Karsten IF

Chapter 2: Introspection After Fog

Karsten IF

Chapter 2: Introspection After Fog

"Irony is most cruel."

She watched its last eyelid close like a castle gate. The beast's anguished cries were cut, and its moans ceased to invade the ears of any listeners, leaving behind only one possibility. It was a moment that shall be carved in history. There was unshakable jubilation in the air, fuelled by the aura of victory and joy of every soldier present on the battlefield.

She moved forward, wincing at the wetness of her sweat-damp apparel, like a hassle born to balance itself with her good fortune.

In this grand celebration, the pain in her legs could not be any more minuscule. She was certain some of the few who survived the battle didn't even show a hint of despair in their eyes as they hollered and cheered. As if the injuries the survivors had allocated were minor in nature. One look backward to the array of corpses and unconscious men lining up the grassy hill told her the truth. But alas, she pressed her eyes to look forward and gaze at the source of all this celebration.

A mythical force of nature that transcended evolution and became a prime predator that treated humans as its most common prey. The sight was so magical and pure yet demonic and horrid she felt pity for not being able to capture this moment as a painting to grace her mansion walls.

Crusch's breathing hitched; her legs froze.

It's finally done.

Her expression hardened, and her air of regality and authority stood firm, but even she could not help but let out an inaudible breath of relief—her nearly broken chestplate jostling in the process.

The White Whale was dead, and the army was celebrating the glorious and legendary act they had helped commit. It was a great achievement, one she had been striving toward for a long time. All those caught in the wrath of the Great Calamity may now rest and relieve themselves of resentment.

The majesty of the stance before her is one she'd always picture when hearing of myths and fairy tales. The crooked blade was held high in the air, droplets of crimson dark fell from its sharp tip, coating the mirroring steel in a reserve of gore fit for the handler who cocked it forward. Above the hulking corpse of the demon, the wizened old man serving her royal sigil stood proud, head held high.

The White Whale has been vanquished, and her knight delivered the final blow.

So why does this feel...

Her heart gave a sudden burn that touched upon her lungs and upper chest. She found that something unexpected had filled her when excitement and passion encapsulated the mood of her victorious soldiers.

It was only when her elegant gaze fell upon the monster's torn and tattered corpse, did she finally feel something.

Her pain was not one of triumph and appreciation of her achievement. She was not proud of what happened on this field today, not yet.

All she could feel was maddening anger—a fury that took hold over her nerves and stiffened her legs to the point of making her seem like a statue.

Never one to let her anger take over, never to be the one to have her sides in such pain and let a grimace show upon her expression; there were far too many eyes around to see such weakness.

And since when did Crusch care about showing one's weakness to her allies?

Were these my allies to begin with?

A halting thought froze her very soul in its place. Her anger and royal cause impaled the soles of her shoes as blades would embed the dirt and the grass blades. The soul within her was frozen from a self-aggrandizing venture into her own mind.