On the outskirts of the village, in a meadow, there was what appeared to be a training ground.
Logs wrapped in cloth were driven into the earth, and around them stood several boys and men.
Here, in what was called the training ground, practical swordsmanship and spearmanship were taught.
Although there was a country to which they paid taxes, when it truly mattered, only they themselves could protect their own lives. The country did proactively hunt bandits, but it couldn’t prevent all such harm, and tales of this or that village being attacked were commonly heard.
It was naturally necessary to be prepared for when malefactors appeared, and in this village, a vigilante corps centered around former soldiers fulfilled that role. Men who had returned from military service often took on the job of teaching swordsmanship to the village children and adults here, instead of hunting or mining.
Crishet, as a matter of course, participated in the sword practice, which was conducted with all boys taking part and only girls who wished to. The idea that, in a pinch, only her own strength could protect her was a natural one for Crishet.
Grace had initially opposed it. However, considering Crishet’s appearance, Gorka and Garen, while troubled, gave their permission, thinking it better for her to learn means of self-defense—now, however, they no longer interfered with her participation in such training.
This was because they had come to understand that she possessed an extraordinary talent for the sword.
Those gathered formed a circle, and in its center were an old man and a silver-haired girl—Crishet.
Countless swishing sounds of blades cutting the air echoed, yet the harsh impact of wood striking wood did not resound. The wooden swords wielded by the two never touched each other’s bodies, nor did the swords themselves even clash; only the sounds of wooden swords cleaving the air overlapped.
“Hngh…”
The old man facing Crishet—Zahr—was a man who had spent many years in the army and had served as a training instructor for soldiers until he began to feel the decline of his physical strength. Having been part of the light infantry, where individual ability was highly valued, his skills were genuine. Although he was inferior to the hero Garen, who had risen from a common soldier to a centurion, he possessed skills that made him second only to Garen in the village, both in name and reality.
Such a man was now, before his very eyes, frightened by the abnormality of the girl.
What Zahr had learned was battlefield swordsmanship.
Sometimes using the sword as a shield, pushing through with force, breaking the opponent’s stance, and delivering the finishing blow. It was an extremely practical and ferocious art. The techniques, honed amidst taking many lives, possessed a weighty certainty against which hastily acquired skills were useless.
Though his stamina had waned, there was no tarnish on his sword technique—however, Crishet easily dodged Zahr’s attacks.
Crishet’s body, even considering her age, was small and light; therefore, there was no need to deliberately strike her body. If he could send her sword flying, it would be over. If her wooden sword were deflected, inevitably, her light body would also be sent off balance, and Crishet would lose her stance. Rather than aiming for Crishet’s body, protected by the shield that was her blade’s reach, that was more certain, and the swordsmanship Zahr had learned focused on finishing opponents by breaking their stance in such a way.
The old soldier was using all his techniques to face the girl before him.
—However, no matter how much he wished for it, he couldn’t even make their blades clash.
It was a futile struggle reminiscent of his training days when he was being taught by an instructor—he felt fear rather than impatience. Zahr, who had sparred with the girl before him many times, understood that she was no ordinary girl. However, to feel firsthand a girl of twelve or thirteen toying with him, a former skilled soldier, inspired more fear than admiration.
To others, it would probably look as if he were holding back. His reach and blade range were different from Crishet’s, a child. Naturally, there existed Zahr’s inescapable range where Crishet couldn’t flee, creating moments where Crishet would be forced to block with her sword. But Crishet’s sword would check such moments with an exquisite strike.
A strike at the very inception of his movement, one that would force Zahr to choose evasion.
Not by defending, but by attacking, she nullified her opponent’s attacks. By nullifying all of Zahr’s sure-kill moves, Crishet had rendered Zahr immobile.
From the onlookers’ perspective, it was Zahr continuously dodging swords and Crishet continuously swinging her sword. Their appearance was that of the instructor and the student. However, the reality was the complete opposite, and Zahr had the conviction of defeat, believing that Crishet could end the match immediately if she wished.
