Margaret knew her whereabouts had been exposed. Once again, she found herself marveling at the Armorless Union's uncanny speed and tracking ability. There was nothing she could do—only run.
Just days ago, she had been the knight whose name shook Kazimierz. Now she was fleeing in disarray. The irony stung.
She had chosen to leave alone, unwilling to drag her "Brother Felix" into trouble. The last thing she wanted was for the K.G.C.C. to see them as too close.
Of course, if Felix knew what she was thinking, he'd be utterly speechless.
To the K.G.C.C., his title had already become "the wealthy collector of knights." Since Margaret had been cast out of Kazimierz, how could he possibly not act?
Still, the fact that they expelled Margaret without even informing him did come as a surprise. After all, she had shattered four years of their careful planning. On top of that, she belonged to the sensitive and traditional knightly class. The Organization wanted nothing more than to grind her into dust. The only thing staying their hand was the Nearl family behind her—otherwise, she would have been struck down by thunderous assassinations long before the final match.
They had hoped she would give up on her own. Instead, Margaret had won the Major. That was what finally broke the K.G.C.C.'s composure. Now, no matter what, they wanted her dead.
Kirill Nearl could no longer raise his sword. Młynar had long since been worn down by society, far removed from his former self as a wandering knight. Zofia, though once an arena fighter, was no longer in her prime. And Maria—just a girl, not yet grown.
The K.G.C.C. laughed. The advantage is ours.
Margaret's pack carried basic supplies. At a gas station, she hastily bought a secondhand motorcycle and resumed her flight. She deliberately rode in the opposite direction from where she and Felix had agreed to rendezvous, stubbornly convinced she must not bring him trouble. These assassins—I'll handle them alone.
But fighting from a motorcycle was not her strength. Once she left the highway for the lonely stretch of hills and rivers, she barely ducked in time to avoid an incoming arrow.
Through her mirror she saw them: hundreds of pursuers in her wake, some in off-road vehicles, loosing bolts from crossbows as they closed in. Margaret swerved and dodged, scrambling to stay ahead, but her movements grew increasingly frantic.
Then—salvation in sight. A forest loomed not far ahead. Within its cover, she could hide her presence, and at the same time, the Union assassins would lose the advantage of distance.
Her decision was instant. She twisted the throttle, streaking forward like a drawn sword, plunging into the trees.
By the time the pursuers arrived, all they found was her abandoned motorcycle. Mist coiled through the woods in the pale morning light. Visibility was poor, but her footprints led deeper inside.
"Darksteels," one of the masked assassins—his garb the color of rusted steel—spoke calmly, "please give the order."
"Form a cage. Five-man teams. Surround and hunt. Alive or dead—we bring her back."
Out here, far from the city's reach, the land was empty, barren of terran presence. No caravans passed this way, no settlements lay nearby. Communication was difficult; they could only move in groups, playing a deadly game of cat and mouse.
The Armorless Union had drilled this tactic countless times. And with Darksteels himself leading the operation, there was no mistaking their intent: this mission would not fail.
---
The damp fog slowed the assassins' pace, but Margaret surged ahead. She had never set foot in this forest before. None of that mattered. Shaking her pursuers was her only concern. She carried enough rations to last a month. From the moment she entered the woods, she hadn't stopped moving.
At sixteen, she had never left the kawalerielki. But that wasn't unusual—most people spent their whole lives inside their moving cities. Within the walls lay safety. Beyond them waited catastrophes, plagues, and infection—fates worse than death.
Still, though she had never left before, Margaret's world was larger than the training grounds. She loved to read, and her books had given her survival knowledge. Much of it had been taught to her directly by her uncle, Młynar.
Margaret had been running at full speed for nearly an hour when the sound of a brook reached her ears. Her steps faltered. The sharp sting from her wounds reminded her that she had dragged her battered body this far on sheer willpower. The moment she allowed herself the slightest pause, exhaustion came crashing down like a tide.
Even in her weariness, she pulled from her pack the device Felix had given her—designed to detect Originium dust and levels of contamination. She knew it was late to use it now—chances were she had already inhaled particles along the way—but she tested nonetheless. The readings showed nothing. No traces of infection. No twisted creatures or plants along her path. It was as though this forest had never been touched by terran presence—an untouched wilderness.
Did Brother Felix foresee this?
Margaret felt a little foolish. It was as if every step she had taken was already within his sight. She sat by the stream, towel in hand, and slipped off her clothes. The water's surface reflected a pale shimmer of skin.
Fortunately, her wounds weren't fatal. But blood loss left her dizzy and light-headed. She dabbed medicine onto her injuries, rebandaged herself, and exhaled slowly in relief.
Now was not the time to rest.
She braced herself. The assassins were relentless. If they pushed themselves, they would catch up soon enough. She couldn't afford to lower her guard.
So she moved on.
Two days passed—two endless days of cat-and-mouse with the Armorless Union. In this desolate forest, she was no Radiant Knight, no fugitive. She was simply Margaret: a terran girl, small against the vastness of nature, weaker than the assassins who hunted her.
