Fine, rain.
A hazy mirage swirled and dispersed in Celine’s yellowish pupils. It was a memory from not long ago, but the landscape dyed in monochrome as if recalling distant old memories.
It was just a glass of beer. The faces that cheered just by clinking glasses at the tavern after finishing the Academy’s grueling routine came to mind one after another.
Celine, Leto, and even Ian. How could they laugh so much with nothing back then.
The flames burned the burns, forming borders. The man’s face met again in reality was miserably distorted.
Was it because his breathing was labored from running, or because he wanted to cry.
Strength was gradually entering Celine’s hand holding the short sword.
“What is this?”
The first question Ian threw was like that.
There was no greeting of being glad to see her, no awkward smile. Only a flustered smile lingered.
Like someone facing a vicious joke. As if having heard something absurd, unable to bear wanting to hear that…