Crack! The mannequins topple over, their heads cleanly severed, still hissing with the heat from the intense energy. Before the heads even fall to the ground, they are further slashed into pieces, leaving only little bits of ash and wood crashing onto the ground. There is no hesitation as the blade dances around, slicing them effortlessly, disappearing behind them before they are swiftly cut down. Ten mannequins, destroyed in mere moments with frightening efficiency and brutality from Kavlina’s blade.

“Enough for now,” Tevlaia calls, halting Kavlina’s movement. She still hasn’t comprehended the development of this new humanoid machine, far removed from her memories and origins. Kavlina has simply become a blank slate, deadened and reduced to only a puppet, a deadly one nonetheless, but still just a puppet. So Tevlaia believes.

It is over a week since the Battalion’s arrival at the front, occupying the sole hastily-built fort in front of the Confederation armies. Even here, Kavlina’s training did not cease, her blade work improving day by day. If Tevlaia had willed it, she would have wanted to strike only when Kavlina is fully trained, yet here they are. It is only a matter of time before they are forced to advance, to throw their bodies for the Confederation and her disgusting Common Leader.

Two robot arms reach towards Kavlina’s left arm, their delicate limbs unlocking the many layers of metal one by one. Finally, the blade is removed and placed into a metal case, freeing her prosthetic arm once again, the metallic muscles immediately whirring alive. Her mask hisses as she brings a hand towards it, allowing the raw, unfiltered air to again flow back into her lungs. Replacing the blankness, darkness of the mask is an equally emotionless face, staring back at Tevlaia with nothing but plainness, her expression an unreadable enigma.

“You have adapted well to your new arm,” Tevlaia compliments shallowly, examining the blade. “However, the same cannot be said about your weapon.” Surprisingly, there are already signs of damage, the metal losing its gleam, some parts even seemingly… burnt. The tip is already blunt, the sides thinned and brittle, even the gears have become less responsive. The entire weapon has aged greatly in the span of a single training session.

“Am I not fast enough?” Kavlina’s voice is empty, monotone even, as if her question is only part of a ritual, a standard dismissive response. Yet somewhere beneath that surface, there is a sense of repressed violence, almost demanding Tevlaia to give an answer.

“No, it is not that. You are simply wearing down the weapon much too fast,” Tevlaia answers. She strokes the blade. It is warm. “At this rate, you will receive a new one by the end of this month, which will only add to our wasted costs. Take care of it, if you will.”

Kavlina nods. “Don’t worry.” She puts her right hand on the blade, closing her eyes as the energy begins to flow into the weapon. There is no glorious light, nor is there a change in complexion on Kavlina’s face, but the blade itself seems to be healing. No, it is healing, regenerating, the metal regrowing themselves, even the paint reforming itself into the original dull colors.

It is unprecedented, at least for Tevlaia. Even during their previous sessions, Kavlina never exhibited any medical sense, her mind only obsessed with destruction and little else. Fixing a weapon is not a rare technique, but for a weapon to fix itself with only the presence of energy, the skill is unnatural. No, that is an understatement. Completely beyond any comprehension is a more fitting description for this peculiar skill. To heal not a living being but a dead object… Exactly what is energy incapable of?

“There will be no need to replace my weapon.” A first smile, an awkward arch over Kavlina’s face, an artificial, imitative alien smile. She returns the blade to its case, shutting it tightly, locking it inside the comfortable cushions. “I only need to regenerate its properties.”

A bug flutters past. Immediately, Kavlina pinches it by its wings, bringing it close to her faded eyes. Staring at the struggling, wriggling vermin with seeming sympathy, she suddenly squeezes it, crushing its weak exoskeleton, smudging her fingers together until all that remains is dust floating down from her hand.

Tevlaia realizes she will never understand the living paradox before her eyes.

“Is there any news about him?” Kavlina asks.

