In That Nightmare
In that nightmare, in that nightmare, the war that had lasted more than ten years finally came to an end. After the last battle on the Red Reed Plain, the front lines sprawled across the continent collapsed in a single moment. The allied forces that had strangled the Empire’s throat for so long were reduced to scattered remnants no longer worthy of being called an army. The survivors cast aside their flags and armor and began fleeing back to their own kingdoms.
At first, no one could believe it was truly over. The war had always pretended to end only to start again. Fallen fortresses were reclaimed. Generals declared dead returned to raise new armies. So even when news of victory reached the capital, people asked first: Is it true? Is it really finished this time?
The answer was simple. The First Sword of the Continent, Axion Liberta, was dead. The Alliance’s final shield. The man who had cut down countless Imperial generals, toppled a castle single-handedly, and whose name alone could halt an entire legion’s advance. That Axion’s head had fallen in the middle of the Red Reed Plain. And the one who severed it was Irina van Evergarden.
Irina van Evergarden. A woman born in the Empire’s north, a land of snow and wind and ancient military nobility. She first stepped onto the battlefield at seventeen, beheaded three enemy commanders at eighteen, and before she turned twenty had become the monster every officer on the northern defensive line waited to hear from. The mere rumor of her arrival could steady a collapsing front. When she drew her sword, enemy soldiers swallowed their breath.
The Silver Reaper. The Monster of the North. The Empire’s Blade. The Sword of Salvation. And now, a war hero.
When she first fell into this world, Irina never imagined she would be called by any of those names. She had opened her eyes to an unfamiliar world of swords and magic, and for some reason her body had become that of a woman. The vessel she received was impossibly strong. When she gripped a sword, her wrist accepted the blade’s weight with unnatural ease. Her feet read the ground’s balance like instinct. Her eyes saw the next trajectory before her opponent even began to move.
At first she had laughed. The cliché of isekai reincarnation. The cliché of being overpowered. The obvious tale of carving through battlefields amid cheers and becoming a hero of the war. There was the problem of her body being female, but she thought it would be all right. She couldn’t build a harem, true, but at least she would be happy.
War did not follow the script.
When she raised her sword, enemies fell. But the fallen did not simply fade into the next scene. When she cut a person, blood sprayed. The blood stayed on the back of her hand, and no matter how much she washed, the smell lingered. After battle there were no rewards. Surviving soldiers pulled last letters from the pockets of the dead. When she saved a village, people cheered. In villages she could not save, small bones lay among the burned ruins. When she won, flags rose. Beneath those flags there were always corpses.
At first she believed she could endure it. Protagonists went through trials. The path to strength was paved with pain. But after one year, three years, five years, Irina forgot at some point what she was even fighting for.
At first she wanted to be happy. Then she wanted to survive. Then she wanted to save someone. In the end she simply hoped that when she fell asleep that night, no one else would die before morning.
So she kept holding the sword. Kept killing. Kept surviving. And as the price of survival she was sent to still more battlefields.
Being strong was not a blessing. Being strong meant not dying. Not dying meant being dragged into the next fight.
At the end of that chain, the war concluded. The Empire crushed the Alliance, and no kingdom on the continent could openly defy it any longer. The capital of Erhaim held a festival for seven days. Golden eagle banners hung from the walls, petals rained down every street, and every tavern ran its barrels dry. People embraced strangers they had never seen and wept or laughed in each other’s arms. Mothers whose sons never returned smiled. Wives whose husbands’ names were on the casualty lists smiled. It was not pure joy. It was exhausted relief, disbelieving liberation, and a cautious hope that perhaps nothing more would be taken from them.
Because the war was over. Because that nightmare had truly ended.
And at the center of all that peace stood Irina.
The victory parade took place along the white marble avenue leading to the imperial palace. The surviving banners of the Imperial army passed first—torn banners, fire-scorched banners, banners patched with fresh cloth over bloodstains. Beneath them walked the surviving officers and soldiers. They wore clean dress uniforms, yet their steps carried the unmistakable weight of men who had come back from hell. Some limped. Some were missing an arm. Some flinched at the sound of celebratory cannons even as they tried to smile at the crowd. People called even those sights glorious.
Irina knew better. They were not glory. They were wounds.
