Chapter 4
The next morning, Calliope headed to Dora’s blacksmith shop.
Dora had once been a member of a renowned mercenary group. Eventually, she settled down in this small village with her husband. The main reason for choosing the place was because her husband’s parents lived there, but every time she drank, Dora would grumble that deciding to settle here was the dumbest choice of her life.
To be fair, Baron Hubert—who governed the territory—was a terrible lord. He made no effort to improve the region, never lowered taxes, and filled his own belly even as his people starved.
Most villagers avoided criticizing the baron in front of Calliope, but Dora had no such hesitation. She cursed him openly. Calliope never tried to stop her. Everything Dora said was true, and Calliope had no reason to defend a family she herself deeply resented.
“Good morning, Dora.”
“You’re here.”
When she arrived at the forge, Dora and her workers were lifting a large crate. Calliope stepped forward to help, but Dora quickly waved her off.
“Forget it. You’ll hurt yourself. You’ve gotten stronger, but you’re still not ready to lift this.”
“Is that the spearhead order from the next village?”
“Yeah. Looks like there’ve been more monster sightings lately. They pushed up the deadline, so we had to rush the job.”
Calliope glanced to the side at Dora’s words. In the forests of borderland territories like this one, monsters appeared from time to time. Thankfully, their own village had been safe so far, but sightings were becoming more frequent in nearby areas.
She knew the reason why.
In seven years, the Demon King would return—his resurrection marking the first time in five centuries.
“So there’s no work for me today?”
“Since you’re here, we may as well get in some sword practice.”
“I’m not really sure I’ll ever have to use a sword.”
“Monster numbers are rising, remember? And your house is on the edge of the village. You never know.”
“Fair enough.”
Dora had been teaching Calliope bits and pieces of the combat techniques she’d learned as a mercenary, calling it “self-defense.” Though Calliope often acted like she wasn’t too interested, she always trained with serious focus.
You could never have too many ways to protect yourself.
After loading the crates onto a wagon bound for the next village, Dora led Calliope to the village clearing. As they arrived, Calliope picked up a wooden sword—crudely carved from a thick branch. It was about the length of her arm and had been made by Dora herself.
“If my husband were still alive, he could’ve taught you proper swordplay. All I know are survival skills.”
“You were a mercenary too, weren’t you? What weapon did you use, if not a sword?”
“A mace.”
“A mace? That hammer-like thing?”
“It’s not just a hammer.”
“Still, it suits you.”
“I used an axe sometimes too.”
Calliope smirked.
“That explains why you told me to swing the axe like I’m chopping heads, not wood.”
“And now look at you—you could take off a head with a single blow!”
“A rabbit’s head, maybe. Not a human.”
Laughing, Calliope adjusted her stance. Dora uncrossed her arms and dropped into a ready posture.
Training with Dora always went the same way—she’d teach Calliope how to hold the sword, show her a few basic swings, then let her attack freely. The lesson always ended either when Calliope ran out of energy or, on rare occasions, managed to land a touch.
But Calliope had never landed a single hit.
She dashed forward without hesitation, swinging her wooden sword.
“You’re nothing without talent,” Dora said, dodging easily.
Calliope had never even brushed her clothes, yet Dora always said that.
“If I had real talent, I would’ve hit you by now!”
“No, you’re doing better than most rookies we got in the mercenary corps. You’ve got potential.”
“So, I’m not a sword-fighting genius?”
“Not even close.”
Dora moved just out of reach every time Calliope attacked. If it looked like she might get hit, she’d already stepped aside. Maybe the rumors about her being a famous mercenary weren’t exaggerations after all.
As Dora watched Calliope charge again, she thought to herself: she wasn’t a prodigy, but she was sharp. Definitely capable of learning to hold her own.
She had Ithiel’s intelligence—but thankfully, not her frail body. Probably because she’d helped with work from a young age. All the hunting and training lately had built up her strength.