The titles others had laid upon her meant nothing here. She was only Margaret Nearl… and perhaps, here, even the Nearl name had no meaning. Her family legacy had given her the martial skill to survive—but it could not pull her free from peril.
Her rations remained her only food. She knew the dangers of eating wild game. Unless cooked over fire, it would likely make her sick. But to light a fire was to give away her position.
The scent of herbs clung to her bandages as she pressed forward, slipping silently between the trees. She studied the terrain, searching for a path. If she kept going, perhaps the forest's edge would soon appear.
Then she froze.
Up ahead, in a clearing, stood a figure. Instinctively, Margaret's hand closed around her sword hilt. The stranger stiffened, too, reaching for her weapon.
As the distance closed, Margaret made out the features: a Sarkaz woman in a hood, a staff in hand that, at first glance, looked almost like an unsheathed longsword. Her white horns curved sharply, and her calm eyes fixed on Margaret, piercing into her as though peering straight into her soul.
In that instant, Margaret knew—this woman wasn't one of the Armorless Union. Her race alone made it unlikely, but more than that, she carried none of their standard crossbows, and none of that suffocating aura of bloodlust and killing intent.
"…My apologies. I overreacted."
Margaret lowered her weapon, bowing her head slightly in contrition. The woman seemed young—only a few years older than herself.
"It's fine," the Sarkaz replied, voice steady as her expression. "But more importantly—you're hurt."
"Ah…"
Only then did Margaret feel the renewed throb of pain in her shoulder and back. The day before, the Union had caught her trail. Their ambush had been merciless. She'd unleashed her Originium Arts to blast her way through, injuring a squad in the process, but not without cost. Arrows had struck her again, tearing open half-healed wounds.
"…Sit down first. I'll bandage you."
Faced with this gentle, elder-sister-like woman, Margaret couldn't bring herself to refuse. Obediently, she stepped forward and sat before her.
The woman smiled—a quiet, tender smile, like the night sky and cool evening breeze of a distant homeland.
"My codename is Shining. I'm currently traveling with companions."
Shining moved behind her. When her eyes fell on Margaret's wounds, she paused.
"…These aren't the marks of a beast."
"…A squad of no fewer than a hundred assassins is scouring this forest, hunting me."
As the cool sensation of treatment soothed her wounds, Margaret exhaled softly. A part of her wondered if she was being reckless, trusting a stranger so easily. But there was no mistaking the warmth in Shining's presence—the quiet authority of a healer, the kind that could never be faked.
"I see… so, a struggle."
A gentle glow spread from Shining's hands, seeping into Margaret's injuries. The bleeding slowed, then stopped, skin knitting shut.
"…This is as much as I can do for now. You mustn't overexert yourself."
Shining came back around, still smiling with quiet warmth. Only then did Margaret notice the basket she carried, brimming with herbs she didn't recognize.
"These treat headaches. And this one—similar to a sedative. It helps the body rest, ensures a deep sleep."
Shining explained casually, but her words trailed off. Margaret's head lifted at the same moment, both of them catching the faint rustle of movement from deeper in the woods.
Margaret, after days surviving here, could tell at once the sound wasn't natural. But for the doctor to sense it too… that said enough. She remembered their tense first meeting—the sharp aura Shining had briefly revealed then. This was no fragile healer. And of course, no ordinary physician would wander alone into such a forest to collect herbs.
"If you don't mind, come with me."
Shining gathered her herbs, sweeping leaves and branches over their tracks to cover their presence. She looked back, extending the invitation.
Margaret hesitated. She didn't want to drag anyone else into danger. But her body was close to breaking down. Rising to her feet, she carefully laid false footprints and misleading signs to trick the assassins into believing she was still circling the area.
Shining watched her in silence until she finished, then led her away.
"By the way—what's your name? Or rather… your codename?"
At the question, Margaret thought of Brother Felix. His title, "Pioneer," had been a gift of gratitude from villagers long ago, one he'd carried ever since.
What about her? What name was truly hers?
The only title she could think of was the one the K.G.C.C. had given her—"Radiant Knight." Ironic, almost bitterly so.
"…Nearl."
Her voice was soft, steady.
Even if she could no longer claim the Nearl family's place in full, she would carry its name as proof she was still its knight. Her heart beat to the vow Not Afraid of the Dark. This was her path, her knighthood.
"That's a beautiful codename."
Shining's smile was warm as ever.
The two of them descended a hillside, entering a cave. Inside, Margaret noticed faint signs of habitation—recent ones, as if Shining had arrived only yesterday.
"You need time to recuperate."
She motioned for Margaret to sit, then asked softly, "These people chasing you… who are they?"
Margaret recounted her situation plainly. There was nothing shameful in it—besides, this Sarkaz woman almost certainly hailed from Kazdel. Still, Margaret couldn't help but find it strange. The civil war in Kazdel was still raging. With the exception of a few self-proclaimed "free" adventurers, most Sarkaz were embroiled in that conflict.
Unavoidably, she also mentioned Pioneer—her Brother Felix—and explained why meeting him now would only drag him into danger.
"…Felix. Pioneer. Sankta."
Shining's eyes flickered, quietly taking note.