Chapter 51
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 51
Chapter Title: Ariete (7)
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The beginning is the hardest; everything gains momentum after that.
From that day on, the two of them cried, gasped, and screamed every single night.
Everyone, please listen to this sound. Right now, I'm being loved by my master.
No, I don't really know if I'm being loved. But my master is accepting my love.
But isn't love supposed to be like that? The world isn't a fairy tale, so two people can't fall in love at the exact same moment. Their love can't be precisely the same size, measured to the inch.
Someone has to start loving just a little sooner, and it's only natural for one person to love a bit more deeply. Between my master and me, I simply took on that role.
If my master allowed it, I'd fling open the tent flap and show this love right in front of all of you. But my master is too shy for that. Doesn't that make him even more lovable?
Richer prayed that Ariete would find as much happiness as he was suffering.
He had fished his disciple out of the hell of the streets only to toss her into the deeper hell of the battlefield. Making Ariete happy wasn't a choice—it was his duty.
Of course, some might argue there was no such duty. But Richer saw it differently. No one felt the soul-crushing rot of the battlefield more keenly than he did.
He couldn't shove Ariete away. She was his aching finger, the living sum of his guilt. All he could hope was that through him, she might suffer just a little less. Be just a little less miserable.
Whether his prayers took hold, Ariete gradually brightened, growing more cheerful by the day. But it wasn't all good news. She was twisting in the most diligent, vibrant way imaginable.
She often hid behind the kitchen tent, eavesdropping on the soldiers' chatter.
With Ariete screaming loud enough to shake the entire camp every night, it was only natural that the rumors multiplied.
A satisfying outcome. She had howled like a beast, hoping everyone would hear—and sure enough, the world had listened, just as she wanted.
Not a single soul in the camp was unaware that Richer and Ariete made love every night.
Now, no matter what gossip reached her ears, Ariete felt no torment. Only joy, growing joy with each passing day. Joy she could scarcely contain. She was so happy. Probably.
"Fuck, these nights have been so damn noisy lately I can't get any sleep."
"How the hell does Richer make that whore scream her lungs out every night? Some dick-enlargement spell? Some bullshit technique? I'm jealous."
"But he doesn't look all that thrilled about it."
"Why not? I'd kill for that."
"Just look at Richer. His face is rotting away day by day. Feels like he's reluctantly sticking it in."
"Why? Isn't she a premium hole, certified by four figures? From what I remember, it was a damn fine one."
The last voice belonged to a soldier named Joel. Whatever lewd gesture he made to go with it had the others roaring with laughter after a brief delay.
And Ariete was still delighted. Such clever banter!
But the part about her master reluctantly poking her... that stung a little.
And in the next battle, Ariete hurled her fire seeds a touch closer than usual.
Joel was engulfed in flames. His lungs burned away as he wheezed rasp-rasp, gasping for air before dying like a bug.
Oops. Sorry about that.
A few soldiers nearby got caught in the blaze and burned too, but what could you do?
It was war, after all. These things happen.
Ariete felt even happier.
As autumn deepened, the soldiers finally caught on. Those who gossiped about Richer and Ariete behind their backs were getting swept up in her spells, burning to death one by one.
Of course, Ariete faced no real repercussions. The battles were always victories, and soldier casualties were a constant anyway.
The commander offhandedly mentioned, "Hey, try lobbing that magic a bit farther next time." But neither he nor Ariete paid it much mind.
In the end, Ariete grew a little bored. All the witty tongues that used to drop by the kitchen had vanished.
From then on, instead of eavesdropping, she passed the time doodling in the dirt with twigs. Even the little birds stopped coming. Such a shame.
Over time, people started calling her "crazy bitch." The first time she overheard "that crazy bitch Ariete," she froze in. Her fragile heart pounded wildly.
Oh my god! They called me a crazy bitch!
Ariete was overjoyed. She had earned a nickname so close to her "crazy bastard" master's. It wasn't from their enemies, but it was satisfying enough. Crazy bastard and crazy bitch—what a perfect pair.
Every time she heard "crazy bitch," waves of ecstasy washed over her.
It sounded just like an eternal blessing on their love. A roundabout way of saying they were the world's best match.
Each utterance made her lower parts grow slick. Not some crude metaphor—literally.
The sad part was that no one dared call her "crazy bitch" to her face.
But in time, someone surely would. Ariete fought each battle with eager anticipation. The Empire's crazy bitch. Such a sweet name.
Those who called her crazy bitch met their ends by enemy blades, never her flames.
The soldiers didn't notice the pattern, but those who addressed her politely sometimes burned if their luck ran out.
Naturally, more and more started calling her crazy bitch. Even fresh recruits picked it up without prompting.
So Ariete was happy.
Then one day, Ariete sensed something off. Her monthly bleed should have come twice by now, but it hadn't.
Sadly, she was a street orphan who had spent her life rolling in the dirt of battlefields. She knew about fucking, but her grasp of sex was woefully lacking.
Do the deed, belly swells, baby comes out. That was the extent of her knowledge.
She thought it strange, but life marched on. Battles every few days: roast some people nicely, then pass out cold. Nights spent slipping into Richer's tent to show him her love.
The absent bleeds were actually convenient. No blood to stain his bed, no messy cleanup.
Anyone else might have suspected pregnancy from the nausea and such, but Ariete was clueless. It only dawned on her once her lower belly started to bulge a little. She was pregnant. Joy surged through her like she might ascend to the heavens right then.
The fruit of their love. The crystallization of happiness.
Richer clearly hadn't noticed yet. Every night, he just lay there in the dark with his eyes shut.
Ariete dreamed of a blissful future. The day she'd have a huge belly, just like that pregnant woman she'd seen once.
She'd stroll the camp in thin clothes clinging tight to her body. The soldiers would stare with wide-eyed curiosity.
And they'd realize it: inside that big belly was the love between Richer and Ariete.
The soldiers would gape in awe and shower blessings on love's fruit.
That day, Richer would rejoice and bless the child too. He wouldn't stop at passively accepting her love.
Of course not. The undeniable "fruit of love" would be thrust right in his face. No one could reject that. Even if he wanted to deny his feelings, he couldn't—he was a rational man, after all.
Ariete dreamed of a beautiful future. Vivid as if she'd seen it with her own eyes.
Richer would finally realize, crystal clear, just how much he loved her. He'd cling to her, confessing his love until she found it annoying.
Not with those hazy, milky eyes anymore—but sparkling ones brimming with life, as he whispered:
I love you. Sorry I didn't show it enough till now. It wasn't just about Mila.
The love closest to me was you, not Mila. I've been too indifferent all this time.
Richer would weep tears of joy and beg her forgiveness. And Ariete would reluctantly grant it.
"I'm forgiving you because I love you too much, Master. Got it? Don't do it again."
"Yeah. Sorry. It took me too long to realize. Your love was so immense, I didn't even notice it properly."
A little late in coming, but her heart swelled with pink, girlish dreams.
But the battlefield was far too brutal a place for a mother-to-be—or her unborn child.
Especially for a war mage under crushing stress, fainting every three days.
And before twenty days had passed...
The child that had come so quietly slipped away just as silently. Leaving only a trace of blood in a corner latrine of the camp.
Only Ariete knew that a tiny, nameless life had brushed past them.
So she wept enough tears for everyone else.
The little life wouldn't have felt alone on its way out.
Ariete sobbed for a long, long time. Then she emerged from the latrine with a face like nothing had happened.
The little life was gone, but her love endured.