaned, creaking open of its own accord.

Beyond it spread a vast, jet-black darkness—the far side of that thick gloom could not be seen through at all.

—If only we could be together in the Underworld.

Smiling faintly at such a thought, Almaeira took one step forward.

Without hesitation, she stepped across the threshold of the Gate of the Underworld.

—In that instant, her vision plunged rapidly into darkness.

   

Falling.

Feeling as though she were plummeting endlessly, Almaeira opened her eyes wide.

A lifeless darkness streamed past her overturned field of vision.

And then she realized—it closely resembled the sensation of spatial teleportation.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Almaeira surrendered herself to gravity.

Before long, her small body flopped down onto a floor.

"… Ow…"

She had landed headfirst, but felt no particular pain.

She touched the floor with her hand. A red carpet, plainly of high quality, was spread across it.

Her surroundings were dazzlingly bright, a far cry from the Underworld of legend.

"… Where… is this…"

"Welcome, Saintess."

Before Almaeira could even lift her face, an arrogant, deep bass voice sounded from above.

"No, I should say former Saintess—my consort of darkness."

"I am not your consort."

She flatly denied the words she could not let pass.

A stir ran through the surroundings, but Almaeira paid it no mind. She turned her gaze toward the owner of the voice, confirming his form with her own eyes.

In that moment, Almaeira's eyes flew open in surprise.

A giant whose height was more than twice her own. His skin a lurid purple. He was draped in a black fur mantle, with nothing else to conceal his body but an undergarment. His powerfully muscled physique lay bare, his limbs like thick logs.

His eyes were bloodshot, a solid white. A rich, jet-black beard covered his chin, and his hair was cropped very short and black. From either side of his head grew earth-colored horns, twisting in spirals as they stretched skyward as if to pierce the heavens.

On either side of the man attended succubi in livery, standing by to see to his commands.

Anyone who saw that figure would sense it at once.

The twin-horned, white-eyed king of the demons—he was surely none other than the "Demon King" Galdel Grond.

The Demon King sat upon a throne that was itself already colossal, looking down upon Almaeira from on high.

"I-Impossible!"

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Was the marriage contract not supposed to have been made?"

"Well, well, this is… how to put it…"

The reactions coming from left and right were varied. Some voiced shock or denial, while others, intrigued, seemed content to watch how things would unfold.

Without even confirming their forms, Almaeira slowly dragged herself to her feet and faced the Demon King head-on.

"… I have no consort. I never have, and I do not now."

A quiet voice, yet one that carried clearly and coolly through the entire chamber.

At once the clamor grew fiercer, and the Demon King narrowed his eyes in displeasure.

It was only then that Almaeira looked around her.

She appeared to be in some kind of open hall, like a lecture chamber. Since it was the room where the king sat, perhaps it should be called an audience chamber.

Indeed, her position was that of a supplicant seeking audience. To her left and right thronged demons who seemed to be his retainers, all fixing their attention on Almaeira.

Perhaps only those of high rank among the demons had been gathered, for their races were utterly without uniformity.

Some, like the vampires and succubi, were no different in appearance from humans, while many others looked utterly removed from anything human.

"What is the meaning of this, dark priest?"

"… Y-Yes, this… I believe the contract's curse-sigil may have been resisted…"

"That much I already know. I am asking why it happened, am I not?"

"Th-that is… in all likelihood, I suspect it owes greatly to her own individual qualities…"

"Enough."

Rattling and trembling pitifully enough to draw sympathy, the skeletal sorcerer offered his excuses.

After casting him an exasperated glance, the Demon King turned once more to face Almaeira.

"Hmph. It seems there was a slight mishap."

"… What do you… mean? … This does not look like the Underworld to me…"

She had no idea where it was, but it was surely one of the regions the demons ruled.

If so, then Almaeira had been revived from the Underworld into the living world—the living world after her childhood friend was gone.

"All right, all right, hold on. Explaining isn't a king's work. Won't you leave that part to me, Lord Demon King?"

The one who stepped forward from Almaeira's right at these words was a demon like a lizard walking on two legs.

His height was no different from that of a large adult man. A sword hung at both his waist and his back, and he was clad in black light armor.

"Hold your tongue, Zvek. A newcomer such as you—"

"Now, now, no need to bristle so at a newcomer angling for points. Somebody has to do it. Isn't that right, Lord Dorkan?"

The Orc warrior Dorkan rebuked him—Zvek, chieftain of the Lizardman clan—but the man himself shrugged it off with an air of nonchalance.

