Flashback (1)
*From Terria's perspective.*
After feeding the potion to my master, Ariel, I reflected on everything that had happened up to now. It had been a grueling time. No one could know how long I had waited for this day. Whenever those moments came, I would recall the memories from three years ago. The events of that day still hadn't faded from my mind. No, I couldn't let them fade. I mustn't forget.
Three years prior, on the day our beastkin kingdom—thick with the air of defeat against the Empire—saw thousands of knights and mages swarm in mercilessly. People burning to death in flames, soldiers collapsing under indiscriminate attacks, maids crushed beneath the rubble of crumbling buildings. The deaths of so many were a scene too brutal and horrific for a seventeen-year-old like me to comprehend.
And one man. Standing at the forefront of the imperial forces, hurling reagent vials wildly and unleashing a barrage of multicolored spells, there was a mage storming in. He looked like a boy not yet shed of his baby fat, clad in a fluttering black robe as he roamed to set the palace ablaze. Hiding in terror, I watched him amid the screams of the dying guards that sounded like pure noise. His face was filled with rage. It was the kind of expression only someone convinced they could never feel such fury again in a lifetime—after living enough of the world—could wear. Looking back now, it was an emotion too heavy for the twenty-one-year-old he was.
What on earth had made him so angry? Surely nothing could stand in his way. To him, clearing obstacles must have been as easy as stepping on ants by the roadside. I wondered. I was the one wronged, the one grieving, the one boiling with rage—why did he wear an expression so similar to mine? Perhaps a naive, worldly child like me harbored vain hopes that if I could just resolve that anger, I might save the kingdom.
Of course, that curiosity didn't last long. It would be more accurate to say it was buried under an even greater emotion, vanishing from sight. Methodically—unlike the fury on his face, leaving no room for carelessness—he steadily killed the beastkin one by one as he advanced. His goal was clear without a word: the grand chamber where our beastkin king, my father, and the queen, my mother, waited. Staining the lavish decorations and jewels embroidered everywhere with blood, he pressed toward the throne.
There, my parents had resigned themselves. Worries about me might have been overshadowed by the terror of death. That didn't mean they lacked maternal or paternal love—they loved me. It was resignation born from knowing even I, hidden where they couldn't see, was doomed to die anyway. Or perhaps they thought begging to spare their child would change nothing. Either way, they accepted death readily. Soon, dark crimson lightning crackled from the man's fingertips. For leaders of a kingdom, their necks snapped all too easily. It was a hollow death, no different from a street beggar's.
If people die so easily, what's the point of struggling to live? What had my parents lived so hard for? If only they could have said one last word before dying. They must have had words to leave behind. But without a single scream, plea, or apology, they passed. It was as if they were silently protesting that killing them was just.
The lightning from the man's fingers who watched it all—dark yet flashing bright at times—lingered in that space even after their deaths, like blood endlessly pouring from a stabbed corpse, staining the floor crimson. As if declaring the massacre would continue, for targets remained to kill.
And I seared every scene into my mind, eyes wide open. At last, he turned and took steps toward the exit. My heart pounded, cold sweat dripped, and I struggled to steady my ragged breath. On the verge of dry-heaving, I squeezed my eyes shut and began counting, as I'd done since childhood.
—Count to a hundred, and nothing will happen.
—Then I can escape this palace, where the grim reaper grumbles about too many tasks today.
—Once I'm out safely, I'll plan my next steps.
—Yeah, I can do this.
One, two, three, four...
But that was when I realized killing intent was real—just as the kingdom's knight commander had said. I'd brushed it off as a joke back then, but I vividly remember the killing intent directed at me in that moment. In the blood-soaked space of that frigid January three years ago, I slowly opened my eyes. And for the first time, our gazes met.
The man's reddish-brown eyes looked hollow. Empty, like an abyss—deep and dark, a void that could never be filled no matter what was poured in.
"Ah... agh, ugh..."
I couldn't help groaning under the suffocating pressure on my throat. Looking down at me, huddled and trembling on the floor, he finally withdrew the lightning. Tension released in an instant, and on the brink of life and death, I gasped and begged him.
"Hic, sob... P-please... spare me... Spare... hic... me..."
The misery of begging the murderer of my parents for my life. But before the desperate will to survive, the helplessness of having nothing I could do—tears flowed from sorrow. Mature beyond my peers, even I—a mere seventeen-year-old girl—couldn't bear that situation.
"Ugh... huuh... I d-don't want to die... Sob, please spare me... Woo, hic..."
Slowly, vitality returned to the man's eyes. An indescribable emotion—tangled in countless thoughts, undefinable even to himself—settled in his gaze and expression. He seemed conflicted. I clung desperately. I was ready to lick his toes or eat shit if asked.
"Please spare me, hic... I'll do anything if you do. Please..."
To anyone watching, it might look like he was about to rape an underage girl, but I didn't care. The man stroked his chin in silence. Though I'd just met him that day, he seemed to know who I was and what to do with me. After an eternity of mental torment that felt endless despite the short time, he finally spoke.
"Fine."
One word. Just two syllables, but it rang with more relief than any complex phrase. Then he extended his hand to me. For a moment, I recalled the prince on a white horse from childhood fairy tales—but it was the hand of my enemy in a blood-drenched slaughterhouse. Supporting my unsteady body, he gripped my slender waist and leaped into the air. Using magic to create footholds in the void, he bounded dozens of meters at a time. He'd already achieved his goal of destroying the kingdom—what was the rush? Even to me, his soaring figure looked frantic.
Not knowing where we were going, I just clung to him to avoid falling. Crossing the wintry plains lashed by fierce cold winds, I vowed deep in my heart. I would make him regret saving me. Implant memories more painful than death. Make him bone-deep regret that day's actions, to the point he'd beg for death instead.
Three years was a surprisingly long time—long enough to potentially dull my thirst for revenge, depending on how it was spent. I sometimes think if he'd treated me gently, I might have reconsidered my vow. But my master didn't.
At first, he beat me. Any slight mistake in following his orders brought merciless punishment disguised as discipline. He didn't hesitate to hurl insults, humiliations, dehumanizing words, even fat jokes. It felt like a child throwing a tantrum. Like venting frustration over impossible things onto me. Every time my varied emotions showed under such torment, he seemed delighted.
The silver lining—if calling it that isn't laughable—was that compared to the shock of that day, the abuses as his slave were bearable enough. One lingering question: why didn't he rape me? I even wondered if he was impotent. But after seeing him with his fiancée, the mystery deepened. Not impotent, so why? In the palace, hardly any guard or servant didn't get aroused seeing my body. I could confidently say I was the most beautiful there—not subjective, but objective truth from experience.
That didn't mean I wanted to be raped. I was still a virgin. I was grateful for his apparent lack of lust toward me. Still, hardship was hardship, so I trained myself to suppress emotions. With my rich feelings, if I could kill them off, maybe the torment would lessen. At first, it was easy. No matter how I racked my brain, no way to reverse our dynamic came to mind. With no hope, resignation brought numbness.
But learning he was researching a body-swap potion reignited hope. It was the ultimate tool to overturn everything in one go. I couldn't fathom why he'd pursue such a perverse study then—but who cared? Maybe I was possessed by lewd demons. Anyway, I couldn't stop the emotions I'd painfully killed from reviving with that hope. I simply waited. Enduring, pondering how to break him physically and mentally. And finally, I resolved: to corrupt him into a bitch in heat.
After twelve seasons turned, on a winter day in January once more. The slave who had lost everything became the master, and the master became the slave.