The Fall (1)
The metallic click of a sword sliding home echoed through the room. Ishilla had cut Aren down and sheathed her blade. She stared at his crumpled form, then slowly crouched beside him.
“...Aren.”
Was it sorrow? Regret? Had her face twisted into some mask of despair or grief? No. None of those.
“Pfft.”
Ishilla fought desperately to keep the corners of her mouth from rising. “Heh… heheheh.”
Uncontainable laughter spilled from her lips, just as it once had from the old Aren. Only hers was far more warped than anything he had ever produced.
She gathered the academy withdrawal form that had been flung to the floor, brushing it off with almost tender care before slipping it into her inner pocket.
“Withdrawal? What nonsense is that? Aren, you have to stay with me forever… don’t you?”
On the surface, Ishilla had always pursued righteousness. Inside her heart, however, doubt festered like an open wound. Why did people cheer more loudly for one person’s fleeting salvation than for the happiness of the many? Why were they so strict with their moral yardsticks when judging others, yet endlessly lenient with themselves?
Ishilla could never understand it. She practiced virtue without hesitation, yet that single question clung to her like a shadow. Only after meeting Aren did the doubt finally begin to dissolve.
So someone like this really exists in the world.
He would discover an artifact or relic hailed as a national treasure and hand it over without a second thought. In a world where class was ironclad, he befriended commoners without shame. He ignored every prejudice and reached out to other races without reservation.
Just… what are you?
He was so purely good he seemed to have stepped out of a storybook. Yet he never gave blindly. He offered everything he could bear to lose, nothing more. In Ishilla’s eyes, he came closest to the ideal human being.
If everyone in the world were like you, Aren, there would be no wars.
No conflict, no strife. Ishilla had learned and imitated so much simply by watching him. And then came the Trial of the Sword Demon.
That was the moment Ishilla lost her heart to him completely. He had given her an Elixir—a panacea anyone would covet—simply because she was his “junior.” Knowing better than anyone the true weight of such kindness, she could not help but fall for him.
But when his past was later exposed, her beautiful illusion shattered.
It was not mere romantic affection. Had it been only that, she might have suffered for a few days and recovered. No—the greatest emotion Ishilla felt toward Aren was longing. She wanted to resemble him. It was closer to assimilation. She studied him like a mirror, absorbing, learning, internalizing.
She had already aligned every standard in her life to his. When his past came to light, the confusion nearly drove her mad.
Then what was the Aren I knew? What was the righteousness I practiced all this time?
Had her master, the Sword Saint, not intervened, she would have fallen into true insanity.
“My disciple, you wanted to resemble that child so badly that you already carved him deep into your soul.”
The Sword Saint had seen her problem at a glance. To Ishilla, Aren had become an inseparable obsession, a lingering attachment she could not sever.
Unlike Teodora, Ishilla did not possess a clear conviction that allowed her to practice virtue “without thinking.” Precisely because she lacked such certainty, she had filled the empty space inside herself with Aren’s image. That very act had stabilized her mind and dramatically accelerated her growth. Now, however, it had become a catastrophic flaw.
The simplest solution was to erase the object that gave rise to her Mind Demon.
“Ishilla, if that is what you desire, I will help you—even if it means being hunted by the empire.”
Killing an academy student was an obvious crime and an insult to the empire, no matter how worthless the target. If the student happened to be the son of the Marquess Roenhart family, the consequences would be even more severe. Yet the Sword Saint was willing to discard such trivial honors for the sake of his disciple’s growth.
Her master had rolled up his sleeves and offered to assist, but Ishilla refused at once. She asked for a little time. She would reform Aren. She would change him herself.
But Aren never changed. Instead, he only grew uglier, more broken with each passing day. And her own heart twisted in perfect symmetry with his.
On the outside she still appeared normal. Inside, she had been ruined beyond repair long ago. Even her once-brilliant talent with the sword no longer shone.
“Why… why…!”
To fall from genius to dullard in a single moment. Someone who had never possessed talent might have endured it with patience, but a born prodigy like Ishilla found the slow, thread-like progress unbearable. At last she could endure no more and began to resent him.
She hurled every wounding word she could think of like daggers into his chest—blaming him for blocking her growth, for destroying her life.
Aren, someone like you should never have been born.
The day he returned with that empty expression, Ishilla felt herself break through a wall. The barrier that had blocked her for so long tore like paper, and her growth accelerated even further. Faster than when she had first met him.
What is happening to me…?
She asked her master, but even the Sword Saint could not pinpoint the exact cause.
“This is not resolving the Mind Demon. You are tormenting it and stealing its power in return. Haha, truly an unprecedented training method. But heed this warning. The more power you steal from the Mind Demon, the deeper you yourself sink into that child. Dependence will come, and an obsession beyond imagination will follow.”
Despite the warning, Ishilla could not let go of the ecstasy she had tasted. So she tormented Aren. She hurt him, broke him, ruined him. The more he crumbled, the brighter she became. The thinner his body grew, the stronger hers became.
And then, at some point, the abuse crossed a line.
As always, after tormenting him, Ishilla picked up her sword to train. But—
“W-why…?”
Training would not progress. Her mind, which should have been crystal clear, was flooded with distracting thoughts. Only one thing surfaced.
Aren, Aren, Aren.
His face, his figure refused to leave her head. Waves of tender affection and raw carnal desire assaulted her, tormenting her without mercy. The Mind Demon amplified the very emotions she felt while abusing him. It reversed the flow, forcibly triggering love.
The affection Ishilla felt for Aren had already far surpassed ordinary love. The worst part was that, even so, she still had to condemn him in order to continue growing.
The loving, lustful feelings did not diminish with time—they only multiplied.
“Ah… I can’t hold back anymore.”
Ishilla gazed at the fallen Aren and devoured his lips without restraint. Slurp. Sluuuurp.
Merely looking at his face now made unbearable sexual desire boil up inside her. Had she not possessed transcendent self-control, she would have pounced on him long ago.
The “frowns” Aren had seen were never directed at him. They were Ishilla desperately suppressing the lust that threatened to consume her. Especially that time he had screamed—she had nearly raped him in that instant.
And when he had begged her to kill him…
She could not kill Aren. Not for any ordinary reason. He was her Mind Demon, her lifelong companion. In other words, her mate. How could she kill her own mate?
There were no serious injuries on Aren’s neck beyond a faint cut. What she had sliced was his heart. Using the Sword Saint’s secret technique—the Heart Sword—she had nicked his mind. He would not wake for at least a day.
Ishilla freely explored his unconscious face with her lips.
“Sluuurp… I love you, Aren.”
She smiled with pure, innocent joy. If possible, she wanted to lock him in a room for the rest of his life so that he could look only at her. It was no longer just about her growth. Aren had become an indispensable part of Ishilla’s existence.
That was why he had to keep attending the academy. At least until she graduated.
But it seemed his mind could no longer endure.
“In that case… I suppose I have no choice but to become his sanctuary, don’t I…?”
Before, she had kept her distance because her affection for him had grown too intense. Now she would have to approach again. To extend a saving hand to someone already broken beyond repair.
A sharp throb pulsed low in her belly. A warm, syrupy sensation pressed and squeezed, stirring her. Her breathing grew ragged as she explored his body with even greater hunger.
Lust and guilt rose together, ruling every inch of her. Yet she still had not crossed the final line.
Ishilla wanted to claim Aren’s “first time.” Not his body—his mind. If he were to lie beneath her, panting, and give himself to the very person he had cursed and hated… how would he react? How exquisite, how thrilling would that be?
No matter how shattered he became, no matter how ruined, Ishilla would love him for all eternity.