Salvation
At first, she was just an ordinary girl.
Just a young girl born as the seed of discord in the hero's family.
She was merely a child hero who couldn't even utter a single excuse until the moment she was threatened with murder simply for failing to draw the holy sword.
Looking back, every day was a struggle to endure.
Oppression and discrimination that made even breathing difficult, abuse that far exceeded any reasonable line.
No one listened to her story.
No one protected her.
In the end, she was discarded by her family.
Was that all?
Even after barely escaping their hands, she had nowhere to return.
Her parents had abandoned her as useless from the start, and the world had no intention of accepting her either.
So all she could do was endure.
Naturally, life for the young girl was far from smooth.
Every day, she wandered without a place to sleep, enduring the present just to greet tomorrow.
The world was no kinder to an abandoned child.
Pathetically, salvation wasn't even an option for her.
She once mustered the courage to speak to a stranger, but all she got in return was mockery calling her a filthy, undignified wench.
From that day on, she was branded a target for bullying.
Determined never to go through it again, she kept her mouth shut and avoided people's gazes.
Her eyes brimmed with tears she barely held back.
If judged coldly at that time, she was nothing more than a woman who had betrayed everyone's expectations and lost even her qualifications.
Yet she never let go of hope.
She gripped the wooden sword so tightly it seemed it might snap.
Her hands blistered and tore, wounds embedded with sawdust scarring over permanently.
She often skipped meals because she had no money.
To survive even one more day, she even volunteered as a porter for adventurers, rolling in the mud.
It was one such day.
On the way back from a commission, her companions fled and left her in a monster's den.
She truly thought her life was over.
That day, desperate to survive, she threw away everything she owned—her entire fortune, her cherished belongings.
She barely escaped with her life.
But that was all.
She had barely saved her life.
There wasn't a single uninjured spot on her body.
Her arms were covered in slashes like they'd been hacked apart, bruises blooming blue like mold.
Blood, sawdust, and bruises mingled in a grotesque mess on her arms.
"..."
Would she ever hold a sword again like this?
Could she ever return to her family?
One day, staring at her pathetic reflection in a mirror and at girls her age laughing in the streets, she resented her own life for the first time.
Thus, the young girl slowly grew weary.
The endless loneliness and excessive torment were too much for her.
She knew well how miserable it was to live as a failure on the streets.
In the end, she gave up.
At one point, she even considered choosing death.
But she failed even at that.
Her heart was already in tatters from the endless failures.
Efforts that never once received reward were enough to break a single person.
However, on the day she truly resolved to end it all, a man came to her.
He extended his hand first, introduced himself as a knight, and declared himself her master.
Naturally, she was wary of such a man.
She had already vowed to give up everything, and kindness from others felt so foreign after so long that she'd forgotten its warmth.
Yet astonishingly, the man didn't give up.
He was a strange person.
There were countless reasons to abandon her.
Still, he tended her wounds.
He used expensive medicines to help her recover.
He personally oversaw her treatment so she could train normally again.
The young hero knew, of course, that this was the consideration of a knight.
Treating her and retraining her required no small time and money.
Especially in these war-torn times.
From the knight's perspective, there was no reason to take in a girl who couldn't draw the holy sword.
She'd be no help.
Even if she endured now, she'd vanish by tomorrow.
Yet he didn't leave.
He didn't scold the young girl who returned unable to draw even the holy sword.
He simply grasped her shoulders, hugged her, and told her she didn't need to obsess over the holy sword.
Afterward, he began gathering party members.
Starting with the former Sword Empress, abandoned on the battlefield.
An elf hidden deep in the wary Great Forest.
A mage who never showed in the Magic Tower.
As if he was certain of a future where she had drawn the holy sword and become the hero, he assembled them.
In contrast, she showed no growth at all.
It was miserable.
From her master's view, she was a disciple yielding no results.
Her sword training offered him no help, no effort in return.
Yet he never abandoned her, drilling swordsmanship into her over long years.
Each time, he praised the girl who couldn't draw the holy sword far beyond her due, treating her as a hero.
Time passed, but it was the same.
She honed only swordsmanship, offering him no real aid.
