The Saint of Ruin, Apollyon

The corridors of home had always been quiet—grand, pristine, and filled with an ever-present sense of discipline. But tonight, that silence sat heavier than usual. It clung to me, wrapping around my thoughts as I approached my mother's chamber.

[Notice: Increased heart rate detected. Stress levels elevated.]

I know. I know.

[Analysis: Psychological distress response consistent with first recorded human elimination.]

I clenched my fingers into fists. Just say 'killing someone,' Great Sage.

A pause. Then—

[Correction: Psychological distress response consistent with first recorded killing.]

Better. Not comforting, but better.

I forced myself to focus on the door ahead. It wasn't like I could dwell on this now. My mother was sick—seriously sick—and no one had told me. If I hadn't fought Alistair, if I hadn't won, if dad hadn't been forced to acknowledge me after… I wouldn't even have known.

I exhaled slowly before knocking. A brief pause, then a muffled, tired voice answered. "Enter."

I pushed the door open.

Lelyah Tomaszewski, the unwavering force of my childhood, lay propped up against her pillows, exhaustion clear even through the regal composure she held. She looked—wrong.

There was a sickly pallor to her skin, a sheen of sweat across her brow. The slight tremor in her fingers as she set aside a folded letter on her nightstand didn't go unnoticed.

She wasn't just ill. She was weak.

Something was terribly wrong.

She studied me, golden eyes sharp despite the fatigue weighing down her features. "I assume you're here to demand answers."

Anger bubbled beneath my skin before I could stop it. "You think?"

Lelyah's lips pressed together. "You should be resting, not—"

"No." My voice came out sharper than intended. "No, you don't get to act like nothing's wrong. I—" My breath hitched, and I forced myself to keep my voice steady. "I didn't even know. No one told me. Do you—do you understand how insane that is?"

Her expression flickered—something like regret, brief, before she steeled herself. "You had enough to deal with."

A sharp laugh escaped me, bitter and exhausted all at once. "Oh, yeah, totally. Just finished proving I'm not an illegitimate disgrace, fought a noble who thought I wasn't worth the dirt beneath his boots, then—" my throat tightened—"then killed him, and now I find out you're—"

I stopped. The words sick or dying wouldn't leave my mouth. They felt wrong. Too real.

Lelyah inhaled slowly, studying me. Then, as if catching something in my words, her brows furrowed slightly. "Wait. You killed—" She sat up straighter, eyes flashing. "What are you talking about?"

I blinked. "What?"

"You killed someone?" Her voice was sharper now, her fatigue momentarily overridden. "Who? When?"

I hesitated, then swallowed thickly. "Alistair Dagan."

Lelyah went very, very still.

"…What?" she repeated, quieter now.

My nails dug into my palms. "He—challenged me to a duel. He wanted to humiliate Tomaszewski, to prove that I didn't deserve to be heir. And when he tried to go after one of our soldiers, I—" I swallowed, the taste of bile rising in my throat. "I killed him."

Silence.

Then—

"You what?!" The rage in her voice was immediate. Not at me—no, not just at me.

She turned sharply to the door. "Satoshi." His name was a hiss, dripping with fury. "He let this happen? He stood there and let our daughter—"

"Stop." I stepped forward, my voice raw, cutting through the anger before it could spiral further. "He didn't let it happen. He saw me first, not as his daughter, but as the heir of Tomaszewski." I took a breath. "And the duel was spontaneous. No one could have stopped it. Not even him."

Lelyah turned back toward me, eyes blazing with something unreadable. "…You're telling me this just happened, out of nowhere?"

I nodded. "Yes."

Her fingers curled into fists. "I was going to tell you Alistair was visiting. I didn't think it mattered. I didn't—" She cut herself off, exhaling sharply through her nose. "He wasn't even supposed to be here."

I stared at her. "You knew he was coming?"

She met my gaze, visibly frustrated. "I meant to tell you, but I got sick. It wasn't exactly my priority."