The gazes that had been concentrated on Almaeira turned for a moment to Zvek. Paying it no mind, he sought the Demon King's opinion.

"Zvek, I take it you are not well versed in this matter?"

"Quite so. But I do have a grasp of the plain facts, so perhaps that makes me the better choice. No need to trouble the distinguished old guard over it, is there?"

"… Very well. Do as you like."

"Much obliged."

Having spoken to the Demon King with that same unchanging flippancy, Zvek planted himself directly before Almaeira.

By any measure he was no human, yet Almaeira sensed in him a certain human quality—the extreme sort of optimist often found among those in the mercenary trade.

That the Demon King did not rebuke the squabbling between races was likely part of what one might call divide-and-rule. If the subjugated fought among themselves, their spearpoint would never turn toward the ruler.

"So then, Lady Saintess. You died. With me so far?"

"… Yes."

"That's right, you died. Killed by the very Kingdom you gave your all to serve. Still with me?"

"… My memory of it is quite clear."

"That's good. Then this'll go quick."

Zvek cleared his throat and regarded Almaeira with a somewhat dubious look.

"You died. Executed by the Kingdom. And so that twisted old ba—whoops, the Lord Demon King over there had a thought. You were killed by your country. Saintess or no, there's no way you don't bear a grudge. So he figured he'd put you to use, mobilized the corps of sorcerers, and worked a little trick on the Gate of the Underworld—and, well, it seems part of it succeeded and part of it failed. Ha ha."

"… Thank you… I understand now."

Almaeira let out a small sigh and shrugged.

No particular emotion welled up in her.

What was certain was that she had returned to the living world—that she alone had been so neatly brought back to life.

"So he wanted you to do as you're told, but it seems that's not going to work out. What to do now—that's the question before us."

"… You talk a bit too much, Zvek."

"My apologies."

Scolded by the Demon King, Zvek let his shoulders droop clownishly and slunk back into the ranks.

Almaeira advanced slowly across the red carpet and once more stood before the Demon King.

"… I have no intention of siding with you… Would you return me to where I belong?"

"Saintess… No, Almaeira."

The Demon King propped his cheek on the arm of his throne, transfixing Almaeira with a piercing glare.

"Do you not hate humankind?"

"… No, not particularly…"

"What?"

The white glow of the Demon King's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"… People believe what they wish to believe. I failed to be something people could wish to believe in… It is regrettable, and it grieves me, but it comes down to my own lack of power… It saddens me, but I harbor no particular hatred."

If there was anything she hated, it was—yes—that they had killed him. That she could not overlook.

That alone she could never forgive.

A great murmur rose to left and right. A flippant whistle sounded from somewhere. The Demon King's eyes lowered abruptly.

It was only natural—her words overturned, at their very foundation, the scheme of the Demon King and his followers.

A "Saintess" driven by hatred, revived to bare her fangs and fall upon the people. Had such a future existed, humankind would have trembled in dread and shuddered in despair—but that possibility had, in this very moment, all but died.

"Humans are, in the end, evil. As your own execution proves. Humans gave no thought to your devotion. Everything you did was for nothing. Rewarded with not a single thing, you were slain. And to top it off, there are even those who now yearn for the return of the 'Saintess'—the very humans who praised your execution, no less. And you say you feel not the slightest hatred toward any of it?"

"… I could not say none at all… but as far as I am concerned, I have made my peace with it."

"That life you were fortunate enough to reclaim—would you not use it to teach those wretches a lesson? Their sin. Their reckoning."

"… No."

Almaeira shook her head, denying the Demon King's words.

It was a commonplace sentiment, but no matter how many she killed, he would not return to life. No matter how many she killed, she did not think it would be anything she could be proud of before him. It might clear her mood somewhat, but Almaeira did not cling to life enough to carry out a massacre for that—for he was no longer in this world.

Almaeira reached into her bosom and drew a short dagger in one flowing motion.

Something she had always kept hidden on her person in life—it remained intact even in death.

Without hesitation, she thrust it at her own throat.

"—Whoa, now, we can't have that."

In that instant, a sharp metallic ring sounded, and the dagger was flung up into the air.

Zvek had sprung out from the side, drawn his sword, and knocked aside Almaeira's weapon alone. At the blindingly fast feat, she couldn't help widening her eyes.

"… Kh…"

The impact traveled all the way to her small hand, and Almaeira groaned at the faint numbness.