Switching her sword between her left and right hands, changing her stances. Crishet’s movements, almost like an acrobatic feat, even resembled a beautiful dance. Irregular yet fluid, it could be called an ever-changing sword technique, yet what this ever-changing nature always brought forth was the shortest strike sufficient to finish Zahr.
Efficiently, dispassionately, as if toying with the opponent’s life at her sword’s tip. Her seemingly irregular movements were her own style of swordsmanship that pursued only rationality, and Zahr knew how it had begun and evolved to this state. Her sword had been clumsy for only a brief period; after that, even adults disliked being her opponent, fearing defeat at the hands of a girl not yet ten at the time.
That talent was more an abnormality than mere talent, and it was beyond Zahr’s comprehension. And more than anything, Zahr was terrified of those purple eyes that simply stared at him inorganically. Eyes that seemed to see through Zahr’s slightest movements, the tension in his body, his very thoughts. Like a frog stared down by a snake, what arose was a sense of powerlessness against an opponent he could never defeat.
—This is it.
Zahr took a large step back and lowered his sword.
“…That’s enough. My stamina won’t last any longer,” Zahr announced, breathing heavily.
Crishet, her cheeks only slightly flushed, bowed her head expressionlessly. Crishet’s beautiful figure was even somewhat bewitching, drawing the onlookers’ eyes even more than her earlier sword dance.
“Thank you very much.”
“…Call on me anytime if you need to. You understand, Crishet?”
“Yes.”
Crishet nodded. For Crishet, this old man was a good training partner.
The other day, it was seventeen times. Before that, twelve times. And today, twenty-three times—this was training to see how many times she could “kill” him in the same amount of time. Just as Zahr imagined, finishing him off was easy, but if she defeated him too harshly in training and embarrassed him, he wouldn’t spar with her anymore. Having learned this, Crishet chose Zahr, the second most skilled swordsman in the village, as her partner, deliberately not settling the match and making him swing his sword, thus dedicating herself to self-training.
The most skilled swordsman was Garen, but Garen, who usually worked as a hunter, was busy with various things and, moreover, didn’t particularly like to wield a sword. Therefore, when it came to Crishet’s training partner, it was exclusively Zahr.
Sword training absolutely required an opponent to be effective. Because the “speed” acquired through solo practice swings was merely velocity. If the purpose of the sword was only speed, then just swinging down from an overhead stance would suffice. However, she understood that in close combat, what was important was overall “quickness” in terms of timing. What she sought was not the fastest, but the shortest path. Whether the sword was fast or slow, the one who thrust their blade into the opponent’s neck first, won.
What was necessary was the thinking to find the shortest path according to the opponent’s movements, and the power to thrust one’s sword into the opponent’s opening. How one could pursue the shortest path in that place, at that moment—that was precisely the issue, and to acquire that, an opponent was indeed indispensable. Zahr, who, despite noticing Crishet’s intentions and feeling fear, sparred with her without complaint, was an extremely valuable existence for Crishet.
Thinking she must cherish him, she picked up the leather waterskin that had been set aside and offered it to Zahr.
“Here you go.”
Zahr hesitated for a moment but then nodded, said, “Thank you,” and took a drink.
In Crishet’s mind, humans were clearly divided into two types: those who were beneficial to her, and those who were not. Starting with her parents and grandfather, those who were beneficial were targets of Crishet’s protection, as long as they didn’t cause her greater disadvantage. And if someone gave her something, she would repay them to the fullest extent. Showing kindness like this was also a natural thing for Crishet, and she understood from her life here that this was how society functioned.
That Crishet, whose sense of ethics differed from ordinary people, could blend into this village without major problems like this could be said to be the fruit of her mother Grace’s efforts.
Towards Crishet, who was distorted, Grace had simply poured out her affection. Crishet, who was a genius on one hand, but on the other, couldn’t understand ordinary things in an ordinary way. Without losing patience with such a girl, Grace carefully and repeatedly taught Crishet about human relationships and society until she could understand. It should be said that it was thanks to this. Although not completely, as a result, Crishet was able to live a life as a seemingly proper human being on the surface.