Every day, without fail, she asks this question. It is the only purpose that still defines her as being barely alive. Her obsession with him is familiar, the lust for his death second to only the Common Leader himself, Tevlaia feels. The strength of her hatred has deeply etched itself into her consciousness, overpowering even the brokenness of her memories, a scar still hot and burning, searing her mind.

An ideal tool to control Kavlina as a puppet.

“He is in Thille,” Tevlaia says, as though she knows exactly where he is. “Our armies will be attacking there soon.”

Kavlina’s eyes light up, a spark set off inside her body. “Now. I will be heading there now.” She sets off to grab her blade again, but is promptly stopped by Tevlaia, her shoulder firmly restrained with an iron grip.

“Be patient,” Tevlaia says softly. “We cannot reach him without some sort of ample preparation.”

“When are we departing, then?”

“In a month.” It is a tentative date, but Tevlaia cannot admit this. Her puppet, her pawn cannot be unleashed so early, not in her infantile state. “And a week or two after us, the main army will follow.”

Kavlina looks at her with displeasure. “A month is quite a while, don’t you think?”

“The battle is not a game. We are juggling with our own insignificant, fluttering lives. You are a great asset. You will not waste your life in the pursuit of Avalel, who may or may not even be on the battlefield, will you? Certainly you are not as foolish?”

“The taking of Thille. It is what the Common Leader wants, according to you. It is what you want. Then why are we still delaying day after day?”

“When you’ve seen hundreds of your closest comrades die before your eyes, only then will you begin to contemplate the futility of life itself. Not that you have any friends, alive, still here in this world.”

Only after many years of war did Tevlaia realize this. Only when she encountered a monster far more heartless, ruthless than her did she understand these basic truths of life. Only when now, at her age of thirty, did she see herself clearly, reflected through the blank eyes of Kavlina. Only after so long… did she see her own stupidity, wishing for a past that she can no longer bring back.

“And so what?” Kavlina questions. “His death will all be for the greater good, will it not? The death of one to save thousands from encountering the fate that you have experienced.”

All for the greater good… Or is it? Has she sacrificed all those people only for the abstract “greater good”? What is it? What is this blatant lie, this drug, she has lulled herself with, an excuse to soften the wounds of her past, to justify her selfish desires?

If she is not fighting for the greater good, then what exactly is she fighting, is she living for?

She wishes she can articulate this to Kavlina, her young, growing age of seventeen still able to turn back, to decide her future. It is all over for her, her life destined as one of violence and chaos. The “greater good” is only a lofty dream, conjured from the depths of her mind. There is nothing left after that but her death… whenever that may be.

“Do you want to die alone?” she asks, a final warning to Kavlina’s foolish decision. Despite being her puppet, Kavlina is still an unofficial member of the Battalion, one of her own. She cannot be deployed in such a hasty state, even if her death will be unknown to all. Nasition knows nothing of her, her identity kept strictly confidential to his knowledge. To the records of the military, Kavlina simply does not exist. However, she cannot be wasted in such a way, without the proper tactical preparation and support of even a squad of soldiers. She cannot be afforded to be wasted as such.

“If that is what I must pay to kill him, then so be it,” Kavlina stubbornly answers.

Tevlaia sighs. “You cannot. None of us are prepared. You are not prepared.”

“You cannot force me.” Kavlina reaches for her knives, the weapons still fastened to her belt. “I will not let myself stay-”

She stops. Her own knife is positioned at her throat, her wrist firmly grabbed by Tevlaia. A gust of wind slaps Kavlina’s face, her eyes pricked from the particles. As she turns her head, she meets Tevlaia’s face, her eyes slightly showing a sense of frustration. Her legs are locked in place, Tevlaia’s leg in front, pressed against her knees.

“Please,” Tevlaia whispers, her voice shaking yet determined. “You are not ready.”

“I am not anyone’s pawn.”

Even in a state of confusion and amnesia, she is the same Kavlina.