At the center of the procession rode a silver-haired woman atop a black warhorse. Irina van Evergarden wore the dark blue marshal uniform the Emperor had personally bestowed. Platinum epaulets gleamed on her shoulders, dozens of medals covered her chest, and at her waist hung the long sword that had taken Axion’s head.
Cold silver-white hair. Skin pale as porcelain. Eyes the light blue of thin glass. It was hard to believe this was a woman who had worn blood and ash for more than ten years on the battlefield. People called her a goddess. A saint. They said even the Empire’s blades were born beautiful.
Irina heard every word. She did not smile. She did not wave. She simply looked forward, back straight, the hand on the reins perfectly steady. On the surface.
In truth, her fingers were locked rigid inside her gloves. When the first cannon roared, she clenched her fingertips to keep from drawing her sword. When the second exploded, she dug her nails into the glove’s lining to keep from dropping the reins. When the third burst, her vision no longer saw the avenue.
Boom.
Magical flames bloomed across the sky. The crowd cheered. Children laughed. Irina blinked once.
In that blink the white marble became blood-soaked mud. The flower petals became burning reeds turned to ash. The cheers fractured into the screams of dying soldiers. She stood once more on the Red Reed Plain. Rain fell. Alliance banners burned at half-mast. The Imperial vanguard had pushed too deep and could neither retreat nor advance. And in the center of that chaos stood Axion.
A man with black hair clotted with blood. One shoulder torn open, blood pouring from his side, yet his sword still lived.
“Irina van Evergarden.” Axion said. “If you pass me, this war ends.”
Irina gave no answer. Each breath brought the taste of blood up from her lungs. Her left arm had gone half-numb. A broken spearhead jutted from her right thigh. Still, she could hold her sword. If she could hold her sword, that was enough.
The two moved. Steel met steel. The sound vanished beneath explosions. Their movements dissolved into rain and dust. But Irina still remembered. The cold kiss of Axion’s blade grazing her neck. The silence of two people already dead on their feet, saving their last breath for one final strike. And the last instant—her sword sliding in half a beat ahead of his.
The blade parted flesh, passed through bone, and severed the neck.
A human head does not fall as easily as stories claim. Irina had recalled that useless fact even as the war ended.
The next moment the red plain became the white avenue again. Not Axion’s head but a child’s bouquet of flowers lay before the horse. Not screams but cheers. Not bombardment but fireworks.
Irina drew a breath. She measured it carefully so it would not show, adjusting the length to appear normal. She did not sway on the horse. The people cheered louder at the sight.
The palace gates drew near. Imperial guards stood at attention on either side of the bronze doors. Beyond them rose high stairs and the Emperor.
Karbalt III. He had not begun the war, but history would remember him as the monarch who ended it.
Irina dismounted and knelt on one knee.
“Your Majesty.”
Her voice was low and steady. So composed that even she was impressed.
“You have returned.”
“I have returned as ordered.”
“And you have won.”
Won. The word was correct. The Empire had won. The Alliance had collapsed. Axion was dead. The war was over. Yet to Irina, victory had always been a strange word. Victory meant fewer dead. Defeat meant more dead. People wrote history, raised flags, and created heroes over that difference.
The Emperor descended the stairs himself and pinned the platinum medal to her chest—the Empire’s highest military honor, eagle and sword intertwined.
“The Empire will remember you,” the Emperor said. “Your name will be recorded alongside victory.”
Applause erupted. Nobles clapped. Generals slammed scabbards against the ground. Guards raised their swords as one. People thought she was too moved to lift her head. They believed the hero who had borne the war’s weight alone was humbly accepting the Emperor’s grace.
Irina did not correct them. She lacked the strength. She simply listened to the applause. It sounded like rain. Like water rising in a trench.
“Lieutenant Colonel.”
A voice whispered.
“I’m still alive.”
Irina did not close her eyes. Closing them only made it clearer.
When the ceremony ended and the banquet began, she reached for alcohol almost unconsciously. The grand hall of the imperial palace was dazzling. Crystal chandeliers blazed. Long tables groaned under foods unimaginable during the war—roasted venison, honey-glazed fruits, spiced soups, white bread, red wine. Compared to the hardtack and dried meat soldiers had divided to survive a single day, the feast felt almost criminal.