“Crishet-neechan, spar with me next!”
“Alright.”
She nodded to the boy who had called out to her and readied her wooden sword. Compared to Zahr, his movements were slow and full of openings. As if to instill the correct sword forms, Crishet did the complete opposite of before—she took on a defensive role.
She moved as slowly as possible, creating an opening, baiting him to strike with his sword, then dodging.
Compared to the other day, he had improved somewhat, but the boy’s movements were still clumsy.
He was likely still insufficient as part of the village’s fighting strength.
Watching the boy’s swordsmanship, she recalled the pair she had killed two years ago.
Once, she had rejoiced at eradicating the source of her displeasure, but now she considered it a failure.
Boys of a similar age.
At the time, she had been harassed by them, and it all began when she thrashed them soundly, thinking they would stop if they knew how strong Crishet was.
However, the two, humiliated in public by a younger girl, instead developed a deeper hatred for Crishet, spreading malicious gossip and rumors, calling her strange, a monster.
Initially, she hadn’t paid it any mind, but eventually, she started to notice the way people looked at her.
When the harassment escalated, she decided to kill them, luring a boar towards them near a cliff and murdering them.
A perfect crime, with all evidence destroyed.
It had been incredibly satisfying, but now she thought it rash—back then, Crishet had only considered things from her own self-centered perspective, but now she had learned a little about society.
How the village was run, and how it sustained itself.
From that viewpoint, those who learned swordsmanship here would become the village’s future defense force, and they too had been such individuals.
Compared to the boy before her, those two had possessed a fair amount of talent; it would have been better in the long run to have put in a little more effort to dispel their hatred rather than killing them.
It was a slight regret, one she could dismiss with a “well, whatever,” but she did feel she should avoid repeating the same mistake in the future.
This was why Crishet now gently taught swordsmanship to the village children.
Having learned her lesson, Crishet reflected on it and put it into practice, feeling that things were currently going well. However, she was unaware that many others did not feel the same way.
Those who knew the circumstances of that time well, including adults like Zahr-san.
They harbored a slight suspicion towards Crishet’s existence.
There was no evidence to suspect Crishet of killing the two.
If one had to point to something, it was only the fact that she had been harassed by the boys.
But even so, the suspicion, once harbored—that Crishet might have disposed of them—would not disappear.
If she were an ordinary child, everyone would laugh it off as impossible.
But Crishet was a child who had learned swordsmanship in a week and could calmly defeat even adults.
Her abnormal excellence evoked fear rather than admiration.
“Come to think of it… is Garo not here again today?”
“Ah… he’s probably drunk and sleeping it off again, don’t you think?”
The man Crishet had killed yesterday—Garo—would never wake up again.
For Crishet, who was confident that the matter would not come to light, this conversation was of no interest.
However, the gazes of the adults and boys who suspected her naturally turned to Crishet, and they exchanged glances.
This was because everyone knew that Garo had been doing things to Crishet that bordered on sexual harassment.
Nevertheless, no one said anything, and those gazes quickly vanished.
Though they suspected, there was no proof, and Garo had always been an unreliable man.
It was highly probable that he was indeed just sleeping.
More than anything, while they suspected Crishet, there was also the thought, “But this beautiful girl…”
The way she acted spoiled around Grace-san and Golka-san, and the serious, diligent demeanor that the two of them and the womenfolk boasted about.
Hearing such stories, everyone thought they were just imagining things.
Upon such a precarious balance, Crishet’s current situation was maintained.
“Hey, the merchant’s here!”
A voice came from the direction of the plaza—Crishet was the first to react to it.
Instantly, she pressed the tip of her wooden sword to the boy’s throat, stopping his movement.
“Ueh!”
“That’s the end, Pell. You’ve gotten quite good.”
She gave the boy’s head a pat and repeated to the dissatisfied-looking boy, “It’s over.”
Then she turned her gaze to Zahr-san.
“Zahr-san. Crishet will finish up for today and go to the plaza.”
