Arc-4 Ch-15

The Bartfort soldiers systematically search the airship’s rooms. Paired up from their airbike rides, they mark cleared rooms and secure the ship from one end to the other. If a room is empty, they move on. If someone surrenders, they’re handcuffed. While not as elite as the kingdom’s finest, the new lord’s forces move efficiently.

The enemy’s chain of command is in disarray after Greg and Jilk’s armors shook them and their command airship was attacked. Now, they just need to secure the bridge without casualties.

Occasional resistance pops up, but it’s no real obstacle. The ship’s tight quarters limit swordplay and heavy magic, which works in their favor, allowing restraint without killing. If Bartfort's hostage rescue succeeds, the operation will conclude. Killing mercilessly would be quicker than capturing, but sparing lives—even if the captives face execution or lifelong labor—feels right. They deserve a chance to speak.

Sky pirates have their reasons. Years of operations revealed that political failures turn citizens into criminals. Given a spark, people easily fall to evil; harsh rule breeds rebellion. The Bartfort forces have made mistakes too. Mercy isn’t arrogance—it’s compassion for others. They learned this from the commoner-born saintess.

“Field-sama! Arclight-sama!”

A middle-aged soldier, a trusted Bartfort knight, approaches. He doesn’t seem panicked, but he looks uneasy.

“What’s wrong?” Brad asks.

“Eight soldiers are attempting to secure the bridge, but fierce resistance is delaying us.”

“Got it. We’ll assist,” Chris says.

“Thank you.”

The bridge is filled with delicate equipment for navigation. Damaging it could render the ship inoperable, jeopardizing the rescue. Smoke is seeping from various parts of the ship—likely a fire sparked by the chaos. Delaying risks everyone burning, hostages included.

They need to resolve this quickly. Guided by the knight, they near the bridge, where curses and gunfire grow louder. The shouts suggest barricaded pirates making a last stand. Lingering is dangerous. At the scene, Bartfort soldiers hide behind cover, urging surrender.

Chris and Brad signal them to stand down. Noticing the shift, the pirates’ resistance briefly falters.

“Stop resisting! Further fighting is pointless. Surrender now, and no more lives will be lost!” Brad calls.

“Shut up!”

BANG!

A gunshot cuts through the air in response. Are they set on resisting, or just lacking a reason to surrender? If the former, they’ll be cut down mercilessly; if the latter, persuasion is possible.

“The Lady’s Forest is already destroyed. Resistance is futile,” Chris says.

“Surrender, and we’ll ensure a proper trial for the pirates,” Brad adds.

“Lies! Why should we trust you?!”

“Prefer annihilation? We two could kill you all in seconds,” Chris warns.

“It’s not a threat—just a fact,” Brad clarifies.

“Who are you?!”

“I’m Brad Fou Field.”

“And I’m Chris Fia Arclight.”

The pirates’ agitation echoes outside the bridge, and their resistance halts. As the shouting calms, a man emerges from the door—likely their leader.

“If we surrender, you won’t kill us?”

“Yes, but you’ll be restrained,” Brad confirms.

“We’ll keep you alive for information, though that’s not our job,” Chris adds.

“You’ll face the kingdom’s justice. We can’t reduce your sentences.”

It’s a harsh but honest declaration. The Lady’s Forest, plotting to overthrow Holfort, reduced its members to sky pirates. They could’ve faced immediate execution. A trial is more than they deserve for criminals stripped of noble status and even their records. The leader’s face, staring distantly, holds a hollow smile. His bearing suggests he’s from the kingdom or duchy’s nobility. The two don’t know his past.

“Why?” the man mutters, his voice laced with anger and doubt.

“Why must I be judged? I only followed my lord’s orders. Should I lose my knighthood because he colluded with the duchy?”

After the Holfort-Fanoss war, many nobles were punished for treason. Some merely followed their lords’ orders. Many were forced to defect under pressure. Without Olivia, that could’ve been their fate . It’s tragic, but it doesn’t excuse harming others.

“People make mistakes. We’ve made them too,” Brad admits.

“Then why? Why do you cling to your status while we fall like this?” the man demands.

“Don’t you get it? Look at what you’re doing—attacking, killing, plundering. It’s against all morality,” Chris retorts.

“Even without status or honor, you could’ve lived righteously. You chose crime, so you’ll be judged,” Brad adds.