The Demon King spared her a glance, sighed, and opened his mouth heavily.

"Saintess Almaeira. A more than considerable amount of catalyst has been poured into you. Do nothing rash—but, hmph, this is a nuisance."

The Demon King's scheme could be said to have already fallen apart.

And yet even so, he searched for a use for Almaeira—regarding her as though appraising her worth.

"Understand that your every gesture, your every move, could become the trigger that kills humans by the hundreds, by the thousands. Though, of course, should you obey us, such worries would be needless."

"… What is it… you intend to make me do…?"

"Let us proceed as originally planned. The contract may not have been formed, but then we need only exchange it here and now. Become my vassal, become my consort, stand at the head of us demons—"

"I refuse."

"Even if, for that—for your foolish decision—humans die in droves?"

"… There is nothing in this world that stands above God."

The "God" in this case referred, of course, to him—

Almaeira, known the world over as a "Saintess," a cleric of deep and famous faith. The assembled demons took her words at face value. That she might mean a beloved man never so much as crossed their minds.

In this, even the Demon King was no exception.

"A fanatic."

"… Call it what you will…"

Almaeira let the misunderstanding stand.

The succubi attending at the Demon King's side softly whispered to him.

"Clerics who take the God of the heavens as their lifelong spouse are hardly rare. To turn her heart would take no ordinary effort… all the more so for a Divine Arts practitioner of her caliber…"

"She is likely quite the prude. Driving her mad with the pleasures of the flesh would prove difficult as well…"

The Demon King snorted and slowly rose from his throne.

As the people around him tensed as one, he closed the distance to Almaeira step by step.

A distance of a few paces.

The giant Demon King, twice Almaeira's size, looked down at her and lazily reached out a great hand.

His gnarled hand of lurid hue gently touched her lustrous platinum hair—

—In that instant, a foul stench of searing flesh arose, and the Demon King recoiled with a snap as if flung back.

"Gngh…"

"… No wicked thing may touch my flesh. Whosoever reaches out his hand, let his body be seared by his own sin…"

What unfolded around Almaeira was a barrier of auroral light.

The light layered itself in overlapping folds, its surface manifesting the sacred emblem of the scales.

The "Blessing Seal of the Scales" engraved deep into her flesh—and one might call this the manifestation of its power: the "Barrier of the Sacred Covenant."

Across all ages and lands, the legends of villains destroyed for bringing harm to a maiden are too numerous to count.

And so a blessing-seal built upon that foundation was matchless in power—all the more so with a wielder of Almaeira's caliber, when it would be no exaggeration to call her barrier effectively invincible.

"… Insolent."

The Demon King reached for the light once more.

Even as the light seared his hand, he held his ground on the spot. He meant to nullify the barrier and mar the crest that was its source.

The demons around him watched with bated breath—and then witnessed the result.

Everything from the Demon King's wrist onward vanished utterly, without a trace.

Almaeira, by contrast, had not been touched by so much as a fingertip.

"… I will grant it. It seems I cannot lay a hand on you."

The Demon King quietly gave up and drew back his arm. The severed stump past his wrist immediately began to regenerate.

At that moment, one demon in the ranks raised his voice in a shout.

"For one such as the Lord Demon King, what a disgrace this is!! That he should be given trouble by a single little girl—it cannot be allowed…!!"

"… Hm, is that you, Balzac? Then show me you can bring the girl low. Do so, and whoever it may be, I shall grant a reward."

"Hmph, then…!!"

Balzac, a giant troll whose height was twice again the Demon King's own.

He lumbered forward from the rear of the ranks and deliberately reached out his hand toward Almaeira.

"Prepare yourself, little girl. It is I— Me, I'm… GAAAAAAH—!?!?"

She looked up at him for an instant, then lost interest and lowered her eyes.

The instant Balzac touched the barrier, his body rotted away from the lower half, and in the blink of an eye he evaporated and died.

The Demon King settled back onto his throne and swept his gaze around the assembled demons.

"Is there any other with the mettle to challenge her?"

The audience chamber fell dead silent. Not one soul answered.

A whistle sounded. "Well, I'll be damned," Zvek said clownishly.

"By the way, Your Majesty. I've got a proposal, if you'll hear it."

"… Charlotte, is it. Speak."

"How about we install her in the "Witchlands" and work to stabilize the place? It's still a power vacuum, and even now that keeps letting the Kingdom march right in."