I took a step back, my mind reeling. "So that means… House Dagan didn't know."

Lelyah exhaled harshly, rubbing her temple. "No. And now we have a bigger problem." Her voice dropped lower. "His family will come looking for him."

The air in the room thickened. House Dagan was an outside noble house, not a direct player in our politics—but they were still powerful. His death wouldn't go unnoticed.

And I had been the one to kill him.

The nausea returned.

[Warning: Elevated stress response detected. Immediate regulation needed.]

I sucked in a sharp breath, but the moment I did, the memories crashed in all at once—the heat of the fight, the final flicker of hatred in Alistair's eyes, the way my fan cut through flesh like paper.

Bile rose in my throat. I turned away, my stomach twisting violently.

[Critical Notice: Host experiencing first-time post-kill trauma. Engaging distress intervention—]

It was too late. My body convulsed, and I barely managed to stumble forward before nausea overtook me.

Lelyah's voice sharpened. "Chiori?"

I barely registered her concern before I dropped to my knees, my stomach rejecting everything inside me. The sharp, acrid scent filled my nose as I emptied the contents of my stomach into the waiting basin.

My breath came in short, ragged gasps. My fingers trembled as I gripped the edge of the basin, shaking, shaking, shaking.

I had killed someone.

Not in a spar, not in a simulation, not in theory.

I had taken a life.

[Observation: Trauma response engaged. Probability of long-term psychological impact: 72%.]

I don't need statistics. My throat burned. Just let me— I swallowed thickly. Just let me feel this.

A pause. Then—

[Understood. No further analysis needed.]

A cool cloth pressed against my forehead. Lelyah had moved beside me, her movements slow but steady as she wiped the sweat from my skin.

She let me sit in silence for a moment before speaking. "What happened?"

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, my limbs feeling heavy. My throat burned, raw and dry, the acrid taste of bile still lingering. My body felt like it had run through a storm—shaky, weak, and cold.

My voice cracked. "He—he challenged me. To a duel."

Lelyah stilled.

I forced myself to continue. "He wanted to prove that we were weak. Wanted me to lose in front of everyone. So we fought. And when he—when he went too far, when he tried to hurt someone else—I killed him."

The words left my lips and felt heavier than anything I had ever spoken before.

Lelyah was quiet for a long time.

Then, finally—

"You had no choice."

A harsh laugh scraped my throat. "Doesn't mean it feels any better."

"No," she agreed. "It doesn't."

I squeezed my eyes shut, breathing deep, trying to force down the nausea, the trembling, the weight of it all. "I don't—" My throat burned. "I don't regret winning. I don't regret protecting my people. But I—" I swallowed thickly. "He still died by my hand."

Lelyah's voice was unreadable. "And if he had lived?"

I didn't hesitate. "He would have kept coming after me. After our house. He would have hurt people. He—" My hands clenched. "He deserved it."

Lelyah's gaze moved from me to the Gunsen still clutched in my hands. Her sharp golden eyes darkened, the fever in her expression momentarily overshadowed by something else—something deeper, something old.

I stiffened under her scrutiny. The weight of the fan in my grasp suddenly felt heavier.

"Where did you get that?" Her voice wasn't raised, but there was an undeniable edge to it.

I hesitated before answering, gripping the Gunsen tighter. "Calamitas."

Lelyah inhaled sharply through her nose, her lips pressing into a thin line. A flicker of something—disgust?—crossed her face.

"Of course," she muttered, almost to herself. Then, louder, "And you accepted it?"

I frowned. "It was a weapon meant for the duel. It saved my life."

Her fingers twitched slightly, as if resisting the urge to reach for the fan herself. "She would give you a weapon. She always did have a flair for equipping those she finds 'interesting.'"

The bitterness in her tone was unmistakable.

I had known for a long time that my mother and Calamitas harbored bad blood between them, but this was the first time I had seen such an immediate reaction. I braced myself, expecting a full lecture about how Calamitas was dangerous, untrustworthy—about how I shouldn't have let her influence me.

