The cart rattled and bumped across the field.
"Hooo..."
Zeke lay sprawled on top of the cart, staring blankly up at the sky as he exhaled a stream of cigarette smoke toward the heavens.
He'd created a cloud in an otherwise spotless sky.
He'd been repeating this for days now.
During the journey, he did nothing but lie there smoking in a daze.
His emotions were a tangled mess.
...Should he even go back?
That was the question gnawing at him.
Part of him desperately wanted to rush back as quickly as possible, terrified that his Master might be suffering under some grave curse that required seeking out a Saintess.
But another part drowned in self-loathing for the filial impiety he'd committed against her, insisting he had no right to return.
Even as he wrestled with these thoughts, his body told the honest truth.
He was heading back to the estate.
His anxiety over his Master's wellbeing outweighed any guilt or sense of sin.
Zeke rummaged through his pockets.
He pulled out his cigarette case.
"Tch...!"
It was empty.
Zeke crumpled the case and tossed it out of the cart.
"Hey, buddy."
Zeke looked up toward the voice.
The coachman driving the cart was holding out a cigarette.
"...Thanks."
Zeke gave a quick bow of his head, took the cigarette, and put it in his mouth.
Chiiiik!
He pulled out a match and lit it.
Leaning his head against the cart's railing, he gazed up at the sky once more.
"Hey, buddy, got something weighing on your mind?"
The coachman tossed the question out casually.
He was pretending nonchalance, but truth be told, Zeke had caught his attention from the moment he'd climbed aboard.
With his disheveled appearance, spending all day lying there with deep sighs and chain-smoking, it was obvious the guy had a story.
The chatty coachman had held his tongue until now, waiting for the right moment, but finally, an opening had appeared.
"Hooo..."
Zeke exhaled a plume of smoke and spoke.
"...I've committed a grave sin."
"A sin?"
The coachman glanced back.
"You kill somebody or something?"
He said it like a joke.
Zeke let out a wry chuckle.
"That might've been better."
"Better than what?"
"I hurt someone precious to me."
Ah, figures.
Woman trouble.
The classic case of a guy screwing up and the girl calling it quits.
Happens all the time.
Usually, the one who messed up regrets it big time.
Why did I do that?
I never should've...
I shouldn't have done it that way back then.
They beat themselves up like they're about to die.
And yet, it's all just a stepping stone to growth.
Still, at that age, full of youthful vigor, a woman really is the guy's whole world.
Can't blame him.
Been there myself.
The coachman chuckled to himself.
"You like her that much?"
"Huh?"
"That girl you're talking about."
"Did I say it was a girl?"
"Don't need to. I can tell. It's written all over you."
Zeke straightened up.
How'd he know?
He stared at the coachman's back with wide eyes.
The coachman drove on in silence.
Maybe the guy's some kind of sage?
The thought crossed Zeke's mind.
"So you still like her?"
"Yeah."
"Then what's there to agonize over?"
"Huh?"
"Just grovel and apologize like hell. You miss your shot overthinking it, you're done for. Better to spend that time saying sorry one more time. That's the smart play."
Speaking from experience.
When he'd forgotten their anniversary, agonizing over how to fix it had backfired worse than just jumping straight to profuse apologies—his wife had hit him less, and forgiveness came quicker.
A week's worth of anger wrapped up in three days.
"What if it's something unforgivable?"
"Apologize till it is."
"But..."
"Doesn't matter. You still apologize."
If you've done wrong, you apologize. No exceptions.
Basic common sense.
"If you really like that girl, keep at it with all your heart. She'll see your sincerity eventually and forgive you."
"You think so?"
"Bet on it."
Zeke had pegged him for an ordinary coachman at first.
Now he was seeing the man in a new light.
"...Thanks. You've given me some courage."
The anxiety wasn't fully gone, but he'd resolved to meet his Master and apologize for what happened that day.
If she didn't forgive him, he'd keep going until she did.
With all his heart.
"So, what exactly did you do wrong?"
Probably nothing major.
At worst, got caught cheating.
The guy's face was haggard, sure, but it had that rugged charm haggardness sometimes brings.
The kind of face women go for.
The type that makes you want to protect him.
Stirs up maternal instincts.
