Chapter 637: Winter and Spring
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 637: Winter and Spring
A child captivated by something interesting easily loses themselves in it.
This is especially true if it involves something they have loved since they were small.
Since her earliest years, Sinar had loved watching iron being forged. To be precise, she loved watching the metal transform as it was tempered. Every step of the process where flame met iron enthralled her. As a child, Sinar had been utterly possessed by fire, losing herself in the dancing flames as if intoxicated.
"What is so great about this? Let's go look at the flowers and visit Bran instead."
Her sister, on the other hand, was quite ordinary. Like any other elven child, she preferred to gaze at flowers and lie in the meadows, letting the scent of the grass soak into her skin.
For an elf, letting the scent of the wild cling to one’s body was a deeply important concept. To lie amidst the greenery, breathe in the fragrance of blossoms, and watch the fluttering wings of bees and butterflies—this was the elven way. In between those moments, they would mingle with fellow elves who served as both friends and mentors, absorbing wisdom through osmosis. This was how an elf grew up.
Rather than rigid, structured instruction, elven society favored a slower path of gradual realization, no matter how long it took. They learned their duties and mastered their crafts within a life of play and leisure. Having a lifespan vastly different from humans, this was the way of life that had naturally evolved. Afterward, they would learn to temper their emotions, marking their transition into adulthood.
"Is that really so interesting?" her sister asked, pouting.
As a young elf who had yet to master emotional restraint, she still possessed a youthful, expressive innocence.
"If I just sit and watch, it feels like that iron could become anything," Sinar replied.
No sooner had she spoken than the hammer fell.
Clang!
The hammer struck the iron. In the elven city, there was a specific family dedicated to metalworking: the Naidel family, creators of the Leaf Swords.
Before being recognized as an artisan, one had to undergo a period of training, forging single-edged swords and various other tools. The one Sinar was watching was an apprentice in the midst of this training.
"If you stand too close, the sparks will burn you," one of the apprentices spoke up.
His name was Aden. He had been Sinar's first love.
Looking back, she was no longer sure whether she had liked Aden himself or simply the fire he wielded, but as a child, Sinar had believed she loved him. It was a time when she had not yet learned to conceal her feelings.
"Then just make sure they don't fly toward me."
"Fire does not bend to my will."
"Which is why you're still an apprentice."
"That sounds rather provocative."
Aden was close to Sinar in age, though Sinar was technically the older of the two. Yet, elves had no culture of defining relationships by a mere few years' difference as humans did. Aden's manner of speaking was twice as mature as hers. Was that maturity born of working with fire, or was it simply his nature? She wasn't particularly curious to find out.
Sinar had been born into the royal lineage, but in elven society, a ruler was merely a representative or guardian of the people, not a sovereign who could act on a whim. In a sense, it was a position of heavy duty and responsibility with no real privilege. There was no hierarchy built on authority. Even so, every elf knew she carried the royal blood.
"Lady Kirhais. Why don't you go ask the flowers for their permission, weave a crown from them, and enjoy the scent of the grass?"
That was why Aden could tease her so. Sinar merely snorted in response.
For a young elf, frolicking among flowers and grass was much like a human child splashing in warm water. The only difference was that elves enjoyed it far more intensely. In that regard, Sinar was an exceedingly peculiar elf. Even Aden, whose life revolved around fire, spent his leisure hours watching bees drift through the meadows. Yet Sinar preferred the dancing flames to the soft grass.
"What is so fun about that?" her sister grumbled.
It was a time of innocence. Eventually, her sister wandered off to tend to her own affairs. There was no pressure on Sinar; as was typical in elven society, they believed everyone would eventually find their own purpose in due time.
Giving her sister a half-hearted wave, Sinar turned back to Aden.
"Do you know what Igniculus means?"
Clang! Clang!
Only after the ringing of metal subsided did Aden, dripping with sweat before the forge, offer an answer.
"Is there any elf who doesn't?"
Elves could not forge iron with mere moonlight. They, too, required furnaces, fire, and fuel to keep the flames alive. Their fuel was provided by the Woodgards; the sap of the tree-elves and the firewood they prepared could keep a fire burning for months on end—one of the great mysteries of alchemy.