People kept approaching.
“Lieutenant Colonel, will you tell us about the Red Reed Plain?”
“What was Axion’s final moment like?”
“Is the rumor true that you took his head in only ten exchanges?”
“Your Excellency, have you ever felt fear on the battlefield?”
The young noble asking had the face of someone who had learned war from books. A face that saw victory and defeat only as arrows on a map.
Irina looked at him. Fear? She had felt it every day. She felt it when she killed her first man. When ambushes came at night. When her subordinates died on her orders. She had felt it facing Axion. But what terrified her most was how, at some point, she had grown used to that fear.
Used to people dying. Used to the smell of blood. Used to the calculations that abandoned allies. Used to the part of herself that looked for an escape route first, even after the war ended.
That was the most frightening thing of all.
But she could not say it.
Irina emptied the wine in one swallow and held out the glass to the servant.
“Something stronger.”
“Pardon?”
“The strongest you have.”
Soon a bottle of clear liquor arrived. Northern vodka. The drink soldiers poured down their throats to swallow cold and terror alike.
She poured. She drank. Her throat burned. Her stomach flared hot. The tip of her tongue went numb. Her mind grew a fraction quieter.
It was good.
She poured again. Drank again.
Alcohol was the fastest medicine she had learned in the war. It did not heal wounds. It did not raise the dead. It did not erase nightmares. But for a little while it lowered the volume of the voices in her head. That was enough.
“Lady Irina.”
A cautious voice spoke beside her. A young woman in a black maid’s uniform stood there. Mila. The personal maid newly assigned to the Evergarden mansion. Young, careful, still untouched by the smell of battle.
“If you drink any more, it will harm your body.”
Irina stared at the empty glass.
“Vodka.”
“Pardon?”
“More.”
Trouble flickered across Mila’s face.
“You have already had a great deal.”
“Mila.”
“Yes.”
“Bring more.”
It was an order. The same tone she had used countless times during the war. Retreat. Advance. Burn it. Cut it. Abandon it. Save it. Kill it. Mila’s shoulders trembled faintly. Irina saw it. In that moment the taste of liquor on her tongue turned bitter.
The girl was afraid of her.
She knew it was natural. Yet something inside her still sank.
“Lady Irina… any more is—”
That was when it happened.
Boom.
A firework exploded outside the hall. Magical flames celebrating the night of victory bloomed beyond the windows. People cheered. The orchestra played louder.
But the instant Irina heard the sound, everything vanished. The chandelier became the flash of artillery. The music fractured into screams. Laughter became pleas for mercy. She was on the battlefield again. She did not know which one. The Red Reed Plain, the western fortress, the northern snowfields, or some nameless village—battlefields all looked the same. The smell of blood. The smell of powder. Wet earth. Crying. And the sword in her hand.
Irina was holding a glass. Or thought she was. Strength flooded her fingers. Too much. The glass gave a thin, cracking scream.
“Lady Irina, your hand—”
The glass shattered. Fragments drove into her palm. The remaining vodka spilled across the table, and the smell of liquor merged with the smell of blood.
Irina looked down. Blood flowed. It was red. Far too red.
“Lieutenant Colonel.”
The voice returned.
“I’m still alive.”
It was the young soldier from the final year of the war, stomach torn open while holding the retreat. What had his name been? She remembered. She had to remember. He had said he would buy shoes for his little sister with his first pay. But the name would not come. The face rose clearly, yet the name would not. The fact nearly drove her mad.
“Lady Irina!”
Mila moved toward her. Irina’s gaze snapped up.
“Don’t come.”
The voice was too sharp. Mila froze. The entire hall froze. Nobles who had been laughing moments earlier now stared. Generals reached for their swords then stopped. A few guards moved on reflex before realizing who stood before them and stiffened.
In the middle of the imperial banquet hall, the Empire’s victor, the Sword of Salvation, the hero who had beheaded the First Sword of the Continent, stood bleeding with a broken glass in her hand.
Irina tried to smile. Tried to say it was fine, the way she always had. But her lips would not obey.
“It’s okay.”
Her voice was low and cracked.
“I’m fine.”
She said it again.