People easily fall to evil—hunger, poverty, envy, hatred, or indignation. Yet kind-hearted souls consider others. Choosing the hard path over the easy one is humanity’s dignity and beauty.

“Surrender quietly. You don’t want more pain,” Chris urges.

“…No. I have my pride,” the man replies.

“Fine.”

Chris draws his sword and steps forward; the man, resolute, draws his. The man’s killing intent ripples through the air. Despite it, Chris remains calm, belying his youth with countless battlefields endured. The outcome is clear before the fight begins, yet the man smiles.

“My last foe is the young sword saint? Not bad for a villain’s end.”

“Sorry, but I won’t kill you. I’ll disable and detain you for questioning,” Chris says.

“Don’t underestimate me, kid.”

In seconds, two sword flashes signal the operation’s end.

※ ※ ※ ※ ※

WHOOSH! SLASH! CLANG!

The sound of swords cutting air echoes in the hangar. A downward strike, a frontal thrust to the torso, a horizontal slash closing the distance. Leon deftly dodges Rutart’s attacks. He’s reading the distance perfectly, moving with steady precision.

“Stop dodging, you coward!” Lutoart shouts.

“I’d die if I got hit,” Leon retorts.

Rutart’s swordsmanship isn’t exceptional. He’s trained some, but compared to Prince Julius’s student days, it’s amateurish. His ornate, ceremonial sword hampers his movements. Leon, anticipating this, keeps dodging. The skill gap between Leon and Rutart is clear. Leon may lack natural talent, but countless near-death experiences honed his instincts.

To him, Rutart is an easy opponent.

“What’s Leon’s goal?”

I understand he’s provoking Zora’s group to keep them here. But facing them alone isn’t wise. With four female hostages, Zora needs escorts—two to four, at least. Leon must know this. Watching his fight, I scan the hangar. All I see is the escape airship and pirate corpses.

A question hits me, seeing the bodies. Five corpses—some beheaded, some cleaved from shoulder to chest, one shot in the head.

Did Leon kill them all alone? He’s a skilled soldier, but not strong enough to take five robust pirates at once. Sniping or explosives could’ve done it. But the wounds aren’t all from gunfire, and explosives would’ve left heat or scorch marks.

The conclusion is obvious. Someone’s with Leon, hiding. Dad, Nicks, or maybe Colin—but someone’s here. Leon’s goal is our rescue; his actions are a diversion to distract Zola’s group. I subtly check Zora, Merce, and the hostages. Zola’s unarmed. Merce holds a pistol to me. Rutart fights Leon.

One pirate grips Jenna and Finley, hands full. The other, holding luggage and Dorothea, is also weaponless. Only I face immediate death, aside from Leon fighting.

If my safety’s secured, Leon’s group can counterattack instantly. Merce, engrossed in Rutart’s fight, is distracted, her sadistic glee loosening her focus on me. Her delicate limbs show no signs of labor or training—a typical noble daughter raised for marriage.

Her pistol grip reflects this. The gun’s too big for her hand. Proper stance requires both hands; holding my clothes with one, she’ll miss due to recoil. Worse, the safety’s not fully disengaged—clearly visible. It was likely handed to her by Rutart as is.

Pulling the trigger now will likely misfire. It’s not guaranteed—there’s a chance it could fire. Still, there’s an opening. 

Angelica Fou Bartfort, it’s your call.

I steady my breathing, steeling myself. The amulet I always carry doesn’t glow through my clothes. I focus, gripping my palm lightly, praying silently. The unseen heat in my hand confirms the fireball’s presence. The amulet’s fire, however fierce, never burns me. I pour my emotions into it, condensing heat.

Opening my hand, a claw-sized fireball forms. I subtly touch Merce’s hair. Just before her suspicious glance turns to me—

“Explode.”

I will it in my mind.

BOOM!

A small blast spreads flames through the air. The red fire blinds Merce, searing her hair and face.

“Kyaaa!?”

Her shrill scream and the smell of burning fill the space. Her hair, coated with scented oil, burns fiercely. Panicked, Merce flails to extinguish it. In her chaos, her finger leaves the trigger. This is my only chance. I grab her right wrist, twisting her index and middle fingers hard.

CRACK!

“Ughya!?”

