Free Web NovelEleanor von Schwartz found it difficult to describe her current mood.
From the moment she rushed out of the Gendarmerie headquarters, her brain had been operating at high speed.
Margaret said there were members of the Iron Teeth Society in the Old District.
Margaret said a Sealing Formation targeting Ferrymen had been set up there.
Margaret said Pavela shouldn't be there.
But Pavela was there.
While running, Eleanor had been constantly deducing the possible scenarios.
Best-case scenario: Pavela was just passing through and left the area before the operation began.
But that was impossible; scarlet and deep blue explosions had occurred one after another—Pavela must have been caught up in it.
Second-best scenario: Pavela was merely caught in the crossfire, but the Gendarmerie intervened in time to take her and the Iron Teeth Society members into custody.
This possibility began to waver when she heard the third explosion.
Third scenario: Pavela engaged the Iron Teeth Society, but the formation suppressed the Return Power of both sides, the battle fell into a stalemate, and the Gendarmerie took the opportunity to close the net.
This possibility shattered completely when she heard the cannon fire of a mecha and the sound of light screens shattering.
Now, she didn't know what she would see.
The closer she got to the Old District, the more chaotic the commotion became.
First, several explosions.
Then, a golden pillar of light rose, forming a complex pattern in /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ the sky.
Next came the continuous sound of glass shattering.
Eleanor recognized that sound.
It was the characteristic crisp sound made when the light screen of the Path of the Magician was smashed.
Once, twice, three times...
She lost count.
There were too many.
So many that she began to wonder what exactly had happened in that area.
Later, even the sounds of mecha and gunfire appeared.
...
By the time she ran around the last corner, the snow had stopped.
The snowflakes dancing across the sky lost all momentum in an instant, hovering in mid-air before falling silently.
Like the curtain of a performance being released from its ropes above.
Her military boots crunched several more times in the accumulated snow before she came to a halt.
Margaret also stopped two steps behind her.
The two stood at the exit of the alley, looking at the Crossroads ahead.
A war had just taken place here.
Not a skirmish.
A war.
At the Crossroads, the snow had been trampled into a mess, revealing the black cobblestone road beneath.
There were deep gashes on the cobblestones left by axe blades, charred craters formed by exploding arrows, and spiderweb-like cracks where something heavy had crashed down.
On the walls of the surrounding buildings, traces of chipped brick and stone were visible everywhere.
Some were indentations from blunt force, some were incisions from sharp blades, and in several places, holes the size of washbasins had blasted through the walls, their edges charred, exposing the wooden beams and steam pipes inside.
A lamppost had been snapped in half; its upper section, with a still-smoking lampshade, lay in the snow, the broken glass reflecting tiny points of moonlight.
Four bodies lay in the four directions of the Crossroads.
None were dead.
They had merely lost consciousness.
Eleanor could see the faint rise and fall of their chests. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm
The Short Axe Man lay face down at the base of the north wall, his arms splayed at unnatural angles, with a shallow bloodstain on his nape like an indentation left by a blade's tip.
The Archer lay on her side at the entrance of the eastern alley, her longbow three paces away; the index and middle fingers of her right hand were swollen like carrots, and her finger tabs were nowhere to be seen.
A short figure was curled up next to a pile of broken bricks on the west side, all ten fingertips bloody as if they had tried to claw at the ground before losing consciousness.
A tall, thin cloaked figure lay face-up to the south; the cloak was torn open, revealing a black bodysuit beneath, with an irregular bruise on the chest shaped like a direct hit from a blunt instrument.
Then there were the gendarmes.
Eleanor counted them.
Eight.
All were down on the ground.
Three lay at the edge of the Crossroads in various poses, but all maintained an action as if they were trying to rush toward the center.
One person's hand was still stretched forward as if grasping for something; another lay on their side with a leg still in a mid-stride position; the third lay prone with their face buried in the snow, a clear footprint on their back.
The other five lay further away, scattered in various corners around the Crossroads.
One lay next to a kicked-open wooden door; the door panel had fresh cracks, as if someone had crashed into it while rushing out.
Another lay behind a pile of wooden crates; the crates had been overturned, and several potatoes and a cabbage had rolled out, traveling several meters across the snow.
Eleanor's gaze swept over these fallen gendarmes, pausing for a moment on their uniforms.
The deep blue uniforms of the Imperial Gendarmerie, with the silver insignia of the Special Operations Group on the epaulets.
She recognized this insignia.
This was Lieutenant Graf's squad.
Then she saw the mecha.
A Light Scout Mecha, model 'Hound-II', standard Imperial Gendarmerie equipment primarily used for rapid response and fire support in urban environments.
Standing about four meters tall with an inverted-joint leg design, it had a pair of foldable steam-powered propulsion wings on its back and the Gendarmerie crest emblazoned on its chest armor.
It had fallen right in the center of the Crossroads.
The entire mecha lay on its side; the knee joint of the right leg was bent at an angle clearly inconsistent with its mechanical structure, and the elbow armor of the left arm was completely torn open, exposing twisted hydraulic rods and snapped transmission chains.
The cockpit door was half-open, and it was empty.
