Chapter 2 : The Saintess Who Killed Me - Part 2

"Have you truly given up!?"

I asked her again, my heart aching.

Silence was her only answer.

She could no longer feel; her silhouette... seemed distant.

As if she had never belonged to me.

My hands wouldn't respond.

My body, dragged down by the cold and the loss, was little more than an empty shell.

But even then, my mind...

my mind still clung to her, to that illusion of being together again.

It still longed for the woman who once held me when everything else was falling apart.

And in that last flicker, on the frayed edges of my consciousness...

another memory came.

.

.

.

Rain pounded against the windows of our room.

Helena sat at the desk, a quill in hand, her legs lightly covered by a blanket.

—My throat hurts – I murmured from the bed, my voice still hoarse from the riots we'd faced that day.

—Then be quiet – she answered without looking at me – I'm writing.

—Another letter to your sister?

She shook her head, the quill never stopping.

—No. It's not a letter. It's just... something of mine. Nothing important.

—A diary?

She hesitated for a few seconds before replying.

—A novel, I suppose. But don't laugh, okay?

"Ha, ha, ha..." I couldn't help it — a laugh escaped me.

I covered my mouth at once when I felt her sharp glare on me... but it was already too late.

One of the books from her shelf flew straight at my face.

I dodged by barely tilting my neck. When I looked back at her, she already had her hand on the lamp.

—Wait, wait! I'm sorry! It was a reflex... I wasn't expecting it – I said, raising my hands in a pitiful gesture.

Helena gave me one last warning glare, but after a few seconds, she returned to her notebook, pretending indifference while I heard her suppress a laugh.

.

.

.

The echo of that laugh lingered in my mind for a few seconds more... and then it shattered.

The metallic sound of her sword clashing against mine drowned it out forever.

CLASH! CLANG! CLANG!

The world around me turned red again, the smell of blood and mud became my reality.

Helena launched a flurry of relentless strikes.

My body, worn out by wounds, barely responded.

Each slash I managed to dodge was a fleeting victory; a reminder that if I stopped, I'd die right there.

The air around her seemed to vibrate. Even without mana coating her sword, her strength was brutal.

Every blow shook my bones as if trying to rip me from this world.

I counterattacked as best I could. I managed only a shallow cut.

Not enough. Not against Helena.

«The Apostle of Night»

That damn title etched like a scar on her chest wasn't mere decoration.

Her sword proved it with every strike.

CLANG!

The impact forced me two steps back.

CLASH!

Another slash cut the air inches from my throat.

Her strikes grew more merciless. More ruthless.

Old wounds came back to haunt me.

My left arm trembled. My right shoulder no longer obeyed at all.

Unable to defend myself, I watched in slow motion as her thrust broke through my guard and struck my side.

—Ghhk...

The choked cry died in my throat.

Blood spurted out hot, soaking my waist.

I fell to my knees.

Breath burned in my lungs. My arms shook.

But I was still there, unable to let go of my sword's hilt.

She wasn't panting. She didn't waver.

Not a single tremor in her arms.

Not a drop of doubt in her eyes.

Was this the power of a saint? Was this how a chosen one fought?

No.

This wasn't her. Not completely.

The figure before me wasn't the heroine I fell in love with.

Nor the companion who once cared for me.

She was a puppet.

A masterpiece meticulously shaped by unseen hands, moved like a marionette by those the world never stopped to question.

Every one of her actions —her words, her silences — was arranged as carefully as the threads of a Greek tragedy.

And I, the fool who dreamed of changing its ending,

was nothing but another piece on their board.

...

There was a time I thought all this was a trial.

A fair punishment for defying the heavens.

That if I suffered enough, maybe... in the end... they'd give her back to me.

But it wasn't so.

I lost my comrades.

My family.

And now, before my eyes, they tore away the only thing I still had left:

"The woman I loved."

Her sword fell again, relentless.

I raised mine as best I could... but it was useless.

CRACK!

Helena's steel struck violently and disarmed me in a dry blow.

My weapon spun through the air and fell behind me with a metallic sound that echoed like an ending.

Then I saw it.

Her face.

Cold.

Spattered with blood.

And amid that mask...

a slight tremor.

Not in her hands. In her eyes.

So tiny, so imperceptible that only someone who once truly knew her could have seen it.

Whatever it was...

it vanished.

Like a distorted reflection on water.

And with it, everything I clung to believe.

There were no doubts left, only a bitter certainty.

And so, at last, I accepted it:

She was no longer Helena.