"...I got drunk and did something awful."
Zeke forced the words out.
Something he'd never told a soul.
Maybe this sage-like man could offer advice on what to do.
"Grab her ass or something without asking?"
"I... violated her."
"What?"
"She's like a parent to me, and I went and violated her."
The cart screeched to a halt the instant the words left his mouth.
"Get off!!"
The coachman whipped around, face twisted like he'd seen trash.
"How's there scum like you in this world?"
"Huh?"
Zeke blinked in confusion.
"Even drunk, that's no excuse for something so vile. And to someone like a parent? You monster?"
The coachman unleashed a torrent of curses.
"Get the hell off!"
He grabbed Zeke by the collar and hurled him from the cart.
"Ptoo! Filthy scum!"
He spat in Zeke's face and whipped the cart into motion, speeding away.
"..."
Zeke wiped the spit from his face with his sleeve and let out a deep sigh.
Of course...
That was the normal reaction.
Filial impiety wasn't something you could beg forgiveness for.
It was the act of a filthy, loathsome subhuman.
...Should he turn back now?
His newfound confidence shattered, Zeke hesitated for a moment before shaking his head.
He'd resolved to apologize, so he would.
Forgiveness or not.
Zeke staggered to his feet.
That was when the rain began.
"Damn it..."
He trudged toward the forest in the downpour.
The surroundings looked familiar.
Memories started resurfacing one by one.
Almost there.
He'd see his Master soon.
He dragged his heavy feet along.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
2.
Freya gazed out the carriage window.
A drizzle was falling.
The sky had been a clear blue just moments ago.
But in no time, dark clouds had rolled in, unleashing the rain.
Watching the raindrops patter against the window stirred up old memories.
"It rained out of nowhere that day too..."
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
A village reduced to ashes.
The acrid stench of char stung her nostrils.
Mingled sharply with it was the smell of burned flesh.
Clop clop.
Freya walked gracefully through the ruins.
Corpses bumped against her feet here and there.
She stepped over them indifferently.
The first time she'd seen a body, she'd nearly vomited in revulsion.
Now it was just familiar scenery.
She'd witnessed scenes like this—or worse—for centuries, enough to be utterly numb to it.
"Impressive. You didn't run."
The ruined village square.
The fountain's remnants were the only hint it had ever been a square.
That was why she'd come here.
A monster wreathed in flames.
Its body was humanoid, but its head was gone, replaced by roaring flames.
A demon.
A being corrupted by demonic energy into a monster.
Hunting them was Freya's job.
Long ago, she'd struck a deal with the emperor: in exchange for ending the witch hunts, she'd hunt demons.
So whenever one appeared, the Witch of Sorrow herself took priority.
"This job's getting tiresome."
Freya sighed.
She'd been slaying demons for decades now.
"Truly..."
Freya extended her hand in a graceful, dance-like motion.
The demon sensed the danger.
The flames on its head flared brighter.
Boom!
With a explosion, the head-flames lunged at her.
"Tiresome."
Her mana surged.
"...Sleep."
Her quiet murmur echoed, and the oncoming flames scattered like they'd hit a wall, vanishing.
The demon trembled like an aspen leaf.
Its head-flames extinguished completely, and its body went rigid.
Thud!
It toppled backward.
The flames died out entirely.
Dead.
Its body turned to stone, the stone to dust, and the dust scattered on the wind.
Freya picked up the orb on the ground.
The demon's core.
Concentrated demonic energy within.
She pocketed it and turned to leave.
Business done.
As she walked back through the ruins toward her carriage...
"...?"
A survivor.
A boy clutching a charred black corpse.
Tear tracks streaked his cheeks stickily, and his eyes, spent of tears, stared blankly.
Freya ignored him and kept walking.
The knights would come to clean up, and if they found the boy, they'd hand him off to a church-run orphanage.
No need to get involved.
Just ignore him.
As always.
"..."
Yes, as always.
Just ignore him.
For some whimsical reason, Freya approached the boy.
Just then, the rain started.
The closer she got, the harder it poured.
"Humans die anyway."
She spoke to the boy.
Why had she?
Freya herself didn't know.
A whim.
A simple whim.
