Milloula Friegeaux spun the military knife in her hand and gripped the hilt with the blade facing Inghild. She was certain her target wouldn't be able to dodge, so she slowly lifted the knife high overhead.

"Inghild!!" Beatrice wobbled once she stood up and eventually fell again, her eyes strained on her near-death comrade. He'd die in front of her. That seemingly ostentatious knowledge wrapped the girl's heart, giving her the strength to try to save him. The only thing holding her down was the drowsiness she had from being slammed into a wall.

Ignoring the blaring warnings in her brain, Beatrice ran totteringly, pushing herself past her limit.

As for the man evidently teetering between life and death, Inghild's eyes never left the knife about to descend onto him. He blinked, just as Milloula's blade disappeared. His stare shifted to the ceiling, memories of his life flashed through Inghild's mind.

I was prepared to die when I accepted Her request, but still...

Nearly a decade ago, Inghild was thrown into prison for leaking confidential military documents to certain countries. Pictures of his face taken and once deemed guilty, the judge decided he would spend a lifetime in a prison in London, United Kingdom.

As an aside, the Sovereign of the British Monarchy—Queen of a constitutional monarchy—held matters which involved trust and the reputation and safety of her royal family in high regard. Which meant those who'd chosen to disobey would be met with severe punishment regardless of status and age.

Queen Fortune Sybyll Barnwell.

The Sovereign and therefore Head of State of Canada and many other countries, of which the ability to make and pass legislation rested with the Parliament. That being said, Prime Minister was still the most powerful individual with the power to command the military and regulate the laws of respective countries.

However, special authoritative orders and powers specific to the ruling Crown still existed, and she also claimed much-needed respect from every part of the world and was revered by the British society. Simply put, if Her Majesty decided against or wanted something, most likely, the Crown's position bestowed upon her would allow half of the wishes she had.

When Inghild was thrown in a solitary cell, two officers watched over him for a month. During that time, no one else talked to him, much less visited him in prison. Any news regarding the outside world didn't reach Inghild and so, he spent his days indulging in an ostensibly mundane routine.

Until one day, a certain powerful individual visited him in his cell at noon. The thick metal door to his cell opened wide and four silver-masked people in white coat approximately six-feet-tall entered. They fell to one knee and lowered their head as if making a path for an old lady in her seventies to step in.

"Y-Your Majesty!?"

Trembling in fear, Inghild sat on both knees and bowed, sweat trickled down his chin before it dropped onto the musty floor.

"...Inghild Emmanuel Russell," said the Queen softly.

"Y-Yes!" Inghild raised his head once he heard his name called.

The Queen's turquoise floor-length dress was unblemished, and she had only a simple necklace around her neck. Jet-black hair tied into a bun paired with the silver-chalice crown, the Queen exuded veneration from anyone nearby.

She straightened her posture and tapped her wooden cane onto the floor twice.

"Sentenced to live in prison for the remainder of your life, isolated from even the inmates, does it not make you regret what you'd done?" muttered Queen Fortune Sybyll Barnwell smoothly.

"...In all honesty, I'd reflected on my wrongdoings, the crimes, all that which caused me to be brought here. Your Majesty, forgive my bluntness, but regret is an understatement to what I'm feeling right now."

Inghild spoke the truth. He was inveigled by his acquaintances to steal military secrets and sold them. After all, such information could earn him a huge sum of money in a flash. Tempted to get out of his homeless status, he took his brother's hand without looking back.

"...If given the chance to turn back time and undo your mistakes, will you do it, Inghild?"

"Absolutely, Your Majesty. My life as it is has no meaning. To turn back and become a different person entirely... Get hired to work an honest job and help my fellow friends living on the streets. I-I'll take the chance."

Queen Fortune narrowed her eyes at the man seeking redemption. She considered every word that came out of his mouth, trying to discern the veracity of his words. "If I offer you redemption, what can you give me in return?"

Inghild's eyes opened wide. "I-I was in the military for a few years before I got kicked out. Your Majesty, I-I can offer you my skills, my talent. Anything you ask of me, I'll do it without question!"

The Queen smiled upon hearing his words. She nodded in acknowledgment and sat on both knees after her subordinate held her cane for her.

"Your Majesty!"