And then, there was Igniculus.
It was a word deeply tied to the forge and the lineages of artisans. In the tongue of the continent, it translated to "spark" or "flash."
Elves lived vast lifespans, their existences flowing quietly like a gentle melody, free of sudden, violent shifts. Igniculus referred to a period of burning like a flame. For some elves, that spark was love. For others, it was a relentless drive toward a singular goal.
Though elves were leisurely about all things, in this brief moment, they flared and burned with intense heat. It was during this time that an elf grew and transformed. Like iron reshaped by the hammer within the forge, it was a season of profound transformation.
This was before she had learned to temper her emotions. Sinar had loved that word.
Igniculus. A spark.
That was why she chose to name her future sword Needle, rather than Naidel. A blade meant to command the sparks.
Yes, that was how it had been.
Then came that day. Something approached the child who was so enamored with fire, offering to be her secret friend. At first, it was merely a gentle warmth. Because no one knew what it was, no one prepared. And because no one prepared, no one could react.
Whoosh.
"Want to play with me?"
The flame had spoken to her.
An orange flame flared in the empty air. To anyone, it would have looked like a fire spirit. Some elves possessed the gift to commune with spirits, and Sinar had been obsessed with fire since she was small. Thus, no one thought this was anything out of the ordinary.
"It's fascinating."
After learning to temper her emotions, her sister's voice had grown much calmer. Sinar's had as well.
"Yes. I think so too."
When Sinar first revealed the flame's existence, her sister had responded with those words. The warmth became a friend. And then, one day, that friend became a raging inferno.
The friend who had approached as gentle warmth transformed into a calamity of fire. It consumed everything. Her people, her friends, and the very city where she had been born and raised.
Aaaaargh!
The acrid stench of the Woodgards burning alive pierced her nose—a smell Sinar would never forget. To elves, it was no different from the smell of roasting flesh. When the Dryads burned, a scent like smoldering grass filled the air.
The gates of hell had opened in the elven city.
"Aden!"
"I'll stop it!"
Aden, who had grown into a master of fire, charged forward with his sword. The demon, draped in flames like a cloak, easily overpowered and slaughtered him. The fire charred his entire body black before blisters could even form.
The death of the elves filled the air with a sickening mixture of burning grass, flowers, and wood.
"Custos Akitos Responsum."
Elves who communed with spirits stepped forward to halt the blaze, but their efforts were futile. They summoned water like torrential rain, but the flames refused to die. Tragedy and despair settled heavily over the elven city.
Sinar watched as the fire consumed her home. Five Woodgards were reduced to ash. Bran, too, had half his body scorched, barely clinging to life.
A giant of fire raised its head. Standing five times taller than any elf, the entity looked down at those who dared stand in its path.
"Out of respect for you, who played with me, I shall withdraw. I will build my home here, so children of wood and flower, let us live together from now on. I am what you call a demon."
The demon spoke, cloaking its words in a sickening guise of warmth and affection. True to its word, the creature nested in a corner of the city. It was painfully clear who the "friend" was.
"She is cursed."
Just because elves tempered their emotions and knew no deceit did not mean their hearts were unbreakable. A few weak, broken-hearted elves turned their resentment upon Sinar. They were elves who had lost their children, their friends, and their lovers. Sinar could not blame them. To be precise, she didn't even have the heart to try.
She could barely comprehend the reality of what was unfolding. Why? How could this have happened?
"It is not your fault."
Her father had cut through her despair, stating firmly that she was not to blame.
"Yes. This is simply our responsibility," her mother had agreed.
But Sinar knew better. No, it had happened because she had been so foolishly infatuated with the fire. There was a time when her mind was shattered by guilt. For years, she had lost her voice, refusing to speak a single word.
Kirhais.
Did it not mean "to protect" in their tongue?
Sinar's parents bore the responsibility of driving the demon from their city. Her father wielded the bow, and her mother wielded the sword, becoming an elven knight that very year through her mastery of Vital Energy.
"My daughter. It is not your fault."
