Free Web NovelPavela stood with her foot on the man's head, her eyes devoid of any emotion.
Snowflakes landed on her cloak, on Igor's back, and on the body not far away that had already begun to cool. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com
The alley was quiet.
So quiet that one could hear the faint rustling sound of snow grains touching fabric.
Nearly two weeks had passed since that explosion.
Her body recovered quickly.
Even faster than when she first arrived in Victoriana.
On the eighth day, she could already turn over by herself.
On the tenth day, she could sit up to eat.
Today was the twelfth day.
Not only could she get out of bed and walk, but she was also dragged out of the hospital room by Victoria von Hohenheim with an enthusiasm that brooked no refusal.
"Pavela! Did you know? Studies have shown that sugar in sweets can stimulate the body to secrete endorphins, and endorphins can accelerate wound healing! This was taught in physiology class at St. Sophia Academy! Cecilia can testify!"
As Victoria said this, her blonde hair shone brightly in the winter sun, her emerald-green eyes filled with sincerity.
Cecilia stood behind her, adding expressionlessly: "She mixed up three lessons' worth of content. That's not what endorphins mean."
"The details aren't important!"
Victoria waved her hand, "What's important is—the caramel hazelnut mille-feuille from 'Lady Silver Spoon' patisserie! Second street on the left from the main gate of St. Sophia Academy! Hanna is on duty today! The caramel she makes is darker in color, slightly bitter in taste, but paired with crushed hazelnuts, it's just—per—fect!"
Pavela looked at Victoria's face, slightly flushed with excitement, and at Cecilia's calm eyes behind her that seemed to say, 'I've given up trying to stop her.'
She opened her mouth, wanting to say that her right arm was still in a bandage, the bones not fully healed yet.
And that if Eleanor found out she had sneaked out, she'd probably break her other arm too.
But Victoria had already linked arms with her less-injured side. ƒгeewebnovёl.com
The grip was gentle yet firm, like a large, fluffy dog holding its favorite toy in its mouth.
Pavela sighed.
Forget it.
After all, Eleanor just happened to be away from the academy today.
And so, she was dragged to "Lady Silver Spoon" patisserie.
The caramel hazelnut mille-feuille was indeed delicious.
Victoria hadn't lied to her.
Pavela ate two pieces.
Victoria ate four pieces.
Cecilia ate one and a half pieces; the remaining half was snatched by Victoria.
If she could just return quickly enough, without Eleanor discovering the fact that she had sneaked out...
Today could have been considered a perfect day.
Unfortunately, on the way back, she took a shortcut and ran into this scene.
...
Igor was a member of the Fire of Freedom.
She was not surprised.
To be more precise, she had recognized it the first time she met Igor, back on the battlefield during the opening exercise.
Just like with Natasha.
The calluses on Natasha's tiger's mouth, the wear patterns on her knuckles, her habit of shifting her center of gravity forward when exerting force—all pointed to the same training system.
And Igor was even more obvious.
His gait, his alertness patterns, his instinctive reaction the moment he was knocked down.
These things weren't taught at the academy, nor could they be developed in the black-market fights of the slums.
However, the reason Pavela could recognize these two individuals' identities wasn't due to any special identification skills.
There was only one simple reason.
She was also a member of the Fire of Freedom.
Or rather—Pavel Ivanovich Sokolov had also once been a member of the Fire of Freedom.
Igor, under her foot, was still trying to piece together her identity from the limited information.
She could feel the subtle changes in the muscles at the back of his neck—no longer struggling, but thinking.
A clever young man.
Just like his sister.
Pavela's gaze passed over the back of Igor's head, landing on the darkness blurred by snowflakes at the end of the alley.
Natasha and the other two had already gone far.
Three paths, dispersing separately.
Very standard operational discipline.
She withdrew her gaze, her eyes unconsciously sweeping over the body on the ground not far away.
A young man.
Wearing glasses.
The cut on his neck was clean, the kind only a trained person could make with a single stroke.
His glasses were askew, one lens cracked, with a few drops of already congealing blood on it.
Pavela looked away.
Back in the Punishment Camp, she had already seen too many dead people.
Younger than this, more gruesome than this, more undeserving of death than this.
If she had to spend time lamenting over every corpse, she herself would have long been lying in the snow of Kaldburg.
But she was indeed thinking about some things.
About the "Fire of Freedom."
About what this organization was doing now.
About herself.
"Fire of Freedom."
This name had circulated in the underworld of the Usar Union for many years.
The Imperial Security Bureau's files referred to it as a "revolutionary organization."
The Usar Ministry of Internal Affairs' wanted notices described it as a "rebel armed force."
And among the ordinary people whose lives had been crushed by the war, it was sometimes called "the last hope," sometimes "a bunch of madmen."
None of these descriptions were entirely wrong.
Pavela's understanding of this organization was far deeper than that of most members, but also far shallower than she wished.
She knew the history of the Fire of Freedom could be traced back over a decade, initially just a grumbling session of a few veterans and unemployed workers in a back room of a tavern.
She knew its organizational structure was a strict single-line contact system, where each branch only knew its superior and subordinate, with almost no horizontal intersections.
She knew its level of infiltration within Usar far exceeded what outsiders imagined.
From border outposts to inland factories, from the military grassroots to government clerks, their people were everywhere.
But what was the organization's ultimate goal?
Pavel did not know.
Her superior had never told her, and she had never asked.
In the rules of the Fire of Freedom, "do not ask about things you shouldn't know" was an ironclad law.
Those who violated this iron law usually didn't get a second chance to violate it.
But there was one thing Pavel was certain of.
At least when she joined, the goal of the Fire of Freedom—or rather, the goal presented before her—was aligned with her own goal.
To stop this foolish war.
This war that had been going on since before she crossed over to this world, that continued after she crossed over, that showed no signs of stopping from the time she was thrown into the Punishment Camp to when she "died" in Kaldburg—a long, meaningless war that had swallowed countless lives.
Pavel hated this war.
She hated it for taking away her peace, for turning her into a killing machine, for making her wake up from nightmares every night, for forcing her to do things that only someone who wasn't herself should do, in a body that wasn't her own, in a world that wasn't her own.
She only wanted to live a peaceful life.
This wish had never changed since the first day she crossed over.
It didn't change in the Punishment Camp, it didn't change in Kaldburg, and it didn't change after becoming Pavela von Schwartz.
And the Fire of Freedom told her: We also want to end this «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» war.
So she joined.