The sensation of breaking bone and her groan shake my ears. Fingers, packed with nerves, are a weak point even kids can exploit. Sprains or broken nails cause intense pain and limit fine movement. I snatch the pistol she can no longer hold and kick her hard. She collapses, the fire more effective than expected.

I grip the pistol, disengage the safety, and work the slide to confirm it’s ready. I don’t know how long it took—seconds feel like eternities. The pirates might hit the hostages if I aim at them. Merce’s down.

Zoea, the group’s head, is the target. Taking her shifts the momentum to us.

I aim the pistol, meeting Zora’s terrified eyes. My first time shooting a person—hesitation shakes the barrel.

PAN! PAN!

The first bullet grazes Zora’s clothes; the second misses as she falls. I try a third shot, but the trigger’s light—out of ammo. I botched it. My inexperience shooting people cost me the chance to turn the tide. They won’t forgive me for injuring them and aiming to kill.

I’ll likely die.

“Do something! Kill her!” Zora screams, unconcerned for her daughter. The stunned pirates, ordered by Zora, prioritize killing me over the hostages.

This is it.

“Who’s attacking Bartfort's wife?!”

A voice cuts in, and a large shadow looms before me. Something glints—then something rolls on the floor. It’s spherical, with two white orbs—eyes, I realize after seconds. The pirate’s severed head, frozen in shock, likely died unaware. The other pirate, frozen, steps back. Another shadow appears from the opposite side, closing in.

BOOM! BOOM! BANG!

Three gunshots ring out, and the second pirate collapses, a silent corpse.

“Thank you, Angelica,” a familiar voice says.

Two voices reach me, and my tension dissolves, leaving me limp.

“I’ve been waiting, Father-in-law, Nicks.”

“Your distraction saved us!” Nicks says.

“Nicks-sama! ♥♥♥”

Something collides with Nicks, making him stumble. Thinking it’s an attack, I brace—then see her. Golden hair, a curvaceous figure, plain but luxurious clothes.

Dorothea.

“Oh, Nicks-sama! ♥ You came to save me! ♥”

“D-Dorothea, I’m glad you’re safe.”

“Yes! ♥ I waited with bated breath, believing you’d notice the transmitter! ♥”

“Uh, I can’t move with you so close.”

“Sorry! ♥ I just wanted you to confirm something quickly! ♥”

“What?!”

“Check with your own eyes that these vile pirates haven’t defiled my purity for you! ♥ Look, I’m still a maiden! ♥”

“Don’t start undressing!?”

“Did you hear? Father-in-law called me a Bartfort's wife! ♥ That means I’m already yours! ♥”

“No way that’s true!”

…Let’s leave them be.

There’s no denying Dorothea’s role in Leon and the others reaching us for the rescue, and I have no intention of interrupting those rejoicing in their reunion. Sorry for Nicks, but gratitude must be repaid accordingly.

“Jenna! Finley! Papa’s here to save you!”

With a beaming smile and arms spread wide, Father-in-law resembles a giant teddy bear, expecting an embrace from his daughters. I won’t stop him—let him savor the joy of reunion. But Jenna and Finley bypass him, heading straight for a specific spot. They stand over Merce, who’s crawling and groaning in pain.

“Trying to escape?” Jenna snaps.

“Ugh… ahh…” Merce moans.

“You had your fun, didn’t you?” Finley says.

“I’m gonna make you pay for every punch!” Jenna adds.

“H-Hiii!” Merce whimpers.

“Plus everything you’ve done before!” Finley growls.

“Think about what you’ve done!” Jenna shouts.

“P-Please… h-help…” Merce stammers.

“Shut up! I’ll beat you to a pulp!” Jenna yells.

“I’ll smash your face beyond repair!” Finley snarls.

“Agh! J-Jo#bwa*!” Merce cries.

The barrage of curses and screams is unbearable. They must’ve bottled up a lot of resentment. Finley straddles Merce, relentlessly targeting her face, while Jenna stomps her stomach and groin repeatedly.

“Help, Nicks! My daughters are terrifying!” Father-in-law pleads.

“Help me first! Stop Dorothea!” Nicks begs.

A gruesome scene unfolds in the blood-scented hangar. Honestly, I’m at a loss for how to respond. Glancing at my hand, I notice it’s clenched around the pistol, rigid. The tight grip has drained the blood, leaving my fingers pale. I pry them loose one by one, steadying my breath.