“I’m okay.”
It was a lie. She had told that lie so easily during the war, yet now it would not form properly.
Mila produced a handkerchief but did not dare come closer. Because approaching would be dangerous. Because she was dangerous. A monster who returned to the battlefield at a single firework, who recalled dead soldiers at the sight of blood, who might reflexively snap a reaching wrist.
“Irina.”
The Emperor’s voice cut through. He had used her name without title.
Irina slowly lifted her head. Emperor Karbalt had risen from his seat. For a moment the pride of victory and the calculations of a ruler had vanished from his eyes. Worry. It was probably worry. It took her time to recognize the emotion. Killing intent was easy to read. Fear was easy. Hesitation, rage, betrayal—she could read them all on the battlefield. But someone looking at her with concern in peacetime was foreign.
“Today is enough,” the Emperor said.
Enough. No one had ever said that to her during the war. Hold a little longer. Advance one more time. Just survive tonight. Take that fortress and we’re done. Kill Axion and it ends. Those were the only words she ever heard. “Enough” had arrived far too late. Like warm food set before soldiers already dead. Like reinforcements reaching a village already burned to the ground. A uselessly late statement.
Yet strangely, those two words loosened something inside her.
Irina bowed her head.
“I will obey.”
Orders. Obedience. Withdrawal. Those things were still easy.
Mila approached again. This time Irina did not stop her. The young maid took her hand with trembling fingers and wrapped the wound in a handkerchief. The pressure was clumsy. The angle poor. A battlefield medic would have scolded her. But this was not a battlefield. No one would die from this cut. No need to amputate. No need to cauterize. A handkerchief was enough.
“I’m sorry,” Mila whispered.
Irina looked down at her.
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I should have taken the bottle away sooner.”
“No.”
“But—”
“It’s not your fault.”
The words came easily. She could always say them to others. It’s not your fault. It’s enough that you survived. Anyone can break in war. Surviving is enough. To others. Never properly to herself.
Irina suddenly felt exhausted. Not from long marches or endless fighting. She was tired from surviving too long.
“I will return to my room.”
Mila nodded quickly.
“I will escort you.”
Irina crossed the banquet hall. People parted. Quickly. At the speed of fear. Chandelier light slid over her silver hair. Medals clinked softly with every step. The poet who had praised her, the noble who asked about the Red Reed Plain, the general shouting the Empire’s glory—none of them spoke.
A hero was passing. But it was not the departure they had imagined. She was fleeing. From the cheers. From the fireworks. From the blood. From their eyes. From the war that still lived inside her head.
At the banquet hall doors, Irina stopped. Mila looked up in surprise.
“Lady Irina?”
Irina spoke very quietly.
“Alcohol.”
“Pardon?”
“Vodka.”
“Lady Irina, with your wound—”
“The whole bottle.”
Mila’s face wavered. Irina closed her mouth for a moment. She could order. As marshal she could command. During the war that had been easiest. Orders moved people. But this was not war. At least everyone believed it was not.
Irina exhaled slowly.
“Please.”
Mila’s eyes widened. At the entrance to the imperial palace, in front of every noble of the Empire, the Sword of Salvation Irina van Evergarden asked a young maid for vodka. To silence the voices in her head. To pull her out of the battlefield even for a little while.
Of course she did not say those things. She simply repeated, almost in a murmur.
“…Vodka.”
Her voice was exhausted.
“Give me more vodka.”
Mila could not answer. No one in the hall could answer. In that silence Irina opened the door and stepped out.
The corridor air was colder than the banquet hall. There were fewer smells of people. The music had grown distant. The sound of fireworks reached her faintly through thick walls.
Only then did Irina breathe a little easier. But only a little.
The war had not ended. It had ended on the Empire’s maps. It had ended in the Emperor’s treaties. It had ended in the capital’s cheers. But inside Irina van Evergarden it had not ended.
The Red Reed Plain was still drenched in rain. Axion’s head was still falling. The young soldier whose name she had forgotten was still reaching from inside the pit.
Irina hid her bloodied hand and looked for alcohol. In the war everyone claimed was over, she alone remained.
And no one knew.
On the night the war ended, the hero who had saved the most lives wore the face of someone who wanted to live less than anyone else.