A Sister's Desperate Charge
It was dyed bright red, bright red. The deafening roar, felt so close, was enough to leave me unconscious. My ears rang with a muffled deafness that made me wonder if my eardrums had burst. In stark contrast, the acrid smell of gunpowder assaulted my senses with vivid clarity. Through my hazy, frost-fogged vision, I caught a glimpse of something pink streaking past me. Moments later, someone gripped my shoulder.
"... ..., ....!"
My head lolled back and forth several times, and with each shake, my vision sharpened. Only then did I recognize the person holding and shaking me.
"Frede...rica..."
"Stay... with me..."
As the muffled haze in my ears began to fade, her voice filtered through.
"You're coming around. Good, little sister."
"...Yes..."
Frederica's voice was as even and composed as ever. But her expression was different—nothing like her tone.
"Then I suppose I can ask now."
For the first time, I read profound agitation in Frederica's face. Why is she so shocked? What could rattle someone as extraordinary as her?
"Why on earth did you do something so idiotic?"
"Idiotic...?"
Only then did the reason for my current state come rushing back. The car that had screeched to a sudden halt, the fabricated excuse. The shotgun drawn from the driver's coat, aimed squarely at its target. In that instant, my mind raced faster and more urgently than ever. There was no time to intervene, and even if there had been, it would've been suicide. Snatching the gun was out of the question—my body lacked the strength to take down a grown man. So the path I chose was to hurl myself forward with all my might, shoving the driver aside.
I'd figured that at such a range, with poor aim, a slight deflection would be enough to avoid a fatal hit.
"Are you... hurt anywhere...?"
"A little."
My hunch had been spot on. There were shards embedded here and there, and some lacerations, but nothing severe enough to kill Frederica—no fatal wounds, even if you scoured her with a magnifying glass. Sure, shotguns don't require precise aiming, but that idiot driver hadn't even closed the distance properly. He'd just pointed it roughly and fired both barrels with one hand. If he'd done it right, Frederica would've dropped dead on the spot. The sheer destructive power of the thing is no joke.
"I don't think you're in any position to worry about me."
"Is that... so..."
My legs refused to hold me up. How many times had this happened today alone? No, this time it wasn't just my legs—my whole body felt the same. Maybe I'd picked up injuries tumbling with the driver, but whatever the case, it wouldn't budge.
"Get up... No, relax your body."
"Yes... Ack!?"
Frederica, eyeing my state, suddenly scooped me up effortlessly. In the classic princess carry—so romantic in stories.
"Why? You can't walk, so I'm carrying you. Don't like it?"
"Th-that's..."
The issue was that we were both women—and sisters, no less. Blood-related or not. But even in Bathory's body, with my mind inside, it left me dazed. I'd lived my whole life as a single guy with zero female experience. Being carried like this by a woman felt utterly alien. Sure, actors hug and even kiss during shoots, but that's with full preparation, both knowing it's just acting. And usually, the guy takes the lead. Even in a modern world, those shoujo manga clichés always draw crowds.
So being carried this way, in this position... it was embarrassing. And I wasn't mentally prepared this time.
"Your face is beet red."
"..."
Suddenly, details I'd overlooked before came into sharp focus. Visual novels—genres where visuals reign supreme. And among those visuals, character designs are king. A pretty character boosts sales before the game even launches.
Frederica was a beauty. In fact, every named character I'd met since possessing Bathory's body was stunning. Eclair au Chocolat, Urtic Mirhane—they all had the flawless looks befitting a visual novel cast. But back then, it hadn't registered. Eclair looked like a kid regardless of her age, and Urtic just struck me as cute without drawing my gaze. Even seeing her naked hadn't sparked any shame—just a vague sense of how much work her hands must get.
Frederica had been the same at first. When we met, I'd only thought, Here it comes—I'm done for, with zero thoughts on her looks. Her intimidating aura had filled my brain with pure terror.
But now... it was different. The oppressive pressure was gone, her demeanor softened. We'd just shared an emotional peak, and with my heart still pounding, she'd pulled me into her arms without warning.
"...Put me down, please."
"When you can't even walk on your own."
In this hazy blur of acting and reality, with my heart still racing... Frederica's face, so close, was overwhelming stimulation.
Embarrassing as hell. Not that I'd suddenly fallen for her or anything. It was just mortifying—like being the fairy princess in some fantasy tale, cradled helplessly. If I'd been the one carrying, I wouldn't have batted an eye. Probably treated her like a servant, same as with Urtic.
The problem was me being carried.
"At least change the position, then..."
"...Haa, what a hassle."
But despite my whining, she didn't budge.
"Just bear with it until the car. It's not like the wheel's actually busted, as that guy claimed. We can drive it back as is."
"You can... drive?"
"Can't always summon a driver on the spot."
The distance to the car was a mere six steps at Frederica's stride. But to me, those six steps felt like six years.
――
Instead of the driver, Frederica took the wheel and returned to the mansion. After handing a fussing Bathory off to the hysterical servants, she retreated to her room alone and collapsed onto the bed.
She couldn't sleep yet. Wounds needed ointment to heal properly, and she always showered before bed. Her mind knew this, but her exhausted instincts refused to cooperate.
Tired. The most grueling day of her life, Frederica was certain. Her body was so heavy even changing clothes felt impossible. Her eyelids, which usually withstood all-nighters, threatened to seal shut the moment her focus slipped.
"Haa..."
With a sigh, Frederica sorted her thoughts. Top priority: the driver.
Who put him up to it?
The driver she knew wasn't bold enough to orchestrate this alone. There had to be a mastermind, she surmised.
That was definitely a Lupara.
Lupara—a term for a sawed-off shotgun. Narrowly, it refers to those wielded by the mafias south of Orléans, in the Laterano Papal State. Frederica, who frequented the Papal State, recognized it instantly.
The question was where—and from whom—he'd gotten it.
She shouldn't have killed him. In a rare lapse, her grip had been stronger than usual, snapping his neck outright—a rookie mistake she'd never have made before. Even if he'd survived by miracle, he couldn't have talked.
How did I screw up like such a novice?
Frederica knew the answer.
"...Bathory."
Perhaps more than the assassination itself, her baby sister muddled her mind. How to handle this 180-degree turnaround? Treat her kindly, and she'd revert to her arrogant old self. But abusing the sister who'd saved her life felt wrong too.
"...Why did you save me?"
That was the crux. Without Bathory, she'd be dead. Knowing how much Bathory despised her made the change incomprehensible. The Mirhane family's festering wound, a disgrace no true sister—an eyesore she'd surely kill or abandon someday.
Until this morning, that's what Frederica had believed.
Yet Bathory had saved her.
――Sis!!! That desperate face calling her "sis" burned deep into Frederica's memory.
"...At this rate, I'll just look like the wicked big sister."
It was absurd—herself, ready to erase years of enmity over one cry of "sis." But what could she do? Family was family.
"Haa..."
As she sighed and closed her eyes, Frederica's face...
"..."
...bore a faint smile.