The next day, Calliope headed to Dora’s forge. Dora had once been a well-known member of a mercenary group, and after her days on the battlefield, she had settled down in the village with her husband.
The main reason for their move was that her husband’s parents lived nearby—but every time Dora had a drink, she’d mutter that settling here had been the dumbest decision of her life.
And maybe it was. Baron Hubert, the one in charge of the territory, was utterly useless. He made no effort to help the land or its people, never lowered taxes, and made sure to keep his own stomach full, even when his people went hungry.
Most villagers avoided talking badly about the baron in front of Calliope. But Dora didn’t hold back. She cursed the baron openly. And Calliope never tried to stop her—because every word Dora said was true. And because she, too, held her own grudge against that house.
“Good morning, Dora.”
“You’re here.”
When she arrived at the forge, Dora and her workers were moving a large crate. Calliope stepped forward to help, but Dora waved her off.
“Leave it. You’ll get hurt. You’ve gotten stronger, sure, but not enough to carry this.”
“Is that the spearhead order from the next village?”
“Yeah. Seems like monster sightings are picking up. They wanted it fast, so I pulled a few long nights to get it done.”
Calliope turned her eyes away at that. Monsters had always appeared now and then in the forests surrounding remote territories. Their own village had been safe so far, but there were more and more reports from nearby towns.
She knew why.
In seven years, the Demon King would return—for the first time in five hundred years.
“So no work for me today?”
“Well, since you’re here, might as well get some sword practice in.”
“It’s not like I’ll have to use a sword.”
“You never know. The monsters are getting closer, and you live near the edge of town.”
“Fair enough.”
Under the name of “self-defense,” Dora had been teaching Calliope some of the combat techniques she’d once used as a mercenary. Calliope liked to act indifferent, but in truth, she was always serious during training.
Because having more ways to protect yourself was never a bad thing.
After loading the crate onto the delivery wagon, Dora took Calliope to the village clearing. There, Calliope picked up her wooden sword—hand-carved from a thick branch by Dora herself. It was about the length of her arm.
“If my husband were still alive, he could’ve taught you real swordplay. I only know what kept me alive.”
“You were a mercenary too, weren’t you? What weapon did you use?”
“A mace.”
“You mean like… a big hammer?”
“A mace is not just a hammer.”
“It suits you, though.”
“Sometimes I used an axe too.”
Calliope laughed through her nose.
“No wonder you told me to swing the axe like I was chopping heads.”
“Thanks to that, you could probably take one off now.”
“Maybe a rabbit’s head, not a person.”
Smiling, Calliope took her stance. Dora lowered her arms and crouched slightly, ready.
That was how their sword training always began. Dora taught her how to grip the sword, a few basic techniques, and then let her come at her. No detailed lectures. No corrections. The lesson ended either when Calliope ran out of energy or, on rare occasions, managed to land a hit.
But so far, she had never landed a single one.
She rushed at Dora without hesitation.
“You’re not talentless, you know,” Dora said as she effortlessly dodged Calliope’s swings.
Despite never landing a hit, Dora always said that. It annoyed Calliope just a little.
She adjusted her footing and swung again.
“If I really had talent, I would’ve hit you by now!”
“No way. You’re better than half the rookies that came through our mercenary ranks. You’ve got potential.”
“So I’m not a sword genius?”
“Not even close.”
Dora dodged with infuriating ease, staying just out of reach, moving like she’d seen every strike before it came. Maybe the rumors about her mercenary days weren’t exaggerated after all.
As she watched Calliope charge again, Dora thought to herself: no, the girl wasn’t a prodigy. But she was smart—clearly inherited from Ithiel—and unlike her mother, she was physically strong. Probably because she’d been working since, she was young.
All the hunting, all the training—it was building her strength.
Dora only wanted Calliope to be able to protect herself.