The one who stepped forward as she spoke was a woman little different in appearance from a human. Her honey-colored hair was radiant, and a military uniform suited her tall, slender frame. She was a woman in every way the opposite of Almaeira.

"I cannot say we lack good reason, but is there a cause for it to be that woman in particular?"

"—Because that land is nothing less than the front line against the Kingdom. That's why."

She did not put it into words, but her intent was easy to imagine.

If it became known that she was the "Saintess" of days past, the Kingdom's army would fall into a panic. And seeing how far the Kingdom had now fallen, perhaps she might come to give up on humans—that, most likely, was the scheme.

After a long spell of silent contemplation, the Demon King nodded and turned back to Almaeira.

"Almaeira."

"… What is it…?"

"If you wish to avoid needless slaughter, then I shall send you to a land under our dominion. You will serve as one of the demons, as the lord of a domain. As for the marriage contract… hmph, it cannot be helped. For the present, I shall hold it in reserve. But mark my words well."

"… You will not attack of your own accord… is that it?"

"Should those wretches come attacking, that would be another matter entirely, of course."

In truth, Almaeira was under no obligation to accept the proposal—but if it could save many people.

It was, in a sense, an act along the same line as what she had done while she lived.

… So that she could be someone she could be proud of before him.

"… Very well… I shall accept it…"

At the very least, she would not be bound more than necessary.

In that case, all that remained was to wait for the right moment and return to where she belonged.

If they could meet again even in the Underworld—for that was what she desired most.

The Demon King nodded deeply and looked around at the demons. They too seemed to have no objection.

So it's the short straw, Almaeira surmised. For a human to be permitted to serve as lord, it had to be some terribly remote backwater.

"Aery. Come."

"… Yes."

At that, a single girl appeared, seeming to phase translucently out of the wall.

A figure even smaller than Almaeira. That little body was entirely swathed in black garb.

Her short silver hair was dazzling, and in her sand-colored eyes not the faintest flicker of emotion could be discerned.

"I release you from the duty of guarding me. Hand off your current charge and take up the guard of Almaeira. Understood?"

"Yes. As you command."

Aery bowed silently and once more vanished into the wall.

"Charlotte."

"Sir!"

"You will serve as her adjutant. I entrust the local military matters entirely to you."

"… Understood. I'll serve with all my heart and sincerity, then."

She stepped forward from the ranks and took her place beside Almaeira.

"… It differs from the plan, but that is all. We adjourn for today."

As the Demon King withdrew into an inner chamber with those words, Almaeira finally let out a breath.

She was one who had already died once, but surrounded by so many demons, there was no way she wouldn't be tense.

As she gazed blankly up at the ceiling, a hand was suddenly placed on her shoulder.

There was no ill intent in it—the large palm belonged to Charlotte, the young demon woman in the military uniform.

"You drew the short straw, didn't you."

"… You did…?"

"Nah. Both of us did."

She smiled wryly and stayed close at Almaeira's side.

"Just like he said a moment ago. Before long we'll leave this place and head for the domain. It'll be a fairly long journey, so make sure you're properly prepared."

"… And around when will that be…?"

"You got something that'd get in the way? Seeing as you died and came back empty-handed."

"No… You're right. That's true… truly…"

There was truly nothing left in this world that mattered to her anymore.

Even having risen from the Underworld, Almaeira's time remained frozen—ever since that day Yoal was killed.

"… Wh-why are you crying? You're not the type to get scared now of all times, are you—"

"Hey now, what are you doing making her cry already, Madam Adjutant. Let me in on the conversation too."

"Quiet, butt out, Zvek!"

Shooing away the Lizardman who'd sidled over with a "shoo, shoo," Charlotte turned a concerned gaze on her.

Almaeira wiped her face with the sleeve of her vestment and drew a deep breath.

Her resolve was set.

Even with her time frozen, she could at least go through the motions of how she had lived.

So, at the very least, she would hold her head high. She would be someone who would bring him no shame—for the day of a reunion that would never come.

"… No, it's nothing. Nothing at all… Could you show me to a room, or somewhere, until our departure…?"

"… Yeah. All right."

She surely wasn't convinced, but Charlotte stepped out ahead as if to lead the way.

That was the meeting of Almaeira Serenarie and Charlotte Euclides.

From there five years passed, then ten, and time flowed ceaselessly on, indifferent.

All the while, Almaeira went on praying for reunion with a single man.

The day of a reunion that would never come.

Almaeira's time would move no more.

Or so it should have been.

Twenty years after that day.

—Her frozen time began, once again, to move.