Her mother repeated the words she said every single day and drew her sword.
Where had the all-consuming demon come from? No one knew. But it felt as though the demon had come solely because of Sinar. Everyone whispered it, and Sinar felt it in her bones, so it became her truth.
"Cursed child."
"Leave us."
The elves, once broken, never ceased their accusations. And her father and mother, who marched off to slay the demon, never returned.
"Sinar, you don't have to live like this. Do you understand? Nothing that happened here was your fault."
Her sister told her to cast aside the burden of duty. Then, she took up a sword and mastered the art of Vital Energy.
A spark flew amidst their calm, quiet lives. A moment flashing like lightning—Igniculus. Her sister's name was Naira Kirhais, and she had ignited the spark of her talent. Thus, her sister became an elven knight and set off to slay the demon, only to fail.
Sinar possessed no talent for communing with spirits. All she could do was train her body. Even then, her control over Vital Energy was pitifully weak.
"It is because of you. Everything is because of you."
The resentment of the broken elves pierced her skin, branding itself onto her very soul. Her father, her mother, and her sister were all dead.
The demon created a Labyrinth, and before its entrance, her sister's sword was driven into the earth.
Naidel.
It was the spring sword Naira had wielded. Her sister had been an elf of true spring, the very incarnation of flowers and the scent of grass. Sinar retrieved Naira's blade.
"You have no duty. Go and live your own life."
"If you just leave, this will all end."
"Do not do anything foolish, Sinar."
"We must bind her with the shackles of duty."
"Blaming her changes nothing. What matters is what we do next."
"The demon has demanded a bride."
"Sinar?"
"No, it said it wants another elf."
"Preposterous."
Countless voices clashed. Sinar had nothing to say. She merely engraved the weight of duty onto her heart. In that space, there was no room for personal dreams, hopes, or desires.
Slay the demon.
The next elf to become a knight was Argilla. She led the city's remaining forces into the Labyrinth to slay the demon. Sinar was among them. She entered the Labyrinth and faced the demon.
"It is you."
The demon spoke upon seeing her. She realized then just how terrifying a monster possessed of reason could be.
"If you flee, I shall hunt down the survivors one by one, torture them, and slaughter them. I will gouge out their eyes, tear off their nails, flay their skin, and send them to you as gifts. So, run. The mere thought of tracking you down and presenting you with those gift boxes fills me with an ecstasy so intense it burns. Of course, if you wish to avoid that, you could always find another way—though what that might be, even I do not know."
The demon's whispers were cruel, wicked, and utterly merciless.
"What I desire is for you to become my bride."
Even if those whispers were woven of pure lies, Sinar had no other choice. Then, the demon dissolved into flames, whispering like an old friend.
"I have thought of a way to spare you. Bring me a consort. Someone to take your place."
A way to defer her duty, a means to buy time. Sinar had to find a new consort to offer to the demon. Otherwise, her only option was to throw away her own life, buying a brief reprieve for the surviving elves.
Sinar was no fool. Even if she surrendered herself to the Courtship Demon, there was no guarantee the creature would spare the rest of her kind. At best, she could only buy them time. Yet, she had no other choice. Despair settled over her shoulders, wrapping her in its suffocating embrace.
Within that tangled web of despair, Sinar sought a way out. She left the city, embarking on a journey to find a consort.
Truth be told, she had never expected to find one. In her heart of hearts, perhaps she had simply wanted to enjoy a brief moment of freedom. Perhaps she wanted to gather a few precious memories before returning to the demon's side for their final dance.
The demon would have delighted in her despair whether she brought back a consort only to watch them suffer, or failed and returned in utter defeat. That was surely why it had granted her this brief excursion.
Yet, during that excursion—the reprieve granted by the demon—she had been fortunate enough to forge a memory.
"Who is the 444th Squad Leader?"
She remembered the moment she first laid eyes on him. A man named Encrid.
At first, he was merely a slightly peculiar human. A human who was fascinating to observe. A human whose desires were utterly absurd. Watching that man forge ahead had been a true joy.
"You must be careful of fire."