"I will give you a choice, Inghild. You can join a secret paramilitary company called Le Morte D'Angharad, which is naturally, under my direct control. It's a company I founded to take in those who wish to get a second chance in their life—getting involved in missions for the sake of my citizens, my people. Or... you can remain here," said Queen Fortune.

Inghild bit his lip and shook his head. The choice was obvious. "I'll help Your Majesty however I can, for the citizens under your rule."

The Queen's smile reached her cheeks. "Welcome to Le Morte, Inghild Emmanuel Russell."

"Inghild!!"

Beatrice's cry echoed throughout the room the moment Milloula's knife pierced Inghild's throat. Milloula stared down at the man she'd killed as he dropped to the floor, blood spluttered out from his neck.

"Graaaaaaaah!" Furious, unbridled hatred coursing through her veins, Beatrice swung her arm at Milloula. The Officer countered with a chop to Beatrice's neck, and the swing missed its target.

Milloula's knife was still in her hand, but it could only handle a few more stabs into flesh with the abused, dented edge. With bloodshot eyes, Milloula held the knife close to her chest, the blade facing Beatrice. Milloula knew Beatrice had almost no protection against a stab at point-blank, so she waited for the right moment.

When Beatrice planted her foot to gain her bearing, Milloula smiled. Death had come. The knife cut through the little distance between the two and it dug deep into Beatrice's flesh.

"Gghhh!"

"...What a mad lad you are."

Beatrice protected herself with her free right arm, the knife's bloodied tip jutted out the other side. The young girl kicked Milloula, and slowly, she gruntingly pulled the 7-inch knife and threw it. Despite her experience on the frontline, she could barely stand on two feet after taking such an injury. The searing pain and blood loss got to her and she fell on both knees.

After everything that she'd done, and how much sacrifices it'd taken to wear down Milloula, the battle was still one-sided no matter how anyone looked at it. The worst part was that Milloula did not suffer from any significant injury, which miffed Beatrice.

The situation couldn't get any worse than it was for Beatrice, as she glared at Milloula about to finish her off with a smile.

Beatrice relied on her senses and jujutsu martial art in close combat, so with her unable to lift an arm, her fighting strength plummeted rock-bottom. Her kicks were far less effective given how she had almost no strength left.

Back when she used to still wield a katana, she was arguably unbeatable in a one-on-one fight.

But she promised to not use it again because she'd done unforgivable atrocities with it. Even so, parting with the very weapon she was trained to use since elementary filled her chest with longing—for the blade—and for the boy who she met during the days training with it.

"You're strong, but not good enough yet," said Milloula, her raised fist overhead trembling.

Ah... I'm about to die here, huh. Without ever meeting him again? Without telling him what I wanted to tell after we parted ways?

The thought hurt her more than she would've wanted. Tears filled her eyes as she stared at Milloula.

That was when Beatrice heard a familiar voice echoed throughout the bloodied room.

"Beatrice!!" yelled Hope Domitius.

After the blonde boy stepped into the room, he threw a slim blade about half his height up in the air. It spun three times and cut through Milloula's shoulder who was caught off guard. The blade spun once again behind Milloula, and Beatrice caught the hilt with her left hand, a smile flitted across her face.

"You—"

The titanium katana slashed vertically across Milloula's torso, splitting her abdomen and severing her tendons in one swift motion. Milloula didn't finish her sentence as blood poured out of her mouth.

Beatrice used all her remaining strength to stand up, flipped the katana in hand with the blade facing down, and stabbed through Milloula's neck.

"Grraaaakh..."

The fearsome foe fell down, blood gushed out from her neck as she stared at the ceiling.

"I can't even keep this promise to you, huh..." After Beatrice said these words, she collapsed just a few moments before a group of medics rushed inside the room, applying emergency treatment onto her. Aside from Beatrice, only the ash-blonde girl was alive amidst the horrible massacre and gore surrounding them.

"G-Good thing I went to the workshop," said Hope as he breathed heavily and sat down at the entrance.

"...Hope, you shouldn't be moving. I know I just treated your injury, but the bandage can only cover and stop the bleeding for so long."

"Ayesha."

Among the medics arrived, Ayesha was the only one reprimanding Hope for his actions. While he did save Beatrice, a chance for his wound to open again could skyrocket at any moment. Stressing the muscles around his shoulder, where the wound was at, had made Ayesha worry.