Her white hair fluttered as she moved. The color looked sickly, like something from illness, but even so—Calliope was a beautiful child. That was why Dora had agreed to teach her swordsmanship in the first place.
“There’s only one thing you’re missing,” Dora said, watching her start to tire.
“You train hard, but you don’t have a goal.”
Calliope chased her through the open clearing, sweating in the winter wind. Her wooden sword whooshed through the air with impressive speed. All that axe chopping had done some good.
“You don’t have a reason to fight like your life depends on it.”
Calliope started to get frustrated. She was trying her best. What more did Dora want?
Her sweat stung her eyes. She was starting to slow down.
Then she heard Dora’s voice again:
“Picture your goal. Something you must reach. Now imagine your blade striking it.”
It was a line Dora used often when training new recruits. Most mercenaries had tragic backstories. But not Calliope. She hadn’t been pampered, but she’d grown up in a peaceful village, and her only real loss had been her mother.
Just as Dora drifted into thought, she looked up—and saw Calliope’s red eyes charging straight at her.
Something felt different.
She was faster. Closer.
Dora tried to dodge, but before she could, Calliope stomped hard on her foot.
“Damn it!”
Calliope’s sword swung toward her face. Dora barely managed to block with her arm.
Smack!
The sound was loud. Calliope, startled by her own strength, jumped back.
She really has gotten stronger, Dora thought, rubbing her aching arm.
Calliope stared with wide eyes like a rabbit caught off guard, then quickly ran over.
“Are you okay?!”
She dropped her sword and inspected Dora’s arm. Thankfully, it didn’t seem broken—just sore enough that a bruise was likely.
“You actually hit me,” Dora said with a grin.
“That’s not the point! You’re hurt!”
“Eh, I’ll spit on it. It’ll be fine.”
“Dora!”
“You sound just like your mom. Always scolding. Fine—training’s over. You landed your hit, and I’ve got no deadlines this week. Take some time off.”
“You have to treat that properly!”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Calliope watched Dora walk away, waving lazily with one hand in her pocket. She sighed and picked up her sword.
Good thing it was just a softened branch—if it had been real wood, someone could’ve gotten seriously hurt.
As she trudged home, she muttered to herself.
“I lost control.”
Dora’s words had gotten to her.
She had a goal—Isaac. The man who had once given her everything, only to take it all back.
But right now, there was someone else her sword needed to reach first.
There’s someone I need to deal with as soon as I return to the capital.
One of the many obstacles waiting at the marquess’s estate. Her closest enemy.
The man who helped cast her mother out, and who worked behind the scenes to isolate her, even pushing for her engagement with Isaac to be broken off.
Ditron Anastas.
He was the elder brother of the former marquess, who died in an accident. After that, Ditron clung to the estate like a leech, manipulating the young new marquess—her father.
But this time, Calliope wouldn’t be so easily used.
This time, she wouldn’t lose anything.
The final days passed quickly. At last, the day came—the day someone from the marquess’s household would arrive.
Calliope did her best to treat it like any other morning.
She fetched water to wash, made a thin porridge from dried meat and grain, and ate quietly.
Then she looked over at the broken shutter she still hadn’t fixed. The sun had risen, but the sky was overcast from snow the night before.
The color of the sky reminded her of the day her mother died.
Sitting on her straw mattress, she finally felt it—the weight of it all. She really had gone back in time.
From today forward, she would need to stay sharp. Every moment would require planning, control, and timing.
The first move would be against Ditron Anastas. But there were bigger things to prepare for as well.
“And what the hell am I going to do about that damn Demon King subjugation…”
She muttered to herself, running her fingers through her now waist-length white hair.
Everyone believed it had turned white the day her mother died.
But it wasn’t grief that caused it.
Her hair had turned white the day she realized Isaac was never coming back.
The day she realized he had abandoned her on the battlefield.
She had cried until she passed out. Fainted over and over. And spent an entire year locked away—neither alive nor dead.