But the holy sword never chose her.
All she felt was that she was becoming a burden.
That day, gazing at the unmoving sword, she glanced warily at the man trying to comfort her.
Would disappointment bloom in him?
Everyone around her was growing daily.
He, who had invested the most in her, with the greatest expectations.
If she failed those expectations.
If she ended as a mere worthless knight.
'...I'll end up abandoned after all.'
Once deemed useless, she'd be discarded without mercy.
Her parents had.
Her family had.
The world had.
She'd be abandoned again in the end.
The wooden sword trembled in her white-knuckled grip.
It terrified her.
The thought of disappointing everyone who believed in her.
She desperately wanted someone to believe in her right then, sweating blood in her efforts, yet even now, looking at the man—now her master—she couldn't shake her doubts.
No matter how she thought, she couldn't understand why he'd taken in a failure like her.
He said he'd make her a hero, but as a hero's kin, she knew better than anyone those resources could summon far superior candidates.
So she tried to run.
Claiming she didn't belong here.
But before she could open the door,
His voice reached her first.
"Shall the two of us have a talk, then?"
"..."
She couldn't avoid it.
"It's been a while since we've talked alone like this."
"...Master, it's because you always bring party members."
"True enough. Anyway... where were you rushing off to in the middle of the night?"
"......"
She didn't want to open her eyes.
How ridiculous she must look.
Anyone seeing her now would surely mock her.
If only she hadn't failed.
If she hadn't tasted that bitterness, defeat, despair.
She wouldn't have stooped to something so pathetic as running away.
"..."
So to her, who persisted in silence, he parted his lips.
Whatever he said, she'd accept it.
Even if he drove her away, it no longer scared her.
She might even feel liberated from the burden.
"You won't fail."
"...How do you know?"
"Because I've watched you the longest."
"...What?"
Pent-up emotions surged out in a flash.
Even her pride refusing tears before her benefactor had long crumbled.
Deep down, it was different.
She just wanted him to hold her now. To support her, even if she failed.
But against her wishes, sharp words spilled from her lips.
"What do you...! What do you know about me to act so smug...!"
"..."
Striking his shoulder, pouring out her feelings—looking back, it was ugly and shameful.
But those were just pretty words.
Give up.
Run away, let go.
She didn't want to mix words anymore.
Didn't want more wounds.
Didn't want her efforts denied, branded a failure.
She wished he'd hold her... but knew he wouldn't.
So she tried to pass him.
But suddenly, her body was yanked forward.
He had grabbed her hand.
"Let... go."
"I've been watching everything."
"...?"
In that moment, her white glove fell to the floor.
Her hand, covered in calluses and scars, came into view.
He added, as if he'd known all along.
"Every day, you rise earlier than anyone, return later than anyone."
"You think I'd be happy hearing such frank words...? Wait... you, don't tell me."
Her steps halted.
She turned to face him.
Her guess forming, she tried to speak, but he continued unperturbed.
"Yes. From the day we met, I've watched. You always wear white gloves when greeting others, even during training. Right up to this moment of fleeing."
"You..."
"To hide the calluses and scars on your hands. On the first day we met, I saw the proof of your efforts flowing from them. And every day, I confirmed you coming and going from the training grounds. Wounds from practice, right? From the past to now, you've striven ceaselessly."
The young hero fell silent.
His words held no falsehood.
He recited her past—even habits she'd forgotten—like a ghost.
She'd been afraid, desperate; failure wasn't an option. She wanted to repay that faith. Yet she'd tried to run in the end.
"...How do you know all that, Master?"
"I watched it all. What other way?"
...Strange.
No matter how she looked, it made no sense.
From what she'd observed, he was no fool.
Yet he showed such interest in her, unable to draw the holy sword.
Expensive medicines, rigorous training, a good bed, the best food.
That day, unable to hold back, the girl asked the man holding her.
"Why do this much for me?"
It was the question she'd harbored since first meeting him, the core of the unease she'd ignored.
"What if I can't draw the holy sword...?"
"Even if you can't, it's fine."
"...What?"
He gripped her shoulders. Their eyes met.
