But as this was going on, Chamo’s slave-fiends had circled around to block Nashetania’s way. Ten slave-fiends all in a row attacked in unison. They got her, Adlet thought, but the moment he was certain she was done, Nashetania replied to Hans’s question.
“Where am I going? I’m running away.” As the slave-fiends leaped at her, Nashetania smiled boldly. “Since I’ve done what I came to do, after all.”
All the slave-fiends suddenly stopped. No blades had pierced them. Nothing had attacked them. What happened? Adlet wondered, and while he searched for the cause, the fiends took full advantage. A lion-fiend swiped at his neck from behind. He ducked and whipped around, throwing a poison needle into the creature’s face.
Nashetania took the opportunity to escape the crowd of slave-fiends surrounding her and flee. “Let’s go! Hurry, hurry!” She hit the stone lizard-fiend’s back, and it kept thudding along. Nashetania repelled a shot from Fremy with a blade, while another of her fiends rushed in to hinder Hans’s pursuit. Rolonia and Mora’s opponents had repositioned to serve as a rearguard for Nashetania’s flight, preventing Fremy and Hans from chasing after her.
For a moment Adlet hesitated, wondering if they should try to follow. But they had something more important to deal with. “What happened, Chamo?!” he cried, running up to her.
She didn’t seem right, clutching her stomach with an expression of shock. She stared at her hands and her body and muttered, “…Huh? What…?”
Then she covered her mouth. The next moment, blood began pouring from between her fingers. She collapsed without even a cry, and as she did, all of her slave-fiends immediately rushed back into her mouth. Adlet couldn’t see any visible; he had no idea what had hit her.
“Chamo!” Mora cried as she and Rolonia rushed to the fallen girl. Mora held the young Brave while Rolonia tried to stop the bleeding. But when they attempted to treat her, they were left speechless and confused. They couldn’t find any wounds.
“…What’s wrong, Chamo?” asked Adlet.
Trembling, the girl held her hands over her mouth. It had to be the first time ever that she’d been afraid for her life. “There’s…swords…inside…my stomach…” She gasped, and then she vomited up another gush of blood.
Fremy and Hans tried to pursue Nashetania, but the fiends fended them off, and Nashetania gradually widened her lead. Then she was past the slope and out of sight.
Nashetania knew exactly what had happened to Chamo—of course she did. She was the one who had meticulously, painstakingly set the trap for her in the first place.
Some Saints possessed a certain ability: They could imbue an object with their abilities to create tools with special powers. These tools were generally referred to as hieroforms. The Saint of the Single Flower, who had devised the original Crest of the Six Flowers, had been the most powerful creator of hieroforms in history. In more recent times, Mora of Mountains and Willone of Salt were known to often utilize this skill. Chamo and Rolonia could not do it at all, and Fremy did not seem very proficient at it, either. The typical target objects for this infusion of power were stakes inscribed with hieroglyphs, or written texts, or any sort of gem. It was said that giving a crest power, as the Saint of the Single Flower had, was an extremely advanced technique.
Publicly, Nashetania hadn’t been able to create hieroforms—but that was a lie. If her capabilities were widely known, she wouldn’t have been able to fulfill her role in this scheme.
About two years earlier, Nashetania had left Piena to visit All Heavens Temple. More than twenty servants accompanied her: guards, a coachman for each carriage, maids to handle her meals and clothes, and even someone to care for Nashetania’s pets. At the time, acting Temple Elder Willone, who had been managing the shrine, seemed quite displeased by the flaunting of luxury.
“It’s unusual for you to come all the way to the temple, Princess,” said Willone. “What brings you here?” Nashetania had normally trained in Piena with Goldof and the knights. She rarely left the country.
“Same as always. Just a whim,” she’d replied, evading the question.
That day at All Heavens Temple, they were practicing battling fiends. The Saints fought Chamo Rosso’s “pets” on the temple training grounds. Slug-fiends, water-snake-fiends, and more attacked without mercy, and Athlay, the Saint of Ice, Liennril, the Saint of Fire, and other skilled warriors pummeled their opponents with their techniques. The training session was just like real battle. Not all the blood on the ground belonged to the slave-fiends.
“…Wow,” said Nashetania in awe when she’d seen the spectacle. “So the girl in the middle is Chamo? She’s so cute. I’m sure she’ll be really pretty when she grows up.”
Willone was taken aback by Nashetania’s happy-go-lucky grin. “…Um, Princess, if you came here without knowing what was going on, maybe you should reconsider. Chamo isn’t a bad kid, but she’s somewhat…atypical.”
“Oh, really? Well, that’s a little unsettling. But don’t you worry about me.”
“Please, just try not to get yourself hurt.”
“If I avoid ever getting hurt, I wouldn’t learn anything, Willone,” said Nashetania, and she tossed aside her dress. Underneath, she wore simple training clothes. “I can’t wait any longer. Nashetania, Saint of Blades, joins the fray!”
“Ah! H-hey! Hold on!” Willone had attempted to restrain her, but it was in vain. Nashetania leaped into the arena, slicing into slave-fiends with swords growing out of the ground.
“Huh? A newcomer, huh? Hey, Willone, is that one of the Saints I’m allowed to kill?” Chamo asked, and she vomited up more slave-fiends.
“No! Absolutely not! And there aren’t any Saints you’re allowed to kill!” Willone dashed into the arena to protect the princess.
Nashetania was smiling, summoning blades