But instead, she exhaled heavily, as if a weight settled onto her shoulders. "It's fitting, in a way. I suppose you would inherit that, too."

"Inherit what?" I asked warily.

She was silent for a moment before her gaze flickered toward the fan once more. "The art of war."

I blinked. "What?"

Her fingers curled into the bedsheets, and for the first time, her expression was unreadable. "You weren't the first in our family to wield a Summoner's power for battle."

I swallowed. A Summoner's power for battle?

"You're saying you… fought?"

Lelyah let out a humorless chuckle, shaking her head slightly. "People often forget that Summoners can be weapons of war. They see our magic and think of support, healing, a secondary role. They don't realize the devastation we can bring if trained properly."

I remained silent, waiting.

She exhaled slowly, then finally spoke the words that sent a shiver down my spine.

"There was a time when people called me The Saint of Ruin, Apollyon."

I stiffened, my breath hitching in my throat. The name wasn't entirely unfamiliar. I had heard it before, whispered in old war accounts—never confirmed, never directly tied to my mother. A phantom title belonging to a fearsome force on the battlefield.

"You're her?" I whispered, disbelief creeping into my voice.

Apollyon. The bringer of ruin. The goddess of war and summoning.

She smiled faintly, but there was no warmth in it. "Once."

My mother—the ever-composed, diplomatic Lady Lelyah Tomaszewski—had once been a war mage feared across battlefields.

And I had never known.

"Then why do you—" I stopped myself before the words came out wrong.

She understood anyway. "Why do I detest fighting?"

I nodded, unsure of what to say.

Her golden eyes met mine, and for a moment, I saw the weight she carried—the reason she despised what Calamitas stood for, why she was always so adamant about keeping me out of battle.

"Because I know what war does to people, Chiori." Her voice was quiet but sharp, cutting through the space between us like a blade. "I know what it does to the ones who wield it, the ones who survive it."

She hesitated before adding, "And I would burn my own legacy to the ground if it meant keeping you from becoming what I once was."

Silence filled the room.

The Gunsen felt heavier in my hands.

I gripped it tighter.

Lelyah's eyes flickered down, scanning me from head to toe. I saw it—the sharp, brief flash of disapproval as she took in my torn dress, the grime caking my sleeves, the dried sweat clinging to my skin.

Under normal circumstances, she would have been furious. A noble should always present themselves properly, with dignity, with grace. Tearing a perfectly tailored dress? Unacceptable.

But she didn't say anything.

Instead, she sighed, rubbing her temple with two fingers before exhaling sharply through her nose. "You reek."

I blinked. "Huh?"

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Sweat. Blood. Dust. And you're still in that—" she waved a hand at my ruined dress "—thing."

I glanced down at myself, realizing just how bad I looked. The once-elegant gown was now a mess of torn fabric, dirt, and dried bloodstains. The right side of my skirt had been deliberately cut for mobility during the duel, the slit now frayed from movement. I hadn't even registered how uncomfortable it was until now.

Lelyah let out a slow breath, her tone softer than before. "Go wash up, Chiori. Change into something clean."

I hesitated. "But—"

"No," she cut me off, her voice firm. "No arguments. You've done enough today. Clean yourself up before you collapse."

Her words weren't unkind, but there was no room for debate.

For a moment, I considered protesting. There was still so much to say, so much to process. But the exhaustion hit me all at once—the weight of everything, the "Family Gathering", the duel, the accusations, the realization of what I had done. My limbs felt heavy, my head foggy. I needed the time alone.

"…Alright." I turned toward the door, pausing just briefly.

Lelyah was still watching me, golden eyes sharp but unreadable. There was something there—something deeper than just exhaustion or concern.

"Mother," I said slowly. "About what you told me…"

She raised an eyebrow, waiting.

I swallowed, then shook my head. "Never mind."

Lelyah sighed, pressing a hand to her temple again. "Go, little star."

I nodded, gripping the Gunsen tightly in my hand before slipping out of the room.