“Mm, ah…”
“Thank you for the training.”
As soon as she politely bowed deeply to everyone, Crishet dashed off towards the plaza.
In an instant, Crishet was out of sight, and the men exchanged glances once more.
The image of Crishet’s eyes sparkling at the ingredients the merchant would bring.
Those around recalled that image of her and, thinking “surely not,” pushed their suspicions back into the depths of their hearts.
In the center of the plaza was a large communal well.
Many households drew water from the forest streams, but those in the central part of the village, far from the forest, generally drew their daily water from here.
Therefore, there was a rule that this area should generally be kept clear of objects, and despite being in a cluttered village, this spot was quite open.
Exceptions to the rule were when there were visitors from outside or important announcements.
Visits from peddlers, minstrels, and entertainers fell into the former category, and the peddler who visited that day had unloaded his goods in a corner of the plaza and begun to display his wares.
In a village with little entertainment, this was the only opportunity to connect with the outside world.
Such visitors were the greatest entertainment of all.
A crowd had already formed, and Crishet, being young and small, couldn’t see inside even when she stood on tiptoe.
Pouting, she sat down on a nearby barrel and strained her ears.
Although there were slight deviations due to weather, peddlers always visited at regular intervals.
In particular, two peddlers regularly made rounds here, roughly once every seven days.
Since a peddler had come the day before yesterday, she had thought it might be a different merchant than the usual one, and it seemed she was right.
The intonation of their words was slightly different.
The villagers’ reactions were also a little different.
The goods brought by the usual peddlers were somewhat predictable, so Crishet actually looked forward to unexpected visitors like this.
This was because they generally brought new and unusual items.
Wondering when the crowd would disperse, Crishet dangled her legs restlessly on the barrel.
In her mind, only the expectation of seeing new ingredients swelled, and her head, which often lost objectivity when it came to food, was unaware of her own impolite behavior.
“Fufu, honestly. That’s bad manners, Crishet.”
Turning towards the familiar voice, she saw Grace-san, who laughingly poked Crishet’s slightly puffed-out cheek with her finger.
Phyuu~, air escaped with a silly sound, and the women behind Grace-san giggled at the sight.
Crishet finally reflected on her actions then, and her cheeks flushed.
“Now, now, you mustn’t pout like that just because you can’t get in. You’ll spoil your pretty face.”
“Kaa-sama. Um… hello, aunties…”
Jumping off the barrel, Crishet shyly bowed her head to Grace-san and the women.
The women’s laughter grew louder as they approached Crishet and ruffled her hair affectionately.
“Ahaha, Crishet-chan really is such a cute child. You always look like you can’t wait for the merchant to arrive.”
“Indeed. You’re such a glutton, I wish you’d tell this old aunty how you stay so slim.”
The women, understanding Crishet’s reason for being there, laughed like that, and Crishet’s cheeks grew even redder.
The women here were close to Grace-san and knew well of Crishet’s diligence.
Their perception of her was that of a quiet, yet kind and considerate girl.
Crishet, who willingly helped them despite being at an age where she should want to play, was beautiful, considerate, and hardworking—an adorable girl who possessed all the virtues the women valued.
Her greed for food was seen not as a flaw, but rather as a charming, childlike gap in an otherwise too-perfect girl.
Since this had developed into a love for cooking, she was even reputed to be a highly desirable bride.
In reality, Crishet only willingly helped the women for the sweets, relatively rare in the village, that they gave her as a reward for her help.
The women were unaware that the true dynamic was as simple as that of a fed dog and its owner, but Crishet’s reputation among them only continued to rise.
Among the womenfolk, rumors about Crishet’s abnormality were dismissed with a laugh as the nonsense of foolish men infatuated with the beautiful Crishet.
Fortunately or unfortunately, their misunderstanding was a reason why Crishet’s abnormality was not openly discussed, and though unaware, Crishet was strongly supported by them.
“Alright, shall this aunty take you?”
“Eh? Wha—!”
Among them, Gaara, a stout and robust woman, lifted Crishet onto her shoulder and pushed through the crowd towards the merchant.