We’re saved.

“Long time, Zora,” Father-in-law says.

“B-Balcas…” Zola mutters.

“Don’t think you’ll escape. Our people are already moving. This airship will be subdued, no matter how long it takes.”

“N-No way…”

Zora, drained of defiance, slumps in a daze. Stripped of nobility for desertion, abandoning governance, and infidelity, she’s now added murder, robbery, kidnapping, and harming nobles to her crimes. Even multiple lifetimes couldn’t atone for her sins.

“No! Save me!” Zora cries.

“You did this. Accept it,” Father-in-law replies.

“Why should I die? This is unfair!”

“The people you killed faced far worse. Bartforts show no mercy to criminals.”

“Do something! Please!”

Zora’s childish tantrum is grotesque. Her mental immaturity and aged appearance make her seem like a bizarre monster. But no leniency—she brought this on herself. Nobles must sometimes answer with their lives. If you can’t, you’re unfit to lead. Duty defines nobility.

“Wait! Let’s remarry! It’d benefit us both!” Zora pleads.

“…Huh?”

“You don’t want this scandal spread! We can cover it up as a family dispute!”

“No chance. The royal family’s involved. Lady’s Forest affiliates will be punished without exception. Give up.”

“No! Please, help me! Leon’s risen high, hasn’t he? Show some mercy!”

“Zola, how much do you think I’ve done for you? I always respected you as my main wife. But you saw me as a cash cow. Merce and Rutart aren’t mine. Sure, ours was a political marriage, and I won’t say I was faultless, holding feelings for Luce. But I tried to build a good relationship.”

His tone is gentle, like scolding a wayward daughter. If I’d clung to my engagement with Prince Julius and married Leon, would this be us? Scorning him as an upstart lord, turning to other men, never opening my heart.

I can’t say it’s impossible. When I came to Bartfort territory, I accepted Leon’s engagement for revenge. I was intrigued by Leon Fou Bartfort, but I didn’t truly trust him as a person. This could’ve been our relationship.

“That woman! That lowly woman’s to blame!” Zora shrieks, finding a new target.

“A commoner concubine bearing children? Acting above her station and becoming the main wife? So shameless! Low birth, low thoughts!”

“You mean Luce?” Father-in-law asks.

“Yes! Make me the main wife again! A commoner wife is a disgrace! I’d manage better—”

“Shut up.”

His voice shifts, now dripping with killing intent, his sword at Zora’s throat. One word, and her head’s gone. This must be a Bartfort trait—calm, but with a line you don’t cross.

“Close your mouth. I won’t forgive anyone who insults Luce—not even the king. She’s worth a million of you.”

His tone mirrors Leon’s. Oh no, I forgot about Leon in the chaos. Turning, I see a bizarre scene.

※ ※ ※ ※ ※

Father and Nicks took out the two pirates; I catch Zora and Merce sprawled pathetically in my peripheral vision. Everything went as planned. I taunted to distract them while Father and Nicks struck from behind. We arranged the corpses near the lifeboat and moved luggage to stay hidden.

Misdirection is key in a magic trick. Angelica’s flame was unexpected—that amulet can do that?

Some “safe childbirth” charm; it’s a hazard for pregnant women.

“Hostages are safe, Rutart. The tide’s turned,” I say.

“N-No way. That’s impossible,” Lutoart stammers.

“It’s possible on a battlefield. Still don’t get where you are?”

He refuses to accept defeat, but this is reality—a battlefield where life is cheap. No safe seats exist; it’s a gambling den where lives are the stakes. For some reason, I’m eerily good at it. I’ve lost big, yet somehow my neck stays intact.

The reaper’s cruel to me.

“Surrender, and we won’t take your life. No clue what happens after capture, though.”

“Shut up!”

Rutart charges, sword raised, lowering his stance. His swordsmanship is basic noble training—fast and strong, but that’s it. It’s brute force, not refined skill, making it predictable. I step back half a pace, dodging his swing, then slide outward.

A skilled swordsman would counter, but Rutart lacks that. I open my left palm, fingers curled, syncing my movement to twist my palm into his jaw.

BAM!

