Ethereal Joan

'Sometimes, laying down one's weapon holds more meaning than continuing to fight.'

Just like a creature driven by instinct, she never understood the reason for her battles.

As a slave, she wielded her weapon solely to claim Victory in the duel; as a commander, she raised her hands solely to break the oppression of the nobles; as a Bell Ringer, she thrust her lance solely to fulfill the mission of the Church.

Only when her strength failed and she could no longer lift her arms did the words of those once beside her bring an awakening—perhaps those gazes fixed upon her, and those heavy expectations, were the very reason she marched forward.

'My vision was always focused on the path ahead, yet I forgot the brilliance of the night sky, the blooming of every star.'

No one could have imagined that the kingdom buried beneath the dunes would turn itself into a ceaseless engine of war.

Nor could anyone have foreseen how swiftly such a nation—once teeming with warriors—would fall into ruin within a few short decades.

For as long as Joan could remember, fear ruled every corner of that sand-scarred realm. Under the nobles' reign, food dwindled, water ran dry, and the choking dust drove people into mud-walled shelters. Her role was merely to entertain her masters in deadly duels—purchasing each fragile day of life with one hard-won victory.

Her future had been written by the nobles long before she ever lifted a weapon.

'We go to war.'

It was the first time Joan answered the hopeful gazes of the other slaves. Those who once cowered beside her in the prison cell no longer bore that same lost, uncertain look.

She could not understand how they—armed only with sticks and stones—could ever hope to bring down foes clad in steel and shield. Yet she tightened her grip upon her weapon all the same.

Battle was instinct. Instinct required no hesitation. And so she marched, step after step, toward the nobles' cities…

Blood ran into her eyes, tinting the world a violent red.

Her companions fell one after another, but even as their bodies broke, hoarse cries tore from their throats and their crude clubs rose again and again.

Until a voice reached her—

Like a sandstorm pounding through her chest, like a war-cry thundering against her ear.

Lightning split the heavens and struck her where she stood. Yet no pain followed—only the sensation of her wounds knitting together.

Thunder became her voice. Lightning, her sight. The storm, her strength.

'Fight on—until nothing within you can move again.'

When the final banner of the nobility burned to ash upon the scorched earth, she stood atop the city she had won with her own hands. Below her, the freed slaves cheered. In her grip, the lance of victory gleamed, yet her heart felt hollow, emptied by triumph.

She continued to fight—sweeping aside the nobles’ remaining rebels, driving back Black Blood beasts along the borders.

But beneath the deep night sky, none saw the way she stared down at her own hands.

Hands that summoned thunder and lightning… Yet trembled beneath the weight of a single cup of celebratory wine.

The instinct for battle still howled through her blood, but for the first time, an echo rose to meet it:

'When the battle ends… how is a warrior meant to live?'

Thunder offered no answer. Only the desert remained—its ceaseless winds gnawing day and night at her hollow victory.

Her title as Bell Ringer offered no clarity, and the Silver Blood's memories did nothing to dispel the fog. Still she searched for the meaning of battle— Until the Silver Blood ran dry, and her strength faded into silence.

She recalled the arena now swallowed by ruin: weathered stone walls etched faintly with the scars of past war.

She heard the shouts of the slaves who had once fought at her back. In that distant uproar, the warmth of expectation still lingered.

With her power gone, she heard her own heartbeat for the first time. No thunder. No lightning. Only memories seeping in like gentle rain.

'So that's how it is.'

When she raised her lance once more, the scattered lightning began to surge anew. No longer swayed by the roar of fate, she felt instead the breath of countless comrades resonating with her own.

Her lance had never been hers alone.