“Hey now, the village’s number one beauty and prettiest girl are coming through. Make way, make way!”
At her powerful, resonant voice, the human wall parted, and Gaara, still carrying Crishet, leisurely approached the merchant’s stall.
Looking at the displayed goods and the men, Crishet felt a momentary sense of unease.
“Oh my… this is quite something.”
A master and an apprentice with kind-looking faces.
And four stern-faced men who appeared to be their guards.
Though their faces were unfamiliar, a scent she recognized assailed her nostrils.
It was the scent of blood.
Without her expression betraying her realization, she vaguely pondered its meaning.
—Beast or human?
There was no scent characteristic of a beast. It was probably human. She had smelled it yesterday.
—Why did it smell like that?
Because they had killed someone, likely.
—Were they attacked by bandits?
Yet, none of them seemed injured.
Rather, wasn’t it more likely that these men were the ones who did the killing?
Crishet gazed at the displayed goods.
The carriage was completely different, and most of the goods were unfamiliar, but the pumpkins on the cart’s bed, covered by a cloth, were undoubtedly the ones she had seen the day before yesterday.
The position of the marks on one was identical, down to the smallest detail.
These men had killed the peddler from the day before yesterday.
Naturally, she arrived at that conclusion.
In the village, trade was primarily conducted through barter.
Therefore, peddlers usually sold wholesale, and only a select few—the village chief, artisans, and shop owners—possessed enough coin for that. Other villagers only carried enough for trifles.
‘So they had just returned yesterday? That was unfortunate.’
Those were the words she had heard earlier when she was listening intently atop the barrel.
The goods currently spread out were just trinkets that villagers could afford with their small change, along with some attractive fruits and vegetables. Though items like precious metals were also present, what one could actually purchase was limited.
Perhaps the mountain of foodstuffs piled on the carriage was merely for show, to impress the villagers.
As she was being lowered from the woman’s shoulder, Crishet observed the men.
They were all smiling, but she noticed a sort of predatory glint directed at her.
“Well now, little miss, like a fairy, is there anything that catches your eye?”
“Oh my, you won’t say I’m like a water sprite?”
Laughter spread from those around, and the men gave wry smiles.
She didn’t particularly mind the stares. She was used to being looked at that way.
Tilting her head, wondering about the men’s objective, she decided to first get what she wanted and called out.
“Could I see those pumpkins over there?”
“Pumpkins? Ah…”
The young man, likely an assistant, removed the cloth, revealing a small mound of pumpkins.
Though she had managed with rabbit soup for dinner last night, Crishet now had an insatiable craving for pumpkin.
She picked up a heavy, solidly packed one, smiled contentedly, and said she wanted it. The merchant offered Crishet a surprisingly low price.
“Is this price alright?”
“Aye. Wanting a pumpkin, what a thoughtful young lady. As a little extra service, I’ll give you this too.”
Saying so, the man opened a small pouch and showed it to her.
Inside were brown, ball-like objects.
“Try one.”
Though she hesitated slightly, she figured it wouldn’t be poisoned.
With that thought, she casually picked one up and popped it into her mouth.
“…It’s delicious.”
“It’s candy. First time eating it?”
A candy that was sweet yet tart.
Rolling it around in her mouth, she nodded and bowed her head, saying, “Thank you very much.”
The sweetness spreading in her mouth was a new taste for Crishet, and the fact that the peddler had likely been murdered quickly became unimportant to her.
To Crishet, the peddler was merely a system.
She had seen his face every time he came and remembered him well.
But his death held little interest for her.
“Oh my… I’m sorry for the trouble, receiving such a thing. Thank you very much.”
Grace-sama, who had appeared at some point, placed a hand on Crishet’s head and bowed hers.
True to her reputation as the village’s foremost beauty, Grace-sama was captivating—Crishet, her mind still blissful from the candy, sensed the men’s gazes converging on the bowing Grace-sama.
“Ah, the madam is beautiful as well. How about it? If you’d like, I can offer you a special price.”