For flames had a way of consuming everything. At those words, Encrid would tilt his head, looking thoroughly perplexed by her dry humor.
Time flowed on. The end of the demon's reprieve drew near. Sinar was left with no options.
"Do you truly have no desire to enter Holy Matrimony with me?"
She already knew Encrid's answer. Rejection. In truth, even if he had agreed, she would have been the one to turn him down.
I cannot let this man die.
She had nothing left to offer to appease the demon. All that remained was to accept its proposal. Twenty years at most, five years at least. She would become the demon's bride. And when it eventually grew bored of her, it would devour her, bones and all.
She would wait for that day. Her resolve was as unyielding as Will itself. The blade of her determination would not break. It was simply a battle of endurance until the day she could finally strike.
Whenever a shadow of regret crept in, the whispers of evil spirits would flood her mind with remorse. By all accounts, her elven restraint should have kept her heart steady. Yet, the moment she faced the man standing before her, her resolve wavered like a fragile boat caught in a tempest.
Then, Encrid's voice suddenly pierced through her reverie.
"Just because you've lived a long life doesn't mean today is any different from any other day."
Yes, you are right, Sinar conceded.
The way of life the elves pursued was not inherently wrong. But when a crisis loomed, was it not only natural to adapt? If you knew an arrow was flying toward you, did it make sense to stand still and let it pierce you? Just because you lived a leisurely life, did you have to remain idle in the face of death?
Absolutely not. The moment you saw it, you had to dodge or block it. The moment they realized the demon's presence, they should have risked everything to fight.
We had grown complacent.
The elven city had lived a life completely detached from the Demon Realm. They had existed in calm, comfortable peace, bound by only the lightest of constraints. And that very peace had stripped them of any sense of danger.
We should not have lived that way.
We should have lived with burning passion. Like a flame.
We should have fought as sparks. As Igniculus.
It was only after meeting Encrid that she was finally able to look back and assess their situation with cold clarity. Once she found a moment to breathe—freed from a life that felt like drowning and burning alive in a lake of fire—her perception naturally expanded.
Thanks to him, I have made it this far.
I will fight as a spark.
She honed the blade of her Will. Yet, for a spark to ignite, it required a catalyst. A catalyst one might call fate, but which was, in truth, Will. If one believed in fate, they would simply wait for that moment to arrive. But if one believed in Will, they would seize that moment themselves.
With her Will forged, Sinar had met Encrid like a twist of fate and ignited her spark. In the time she spent by his side, she had burned brightly, awakening her Vital Energy. She had intended to hold her breath and wait, keeping that spark hidden deep within.
I could have put it all behind me.
She had successfully convinced herself that she had no lingering desires. Yet, the one person who saw through every lie and deception stood right before her.
"Was it really so tedious being together?" Encrid asked once more.
What a persistent man.
A faint smile slipped onto Sinar's lips. A flood of memories rushed to fill her mind. Her friends who had burned to ash, her city, and her father, mother, and sister who had died for her sake.
Yet, over that dark gloom, Encrid forced his way in. Rem spouting nonsense, Ragna losing his way, Audin offering his prayers. Krais grumbling, Teresa singing. Ropode and Pel bickering in a corner, and Luagarne standing beside Encrid, rolling her bulging eyes.
These memories were like a sturdy roof, shielding her from the bleak, relentless rain.
Yes, watching you become a knight had been a joy. Trading silly jokes, sharing tea and meals, sparring, and training—it had all been wonderful.
Sinar spoke silently in her heart.
You were spring. The only spring in a life that had been an endless winter.
And now, that spring was speaking to her.
"What you want to do."
It was a demand. An imposition. He was forcing her to speak.
Sinar had seen what the demon had prepared here. The creature no longer possessed vocal cords. It was now nothing but a blade to butcher its enemies and a vessel to spawn monsters. She knew they could not win. The only logical choice was to tell him to turn back.
"I want to... spar."
Yet, there were times when the body refused to obey the mind. When a desire was so desperate, the lips parted of their own accord. And so, Sinar spoke.
"I want to sit by the campfire... and share silly jokes with you."
The deepest wish of her heart had finally found its voice.