Kavlina forces her knees forward, ducking just as the knife slices strands of her hair. Her eyes fade in color, her pupils shrinking until it is only a small, dark dot. A crack. Her right arm is knocked back, the knife dropping to the floor. The limb, like an uncontrollable whip, swings back to strike Tevlaia’s head, knocking her off balance. She rolls away from Tevlaia, grabbing the case. A slam. Cracks appear on the case, Kavlina’s left fist slightly dented.

“Kavlina, do not…” Tevlaia’s voice trails off as she rushes towards Kavlina.

Another slam. The cracks branch out, the locks shuddering. Kavlina parries Tevlaia’s kick with her legs. A swing, kicking herself out of the way as her left hand grabs the case.

Tevlaia feels her fists boiling with anger, the same instinctive energy coursing through her veins. Gritting her teeth, she dashes forward, a fist pulled back like a bowstring, ready to snap.

Boom! The case shatters, the shards of metal lodging themselves to the floor, some small pieces slicing Kavlina’s cheeks before they find themselves in the wall. The blade drops, stabbing the floor. Tevlaia can only stand stunned, her fist peppered with the shards.

There is no hesitation. Kavlina slots her arm into the blade, forcibly grabbing it away from the ground, beginning the procedures of calibration.

Aligning. Tevlaia delivers a punch to Kavlina’s stomach, knocking her flying. There is no pause. A second, a third, a fourth. Kavlina feels her clothes, her skin, her flesh torn apart from the embedded shards in Tevlaia’s fist. Her head is spinning, her stomach is screaming, her legs are flailing, but she still stubbornly clings on to the blade.

Connecting. Tevlaia quickly picks up the knife with her left hand, aiming for Kavlina’s left arm. A dodge, and suddenly, Tevlaia finds her forearm firmly grabbed. Simple.

Calibrating. A quick kick, stunning Kavlina’s elbow for a moment, enough to release her arm, before immediately going in for another punch. Kavlina dodges, the sound of the wind passing by her ear. A little late. The knife follows, grazing her cheek before aiming for her shoulder.

Final preparations. Kavlina parries the knife just as a kick strikes her torso, her air knocked out of her lungs. She chokes, spit flying in all directions. She collapses. Her vision is fading, her strength unable to match the intensity of Tevlaia’s attacks. Compared to her seasoned, calculated strikes, Kavlina is only a toddler flailing around without her weapons.

Tevlaia swings the knife, the pommel aiming straight for Kavlina’s forehead.

Calibration complete.

Clang! The knife is knocked away, the glowing blade staring at Tevlaia’s eyes. The energy, whirring, vibrating, burning the blade itself, concentrates on the edge, the light growing brighter and brighter.

“It is over,” Kavlina rasps, glaring at Tevlaia before the blade swings for her neck.

Boom! An explosion, Tevlaia tossed up like a doll before she crashes to the ground. Her fists, blackened from an instantaneous parry, lie dormant yet unharmed. A light trail of blood flows down from her head, streaking down her cheek. Unlike the ferocity earlier, she is now still, unconscious, knocked out from a single blow.

“Please wait for my news.” Kavlina shakes, struggling to stand stably on her feet. For a duel with such intensity just after her training, she is exhausted, but it will not hinder her mission. There will be no one else able to stand a chance against her. The path to Thille is all hers.

She picks up her mask again, her stomach and arm still reeling from pain as the mask covers her face. Hastily packing what little supplies in the room, she soon prepares food barely enough for a meal, some spare knives, and a piece of rope. Finally, she reaches for a hooded vest lying neatly on a table, presumably for her after the training. The materials are rough but sturdy, enough for her purposes.

Her blade dragging against the floor, she hobbles out of the room, an unconscious Tevlaia lying silently on the floor, the room a complete mess. She does not look back.

Tevlaia has taken ample care of her for the past month, nearly two. It is enough. She has forgotten her origins, her life before those two months, but she remembers one name, the name of her target, the one who currently resides in Thille. There will be no delay. She has no need for the support of the Battalion. He will be killed before the first Confederation soldier even steps foot in the city. When all is finished, her life will finally be complete.

It is the thirty second day of the fifth month, thirty one days since Avalel seized power over the New Rule.