She still couldn't forget that clear, upright youthful voice.
...It's fine even if you can't draw it. Words she'd never imagined in her lifetime.
Her mind grew chaotic.
The thought 'It might be okay' kept surfacing.
No. No.
She resolved herself.
'I'll never open my heart.'
She was a hopeless knight.
Even if given a sword... who knew how long until she drew the holy one.
No one would provide for her at such cost.
He'd deceive her for gain.
'Surely... he'll realize the truth soon enough.'
He'd be no different from the rest.
He'd change eventually.
The young girl believed it without doubt.
"...I don't believe you. I won't. You'll end up the same."
Yet his hand didn't release.
She couldn't understand.
She'd achieved nothing yet.
Why?
She still fell short of his expectations. He should hate her, despise her.
Even after saving her, she was useless.
It was rational to cast out the useless her, find a replacement.
His kindness made no sense.
"...!"
Then, the young hero felt an unfamiliar sensation.
It took time to comprehend.
As something collided, firm warmth enveloped her shoulders.
Only then did she realize someone was hugging her.
Off-balance, dragged a few steps, she felt strength wrapping her shoulders and back.
Warmth brushing her nose.
Arms tightening as if refusing to let her go.
When she came to, his face was so close.
"...!!"
She gasped.
Despite her resolve, she crumbled so easily.
And suddenly, her body lurched forward again.
Panicking to pull away, a single tear fell from her eye.
"Just because you draw the holy sword doesn't make everyone a hero."
"But without it...!"
"...Even if you can't draw it, I'll make you a hero."
"Wha...?"
The young girl's heart shook violently at those words.
Suppressed emotions burst forth, tears forcing their way out.
…Words she'd longed to hear.
From anyone.
She'd desperately wished someone would say it.
That she could be a hero without the holy sword.
But in this hell, she couldn't believe anyone would.
Who would dare say such a thing?
She had no hope even for that.
The holy sword was paramount to a hero.
A divine artifact to vanquish evil, work miracles in war.
Abandoning it meant admitting she lacked the qualifications.
Yet the knight before her stated firmly.
You don't need to chase the holy sword.
"…No."
"Why not?"
"How can I let it go…? Everyone's counting on me…!"
Her voice trembled uncontrollably.
Her urge to flee clashed with reason saying she shouldn't.
Deep down, a desperate cry wishing he'd refute it.
He took her messy hand and spoke.
"I'm not forcing you. It's fine if you can't draw it."
"...But!"
"Isn't the holy sword a divine artifact, wielded only by those chosen by heaven? How could bloodline alone let you draw it?"
"..."
Even that obvious truth was said to her for the first time.
"If hero's blood is enough, does that mean it's okay to drive out a young girl from her family, thrust her into hell, force cold reality on her?"
"……."
It shouldn't be.
Yes, it was unfair.
Infuriating. Why her? Why must it be her?
He voiced the resentment she'd never uttered.
"A girl who hasn't even had her coming-of-age rite,
doesn't need to bear such life's weight yet."
"……."
"You're just a young girl."
The words might sound heartless, but to her, they were salvation.
Not expecting greatness.
But she didn't stop there.
Wiping overflowing tears, biting her lip, she sought another reason.
Throwing the questions she'd asked herself. Wanting to hear his rebuttal.
"Anyway...! If I leave here, I have nowhere to go...!"
"I do."
"What can you...!"
"I'll be on your side."
Those words rippled through her.
From his fingertips, the young girl felt it.
He meant it sincerely.
For the first time, she had an ally.
"...Eut..."
She tried not to cry, but couldn't hold back.
He, her master... her knight. As if knowing everything... saying exactly what she'd desperately wished for.
Words no one else gave... from this one person.
"...Hic, eut... sob...."
She'd thought no one cared, yet one person said this.
Like being stranded on a lonely island, then learning she had a side.
Someone who cared more than anyone was this close.
Perhaps that's why.
For a moment, the hero harbored a strange wish.
...She wanted him to hold her as she cried.
To pull her head closer, offer more embrace until the tears stopped.
To affirm he was her side.
Suppressing the feverish emotion, the hero asked him one question.