“Oh, that’s kind of you. Crishet, is there anything else you want?”
Asked, she thought for a moment, then shook her head.
Crishet always took only the bare necessities; she didn’t waste things.
She had spares of other vegetables and nothing else she particularly wanted right now.
If she had to say, another pumpkin would have been nice, but she restrained herself, considering it an extravagance.
“Today, Crishet just wanted to eat pumpkin soup.”
“Hehe, I see. Well then, let’s see… Hmm, if I think of something, would it be alright to come back tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, that’s fine. I can’t refuse a request from a beautiful woman.”
“You’re quite the flatterer. Well then, Crishet, shall we go?”
Crishet nodded, holding the pumpkin and licking her candy.
At this sight, Grace-sama let out a wry smile, took the pumpkin Crishet was holding, tucked it under her arm, and took her hand.
A warm sensation.
Crishet’s cheeks softened, and she turned her back on the plaza, letting Grace-sama lead her by the hand.
“If it’s a request from a beautiful woman, then that means I’m included too, right, merchant-san?”
The stout, robust woman declared this boldly, and the other women chimed in, following her lead.
Listening to those voices, Crishet let her thoughts drift to how she would cook the pumpkin.
While rock salt was plentiful, sugar was quite a precious commodity in this village.
Sweetness could be obtained from cookies made with crushed nuts or from fruits, but the methods were still limited.
The sweetness of pumpkin, not native to this region, was unique, and the mere fact that she could make something different from her usual, predominantly salt-flavored soups made pumpkin an extremely attractive ingredient for Crishet.
She gently simmered the cut pumpkin, careful not to let it fall apart, and in the meantime, kneaded flour and butter, rolled it out, layered it to make pie crust, and then added the pumpkin paste.
Borrowing an oven from a neighbor’s house, Crishet found herself humming unconsciously as she intently watched it bake.
“Hehe, you’re in an especially good mood today, aren’t you? Making such a feast.”
“Yes. Crishet missed buying a pumpkin the day before yesterday, so I really, really wanted to eat it. …Ehehe, thank you for letting me use the oven.”
“Ahaha, you can come borrow it anytime. It’s a small price to pay if I get to eat Crishet-chan’s home cooking as thanks for lending it.”
Gaara-san laughed cheerfully.
Having been widowed and having lost her child in an ‘accident,’ Crishet was now her only source of daily solace.
Unaware that Crishet had taken the life of her beloved child, she showered Crishet with deep affection as a substitute for her son.
Crishet, too, having stolen the happiness of the woman before her, calmly accepted her affection and smiled.
Guilt did not exist for Crishet.
This thoroughly distorted relationship did not stir her heart in the slightest.
“…I wish I could have let him have just one bite. I feel sorry towards you, Crishet-chan. That foolish son of mine, he went off without ever apologizing.”
For a moment, she wondered who Gaara-san was talking about, then recalled, ah, it was about those two.
She pondered which of them had been the blood relative.
Crishet generally never forgot things, but matters of no interest to her quickly became unimportant, so it took some time to recall them.
Gaara-san, misinterpreting her silence, gave a wry smile and said, “I’m sorry.”
“…Getting old makes one sentimental. Forgive me.”
“No. Crishet doesn’t mind. …Are you alright?”
“Yes… Because I have Crishet-chan instead.”
In reality, she didn’t mind at all.
It wasn’t that she had no regrets whatsoever, but the feeling of relief was greater.
Gaara-san’s house was the only one in the neighborhood with an oven, and Crishet, wanting to use it for cooking, had long been on good terms with her.
However, after Crishet killed the child, even Gaara-san, who had been called a woman of fortitude, was overcome with such grief that there were even rumors she might take her own life.
Naturally, Crishet wasn’t particularly concerned about it.
She had merely killed an unpleasant child; for Crishet, it was justified, and guilt did not exist.
However, during that period, she was particularly engrossed in cooking dishes that required an oven, so she ended up spending her days using the oven while consoling Gaara-san—which, objectively, was perceived as her being a devoted daughter who visited the now-alone Gaara-san every day to check on her.