It lands, but Rutart only stumbles, not fainting. Did I hold back, wary of the sword? No, just my lack of guts and training. Then I’ll deal with the sword first. As he staggers, I grab my dropped knife, gripping it tight. Rutart swings to intimidate, but his unsteady stance makes it sloppier, easier to read. I aim for the gap at the end of his swing, rushing in to slam my knife into the sword’s base.

CLANG! CRASH!

“What!?” Rutart gasps, stunned as his sword breaks.

Normally, this wouldn’t work. My knife’s thick and heavy, but breaking a sword is tough. Rutart’s ornamental sword, forged poorly for combat, was an easy target. I aim for his wrist artery, but he recoils, and the blade only grazes his arm.

“Don’t run. I meant to cut off your wrist,” I taunt.

“Hii!” he yelps.

I exaggerate to stoke fear and sap his will. Prep’s done—time to break, not kill. I dodge the broken sword hilt he throws; it clangs behind me. Even with scum like him, killing feels heavy. I set the knife down, approaching to neutralize him. Rutart swings wildly. I raise my left hand as a shield, right hand as a spear.

As he enters range, I step in, throwing a short, sharp right punch.

CRUNCH!

The impact and sound of crushed flesh hit. My fist smashes his nose. The nose, central with eyes and mouth nearby, can blind if hit right. Nosebleeds hinder breathing and dull thought with pain. Next, an open-handed slap to his ear.

SLAP!

He clutches his ear—probably a busted eardrum. Then a kick upward. My military boots, reinforced with metal, hit like a hammer.

SQUELCH!

“GYAAA!” Rutart’s loudest scream echoes.

The stench of blood, urine, and semen stings my nose. His testicles are crushed—some die from that pain, but he’s tough. I kick again, aiming for his knee as he writhes. He collapses, unable to dodge. Seeing him, satisfaction stirs alongside something darker. The violent part of me, unchecked on the battlefield, is my least favorite trait. The black joy of outwitting, trapping, and crushing enemies.

“Don’t whine. I’ve had four fractures, thirty-one bruises, two full-body beatings, five gunshot wounds, countless cuts and burns. Crushed balls? Suck it up.”

“Ugh… gya…”

“I nearly died earning this viscountcy. No guts for that? Should’ve kept running.”

I hate war, truly. But vomiting at corpses, pissing in fear—I also revel in violence. Normally, I suppress it, but now I’m savoring it. Zora, Merce, Rutart—how much they made us suffer, how much rage we’ve held. Each punch on Rutart recalls that anger, uncontrollable.

He crawls like a bug, leaving a trail of fluids. His fingers grab something—the shotgun I discarded. With a twisted grin, he aims.

“DIE!”

CLICK! CLICK!

“Huh?”

“No bullets, idiot.”

Shotguns are too destructive and wide-ranging. Hitting hostages or losing it would be bad, so I unloaded it. Otherwise, I’d have shot his limbs to disable him. I kick the shotgun away and straddle Lutoart.

He tried to kill me—I can’t stand it. I pound his face, fists clenched, over and over.

CRUNCH… THUD… SQUISH…

I keep hitting, lost in it, my mind fading, wordless. It’s like butchering prey. Anger and killing intent vanish; I punch mechanically. His face swells, teeth break, screams stop—I can’t stop.

This isn’t enough. My hands aren’t fists anymore; I’m not targeting his face but his neck. Both hands choke him. He convulses, unconscious, his face purpling—he’ll die soon.

“Die.”

My fevered voice sounds like a stranger’s.

As I’m seconds from killing, something warm touches my head.

┳⁠━━━━⁠━⁠⁠━⁠━⁠━━━⁠┳

Authors Note

┻━⁠━━━━⁠━━⁠━━━⁠┻

This chapter’s a dark, violent battle scene.  

Dorothea’s the only soothing presence—a woman living for love is strong.  

Jenna and Finley’s attack on Merce mirrors Finley’s actions in volume 9, so it’s fine. (Is it?)  

Leon, crossing a line, becomes a cold killing machine, a trauma-driven battlefield adaptation.

Addendum:

This chapter’s illustration was drawn by Shedar-sama at the client’s request. Thank you!  

Shedar-sama:   

Also, per the client’s request, illustrations by Kryto-sama, freedomexvss-sama, and quanero95-sama. Thank you!  

Kryto-sama: Pixiv 1 Pixiv 2  

freedomexvss-sama: Pixiv  

quanero95-sama: Skeb (Note: Adult content warning)  

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