The pilot lay two meters away from the mecha, face down, with a lump on the back of his head as if he had been struck by something.
Eleanor moved her gaze from the mecha and continued to scan the Crossroads.
There were more marks on the ground.
Footprints.
Many, many footprints.
There were deep marks from gendarme boots, irregular tracks left by the combat boots of Iron Teeth Society members, and a trail of particularly small, shallow, and irregularly spaced footprints that extended from one end of the Crossroads to the other before stopping in the center.
The owner of those footprints was sitting there now.
Sitting on the chest armor of the fallen 'Hound-II' mecha.
Pavela von Schwartz.
Her younger sister.
Her back was against the half-open cockpit door, her legs dangled over the edge of the armor about half a meter off the ground, swinging slightly in the air.
Her right arm was still useless, hanging at her side; the bloodstains on her sleeve had turned from bright red to dark brown.
Her school uniform skirt was covered in mud, snow, and blood; a large piece of the hem had been torn away, revealing her bandaged calf, which was also dirty with new blood seeping through in several spots.
The school jacket barely hung on her body; the top two buttons were missing and the collar was open, revealing a shirt that was equally bloodstained.
Her short silver hair was soaked, sticking to her forehead and cheeks in strands; water—whether melted snow or sweat—was still dripping from the tips.
Her face was dirty too.
Mud, blood, and a black soot likely left by explosions were smeared across her pale skin, creating a face in a state of utter disarray.
A dried bloodstain extended from her lower lip to her chin, looking like a casual stroke from a red pen.
But her eyes were bright.
On a base of light grayish-blue, a flowing golden halo circled her pupils, flickering slightly in the night like two ignited little suns.
She just sat there on the mecha, head tilted back, looking at the sky.
The snow had stopped, but the clouds had not yet dispersed.
The leaden clouds hung low like a massive, heavy curtain, shrouding all of Eisenburg.
A corner of the moon peeked through a gap in the clouds, casting a pale light over the Crossroads, the fallen bodies, the broken lamppost, the collapsed mecha, and Pavela's upturned face.
Her expression was very peaceful.
Like a farmer who had finished a day's work and was sitting on a ridge watching the sunset.
Like an athlete who had finished a marathon and was sitting by the finish line drinking water.
Like a housewife who had finished cleaning the house and was sitting on a windowsill daydreaming.
Tired.
Finished.
And so she sat there.
Waiting for someone to come get her.
Eleanor stood at the alley entrance, watching her.
She watched for about five seconds.
Then she took a step forward.
Her military boots made a soft crunching sound in the snow.
Pavela heard it.
Her head slowly lowered from its gaze toward the sky, turning toward the source of the sound.
The gazes of the two met in the center of the Crossroads.
Pavela's mouth twitched.
It was as if she wanted to smile but couldn't.
Or perhaps she did smile, but it was so slight it was almost imperceptible on that face covered in mud and blood.
Eleanor continued walking forward.
One step, two steps, three steps.
She walked around the Short Axe Man on the ground, around the broken lamppost, around the arrows and broken bricks scattered everywhere, and around the unconscious gendarmes and their dropped weapons.
She walked up to the mecha and stopped.
She looked up at Pavela sitting on the mecha's chest armor.
Pavela also looked down at her.
The two looked at each other for a few seconds.
Then Eleanor spoke.
"Come down."
Her voice was very soft.
It wasn't a commanding tone.
Nor was it a pleading tone.
It was simply stating a fact: you should come down now.
Pavela blinked.
She used her left hand to brace against the mecha's armor, trying to stand up.
But she couldn't put strength into her left shoulder; she tried twice but failed to shift from sitting to standing.
On the third attempt, her left hand slipped and she leaned forward, looking as if she were about to fall off the mecha.
Eleanor reached out her hands.
She caught her steadily.
One hand supported Pavela's back while the other went under her knees, lifting her off the mecha the moment she lost her balance.
A bridal carry.
Just like last time in the crater.
The back of Pavela's head rested on Eleanor's shoulder, her right arm hung weakly at her side, and her left hand instinctively grabbed the lapel of Eleanor's military overcoat.
Her body was very light.
Lighter than last time.
So light that Eleanor's heart sank.
Blood loss, dehydration, physical exhaustion—all these things combined made this sixteen-year-old girl weigh at least five kilograms less than normal.
Eleanor could feel Pavela's breathing.
It was shallow and rapid, each exhale accompanied by a faint, wet noise, as if there were fluid sloshing in her lungs.
She could feel Pavela's heartbeat.
Much faster than normal, like a small bird trapped in a cage desperately fluttering its wings.
She could feel Pavela's body temperature.
Lower than normal; icy skin transmitted through the soaked school uniform to her arms, like holding a stone just dug out of the snow.
Eleanor looked down at Pavela in her arms.
Those light grayish-blue eyes with golden halos around the pupils were also looking at her.
There was no fear in her gaze, no unease, no "did I get into trouble again" anxiety.
Only a very pure, very clean emotion.
Like a small child who had been playing outside all day and was covered in mud, seeing her parent coming to get her.
"Thank you for coming to get me,"
Pavela said.
