Before anyone realized it, an assassin had regained his strength and was pressing a dagger to Mia's throat.
The silver blade gleamed viciously, poised to pierce through her at any moment.
The color drained from Etienne's face.
Though he'd always preached about learning to fight while protecting those behind him, his focus wasn't truly on this battle.
No—faced with enemies he could effortlessly crush, he'd grown careless.
The wandering thoughts during combat proved his complacency.
Mia's life had become the price demanded by his negligence.
Yet showing desperation now would worsen things.
In such lopsided negotiations, revealing the hostage's value only weakened one's position.
Etienne wrestled down his panic, adjusted his sword grip, and pressed the blade deeper into his captive's throat.
"Stay calm," he warned. "Act rashly, and you'll lose your comrade."
"Hah. You think I'd negotiate after deciding to kill you all?"
The assassin's stance screamed mutual destruction.
He yanked Mia's hair.
A choked whimper escaped her lips as she clawed at the arm constricting her throat.
Even at this proximity, her expression remained obscured—a small mercy.
Seeing her face clearly might have shattered Etienne's composure entirely.
"Drop your weapon and surrender. I'll spare your lover."
In the darkness, Mia's head shook violently.
Etienne needed no translation—her refusal was clear.
His combat experience, though not meager, hadn't prepared him for this.
......Yet watching that blade bite into her skin—
A crimson flash streaked across his vision.
Untraceable. Unidentifiable.
Etienne refocused on the assassin—dead men told no secrets, but living ones could be interrogated.
The air hung thick with copper.
Blood splatter made it impossible to discern new wounds on Mia.
Every muscle coiled, Etienne prepared to strike—
Crack.
The red light flooded his vision again, blazing unmistakably from Mia's hand this time.
The thug threatening her dissolved into steaming blood before Etienne could process it.
Perhaps the Goddess had finally taken pity on Mia.
She stared dazedly at the coin-sized crimson sphere orbiting her palm.
Can it grow?
The orb swelled to egg-size as she thought.
Bigger.
It expanded to match a small book, bathing the room in scarlet light.
Mia smiled despite herself at the obedient sphere.
Admitting it felt wrong, but exhilaration burned through her veins.
This could be useful for defense. Can I channel it through a sword like Rochefort?
Possible, but precise control required practice.
Swinging a divine blade in cramped barracks risked demolishing walls—and her sleeping quarters.
As alternative, she wrapped the energy around her fist.
Contrary to childhood warnings about divine power's volatility, the red energy yielded willingly.
Heat radiated from her glowing fist.
Does divine power emit light AND heat?
She slashed the air.
The same luminous arc she'd seen hours earlier split the atmosphere with a crack.
When had she last felt this giddy?
Her body thrummed with euphoric warmth.
Mia began coating every object in the room—pillows, bedding, drawers, medicine bottles, letters—all levitating in crimson halos.
Her very body felt lighter.
No—not just a feeling.
Touching her cheek, Mia jolted at the scalding heat.
No records mentioned this side effect of divine power. Before she could ponder—
Thud.
An unidentified impact sound echoed as consciousness slipped away.
Two figures conversed behind the remote barracks.
"Your Excellency..."
The address came colder than usual.
Mia couldn't decipher the man's intentions.
"......."
Half-submerged in moonless shadows, the man stared at her.
"...The ability you used earlier."
"Stop hesitating. What's wrong?"
"All holy abilities manifest as white light."
"So?"
"Apologies. I needed to confirm whether yours truly is divine power."
"The Goddess' chosen might differ." Etienne's rushed apology followed.
Mia turned away, itching to test her power's limits rather than debate its nature.
"Mia."
She paused mid-retreat.
"That power... you shouldn't use it for now."
Etienne's voice faded into her spiraling consciousness.
"Awake?"
Blinking away dreams—or memories—she found a familiar-yet-unfamiliar face.
"Deputy Commander Faber..."
The addressed man startled.
"Your Excellency, I'm no deputy commander. You've mistaken me for another."
Xavier Faber—Rochefort's right-hand man and proud deputy commander of the 1st Holy Legion in her past life.
Yet here, he remained a low-ranking officer.
"You ran high fevers. Muttered incomprehensibly."
"Did I?"
"Given your memory lapse, you were unconscious throughout. As expected."
"Confirmed that, did you?"
"Easily inferred. You kept calling for the Legion Commander."
"Don't spread misunderstandings..."