A tiny urge to shake up her centuries-old monotonous routine, just a little.
That was what guided her.
"I don't know how precious that human was to you, but humans are fated to part eventually. You just got unlucky, and it happened sooner."
The boy's hands trembled.
"Sh-she... died...?"
Freya tilted her head.
"Is she... really... sob... really dead, Mommy... d-dead...?"
Isn't it obvious?
The face was burned beyond recognition.
She chided him inwardly, then realized why he'd asked.
"Can't you see?"
He wasn't lifeless.
His eyes had severe burns.
Looking closer, he faced her direction but stared into empty space.
"I can't tell if that's your mother you're holding, but if it is... yes, she's dead."
Burned black like a lump of coal.
Everything below the shoulders reduced to ash.
The boy began to wail, trembling violently.
The death of family.
Sad.
Yes, sad.
But not enough to bring tears to Freya.
You need family to empathize.
Born a witch, Freya had always been alone.
So no empathy.
Try thinking of it as losing a precious one, not family.
Still no.
Sadness felt awkward.
When was the last time she'd cried?
Centuries ago.
She felt melancholy daily, though.
Yes, every day.
Every day was melancholy.
The meaning of existence.
The purpose of life.
Why am I alive?
Centuries of demon-hunting had stripped her of purpose.
Her magic research wasn't love for magic—it was boredom, grasping for something new.
Freya shook off the stray thoughts with a sneer.
"The knights will come if you stay here."
She told the boy.
"Remember you're alive. That's what matters most."
Freya turned from the boy, who fumbled over the corpse sobbing.
"...Must be tough."
After a few steps...
The boy's cries, mingled with the rain, stopped.
Freya glanced back.
The boy had collapsed.
"Dead?"
No.
Just minor burns, probably.
His mother must've shielded him from the flames.
"Maternal love, they call it?"
Freya returned to the boy.
"...Maternal love."
Curiosity stirred in Freya.
She knew what it was.
A mother's instinctive love for her child.
Instinctive love.
Such a baffling concept.
She understood love intellectually but had never felt it.
The idea of sacrificing one's life instinctively? Incomprehensible to her.
Love is often depicted in vibrant colors.
But Freya's inner world was dull gray; those colors were alien.
"Like liking something?"
Was the pudding she ate daily for a mood boost love?
"No, different."
Would she die for pudding?
In Freya's life, only she herself mattered most.
"Maybe it's beyond understanding?"
What even was love?
Maternal love?
Enough to sacrifice your life?
Easier to decipher ancient grimoires than grasp that emotion.
"..."
Freya looked at the fallen boy.
"Would raising a child make me understand?"
A rare, quirky curiosity flared.
In a witch's endlessly boring life, curiosity was fine seasoning.
Freya scooped up the boy.
He wasn't her child by blood, but raising a young life to adulthood would make him one, right?
Like orphans calling orphanage nuns "Mom," despite no blood ties. Nuns calling them children of the heart.
Or master and disciple like parent and child.
Blood isn't required for "child."
If it were, a barren witch like her could never have one.
"Maybe it'll ease this tiresome feeling a bit."
First time caring for a human.
She felt a thrill.
Firsts are always intriguing.
Caring for another for her own sake.
Selfish? Fine.
Witches were selfish creatures who knew only themselves.
Freya carried the boy to her carriage.
The rain had stopped.
That was their first meeting.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Tears welled in Freya's eyes.
"Zeke..."
Recalling the past made sorrow swell in her chest.
"Sob..."
She sniffled, hugging her knees.
Eight years since her disciple left.
A blink for a witch, but the longest eight years in her millennium-plus life.
Every day dragged unbearably.
Time refused to pass.
Would she see Zeke again?
She missed him.
Thinking of him brought laughter, tears, laughter, tears.
Years of this had left her haggard.
Freya stared at the fields with hollow eyes, where she'd often strolled with her disciple.
Every glance at them conjured memories of him, stabbing her heart.
Freya's lower lip quivered.
"...I want to see you."
Just then...
The carriage passed a man.
Freya's eyes widened.
Her heart pounded wildly.
It hurt from the force.
He was gone in an instant, but Freya knew.
The man trudging through the rain was unmistakably...
Freya stopped the carriage.