"....Why, Master... do you say I don't need the holy sword...?"
Not doubt in his faith.
Why did he stand by her so firmly?
Was there a reason worthy of it?
"...Because I know you're suffering so much."
*Crunch...*
Unknowingly, strength entered her arms hugging him.
And from his embrace, he drew out something precious he'd carried since the journey's start.
"...What's this?"
"My sword. Not as good as the holy one, but..."
He gifted her his own sword. Worn from countless swings, stained with use.
"...!"
The hero felt greater happiness than ever.
As if she had her own special sword.
"I'll treasure it, really treasure it. I won't lose it, ever. Thank you so much. My knight."
From that point, the young hero began to grow rapidly.
At some turning point, she was no longer a child, but a true hero wielding the holy sword.
Skilled enough to surpass even her swordmaster teacher.
Victories in war, rising status and rank upon return.
For the first time, she was glad to repay his expectations.
Every moment with him was happiness.
Save one thing.
His wounds, increasing with each journey and battle.
"..."
His body accumulated scars.
Of course, as time passed and missions grew harder in major conflicts, some injuries were inevitable.
But her master, her knight, was recklessly bold.
Tactics he'd told her never to use, he employed without hesitation.
Commissions succeeded flawlessly thanks to him, without a single failure.
Yet scars etched deeper into the man.
The hero grew anxious.
She, once special to him, now feared losing him.
Her mind knew it wasn't just that emotion,
but reason screamed to protect her master.
Even he couldn't protect everyone without sacrifice.
Not even her, grown stronger, could do so without loss.
She disliked seeing him charge to shield them all.
That must be why.
Why she'd uttered uncharacteristically harsh words.
Why she'd exiled him from the hero party.
To let the precarious him rest, even a little.
Even as he argued, clung, she rejected him more coldly.
She vowed to apologize properly after this journey.
Unaware it was the start of tragedy.
Unaware that the day she'd driven him away with cruel words was pivotal for him.
She merely clutched the gifted sword nightly, atoning in her heart.
Repeating her promise to kneel for forgiveness upon return.
While reading his letters every day.
His letters always said the same.
Come back.
I can't without you.
And words worrying for her.
But she never replied.
Then one day.
The letters stopped.
Yet still,
she sent no response. No answer at all. As if there was nothing left to say.
And as time passed.
The letters ceased entirely.
That was when guilt truly weighed on her.
Perhaps she'd wounded him too deeply. Upon return... she'd atone, no matter what he said.
The whole party thought so. But once stopped, the letters never resumed.
Contact with him was severed.
Letters that came several times a week
soon dwindled to three a month.
Two.
One.
And finally,
they tapered off... until no contact came.
Only then did the hero think she'd crossed an uncrossable river.
Of course, she gritted her teeth in denial.
One day she'd return, and no matter how he rejected her, she'd apologize—and continued the journey another year.
Now, she stared nightly at the frayed corners of worn letters, drowning in self-loathing under the moon outside.
The hero did her utmost.
She blocked invading foes.
Reclaimed lost lands, severed enemy necks.
...That was all she could do.
Now, two years later.
The endless-seeming war neared its end.
The sword he'd given was utterly ruined.
All that remained, barely holding form, were the letters.
Nothing else endured.
Not the gloves he'd made, wishing her unharmed.
Not his shoulder, which he'd called her crutch if injured.
Everything, gone.
Realizing that, no more tears flowed from the hero's eyes.
She merely read the letters nightly with hollow gaze, pondering how to atone.
After endless deliberation, the hero decided on a fine sword as gift.
Like he'd given her his own.
Of course, she knew he might not forgive.
She'd driven him out by her judgment, knew she might not bring her master back.
Yet she obsessed because it was escapism.
Without it, she'd shatter.
Thus she gathered swords in sub-space, one by one.
Blades any knight would covet. But none caught the hero's eye.
They paled against that day's resonance.
Piling swords stirred no feeling.
Instead, she focused ever more on ending the war.
Just to see his face sooner.
...To apologize quickly.
To tell the truth to him, still misunderstanding.
She never learned.
The one she longed for most
could never be met again.