One of the village’s heartwarming tales told about Crishet and Gaara-san.
More than anyone, Gaara-san herself believed this heartwarming tale as her own experience and doted on Crishet, who was, in reality, the killer of her beloved son.
There was no one, at least, to point out this distortion anywhere.
Crishet remained the girl from the heartwarming tale, unconcerned by anything, interacting with Gaara-san with an innocent face.
“Oba-san, if you’d like, why don’t we eat together at Crishet’s house?”
“That would be lovely, but… wouldn’t it be a bother for Grace-sama?”
“Kaa-sama said that if Oba-san is willing, I should invite you. Crishet would also be happier if everyone ate it while it’s piping hot.”
After all, if she was going to feed them, she wanted to at least hear their impressions, and the nights were getting cold.
If she were to cut a slice of pie for Gaara-san and wait to hear her thoughts, it would inevitably cool down a bit, so eating together was more convenient for Crishet.
Crishet’s invitation stemmed entirely from self-centered reasons, but thanks to it being somewhat veiled, Gaara-san interpreted it favorably.
“…You truly are a good girl, Crishet. If that’s the case, I’ll join you.”
“Yes, and I also need to thank you for carrying me.”
“Haha, if you say that, I’ll have to let you ride on my shoulders every time the merchants come.”
Crishet smiled and waited for the pie to finish baking.
Gaara watched over her with gentle eyes.
The village was filled with pretense and distortion, all centered around her.
Gaara took out the baked pie as if handling a jewel, placed it on a dish, and covered it with a thick cloth to keep it warm.
At home, her parents and grandfather, all three of them, were already gathered, warmly welcoming the two.
The sun had already set, and the outside was enveloped in the darkness of night, but the flames warming the simmering pot in the center brightly illuminated the room enclosed by earthen walls.
“Mother, the fire is a bit too strong…”
“Oh, I-I’m sorry… I’m not quite good with adjusting it.”
The pumpkin soup was a dish Crishet was confident in.
It only needed a little warming to be ready to eat, but her mother, Grace, was clumsy.
The soup boiled, making gurgling sounds, and Crishet, fidgeting and looking worried, watched Grace adjust the fire, interrupting her task of cutting the pie.
She held out her hand as if to say, “Please give me the fire tongs.”
“Ah, um… I’ll do it, Mother. Could you cut the pie for me?”
“Yes…”
The other three burst into laughter at Grace’s pitiful voice—
“…?”
—Bandits! Bandits are here!
Furious, scream-like shouts echoed all around.
“Kuh…!”
It was Gahlen who reacted instantly.
He knocked over the pot as if striking it, extinguishing the flames beneath that had been brightly illuminating the room.
Next, Golka grabbed a short sword and a bow that had been leaning against the wall.
Their faces grew serious—
“Ah, th-that… Crishet’s soup… is…”
Splash, sizzle.
The long-awaited pumpkin soup was turned into fire-extinguishing water right before her eyes, and Crishet froze.
Her anticipated happiness ruined, Crishet stared blankly at what had once been her pumpkin soup.
“Grace, Gaara. You two hide. …Understand?”
Gahlen said in a low voice, in a tone that brooked no argument.
“Leave Grace and Crishet-chan to me, Gahlen.”
“Father…”
Gaara responded, pulling the still-rigid Crishet close.
Grace, a moment after Gaara, hugged Crishet and called out to her father in a trembling voice.
“I’ll quickly check the situation and fetch my weapon. Golka, I’m counting on you to protect the three of them.”
“Yeah, got it. …Be careful. I don’t want to see Grace or Crishet cry.”
“I know. I may have aged a bit, but this body has been through battlefields. I’m not made of soft stuff.”
Gahlen silently approached the sliding door and slowly opened it.
After checking his surroundings, he quietly slipped his body into the night’s darkness.
Golka immediately moved to the door and peered outside through a crack.
“The pumpkin… Crishet’s soup… went splash…”
“I-It’s okay, Crishet-chan. …There’s still half a pumpkin left, and if anything, Auntie will buy lots for you when the merchants next come. Even the oven is practically half yours, Crishet-chan.”
Though speaking a little quickly, Gaara’s voice was meant to calm Crishet.
Precisely because she had thought it was so well made, Crishet’s shock was immense, and she still hadn’t recovered.
Seeing Crishet stare intently at the remains of the soup, Gaara assumed she was merely confused by the situation and repeatedly patted her head, reassuring her that it was alright.
“Y-Yes, that’s right… I can make it again… if I make it again…”
Though dazed, Crishet tried to avert her gaze from the shock by surrendering herself to the comforting sensation.
“Grace, is the storeroom full?”
“Eh? Ah… not really, right, Crishet?”
The pumpkin, Crishet’s pumpkin—
The image of the overturned soup replayed in Crishet’s mind.
Crishet desperately tried to look away from that image and focused her attention on Gaara’s words.
“Um… yes. But I don’t think everyone can hide in there.”
And so, in place of her mother, who seemed too confused to understand, she understood what Gaara wanted to know and answered.
“Golka, if it comes to it, tell them I’m your wife. Grace and Crishet-chan are both so beautiful. If they’re caught, there’s no telling what might be done to them.”
“Gaara, what are you—”
“It’s fine. I’ve received more from you and Crishet-chan than I can ever repay. Besides, unlike you, I have nothing to lose. Just listen to me.”
“Kuh…”
A moment of silence fell, and Golka nodded, saying, “Understood.”
“Gaara, I’m sorry…”
“It’s alright, Golka. …Grace, take Crishet-chan and go down.”
“…Yes.”
As if urging them, Gaara guided Grace and Crishet beneath the floor.
If the act goes well, it wouldn’t be so bad.
Crishet vaguely thought this, but also, thinking it would be scary to be unarmed, she grabbed two kitchen knives from the room.
“…Crishet-chan. Your spirit is admirable, but no matter what, absolutely do not think of doing anything foolish. Whatever happens to us, you mustn’t open this until we say it’s okay. That’s a last resort, understand?”
“…Yes. Please be careful too, Auntie. I want to use the oven again…”
“Fufu, you’re so composed even at a time like this. That puts Auntie at ease.”
Although Crishet meant it literally, Gaara took it as a joke and laughed.
She pushed the two into the food storeroom built under the house, closed the door, and hid it with a rug.
“Crishet, it’s okay, it’s okay…”
Listening to Grace’s trembling voice, Crishet strained her ears for sounds.
Once underground, the sound of horses’ hooves became clearer.
The hoofbeats were distant.
Judging by the direction, it was likely the plaza.
There was no sign of them approaching this house, which was near the forest.
After a while, Gahlen returned.
It seemed they had agreed that if the bandits came this way, it would be better for Gahlen to hide in the forest and ambush them in a pincer attack rather than meet them inside the house, so Gahlen left again immediately.
Grace’s trembling was quite bothersome, so while reassuring her that the hoofbeats were distant and it was alright, Crishet waited for time to pass.
An hour, then two, passed as Crishet continued to endure her hunger.
The pumpkin that should have been in her stomach was no more.
Splash, sizzle—it had been turned into fire-extinguishing water.
What on earth had Crishet’s pumpkin soup done to deserve this?
When her hunger passed a certain point, drowsiness set in.
Stifling her yawns repeatedly, she pressed her face into Grace’s chest and moved her lips softly.
Perhaps because she was being held tightly in the small space, it was a very warm and comfortable haven.
The conditions were perfect for sleeping, but it wasn’t permissible in this situation.
For several hours, her reason battled against the thoughts of pumpkin and the encroaching sleepiness.
It was some time later that she heard a voice saying it was safe now.
A man from the village had come to announce that the bandits had been repelled.
Gaara moved aside the luggage she had apparently placed on top, opened the door, and pulled the two up, then tearfully hugged Crishet and Grace.
At that point, Crishet gave up her fight against drowsiness and, as if to forget her hunger, fell into a deep sleep.