CHAPTER 316: CHAPTER 306: FREEDOM

[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Outskirts]

"Ugh..." Gretchen groaned softly, shielding her eyes with one hand as the fractured rays of sunlight that bled through the overcast sky. Even through the haze, the light was painfully sharp after so long underground. Her pupils contracted, and for a brief moment, her breath caught — as though the world were too bright for her to return to so suddenly.

Tamamo-no-Mae stretched lazily beside her, nine tails swaying. "Relax, girl," she teased. "You could use a bit of sunlight. That skin of yours could blind a town."

Gretchen sent her a sharp, irritated glare but said nothing. She stood at the cave’s mouth, the cold wind stirring her hair as the world beyond spread like a graveyard of old trees. To her right, Dante stood motionless.

"Seems you’ve saved this beautiful damsel," Gretchen said at last, dry humor creeping into her tone. "I imagine you’re feeling rather proud of yourself."

"Hmph." Dante’s response was little more than a grunt.

"An eloquent knight, truly." She folded her arms. "Are you capable of an actual sentence, or should I take that as your idea of charm?"

Tamamo’s grin widened. "He gets bashful when complimented. Grunts are his love language."

"Hardly," Dante replied flatly.

Gretchen tilted her head, studying the faceless man in silence. Beneath her composure, unease stirred — she hadn’t forgotten the moment his presence had changed, that suffocating pressure that had crushed the air from her lungs without him raising a finger. One wrong word, one wrong blink, and she was certain he would have ended her.

She flexed her hands slowly, the skin still faintly red from the heavy iron manacles. "Freedom," she murmured under her breath, as if testing the word. The sound of her own voice saying it felt foreign.

And wrong.

They stood on a dying world. The forest before them was gloomy — old trees twisted toward a grey, lifeless sky, their branches clawing at nothing. The earth was brittle, leached of color. No birds. No wind strong enough to carry a scent. Just decay.

"I remember this forest being alive once," Gretchen said finally, her voice thoughtful. Her eyes traced the ashen soil. "The leylines here are fractured. Unstable. What in the world happened while I was gone?"

"Oh? You can read the flow of the leylines that easily?" Tamamo’s tone turned into something close to respect. "Impressive. Though, I suppose you had years to refine your craft." She paused, her tails swaying. "To make a long story short — two very large, very irritable lizards decided to use this realm as a dueling ground. The destruction shredded the leylines. Every so often, they still take turns leveling the land for fun."

Gretchen blinked, unimpressed. "That was very useless information."

Tamamo hummed, clearly unbothered. "I thought you’d appreciate the summary. Be grateful — I spared you the poetry."

("That explains the tremors I used to feel...") Gretchen thought. ("It’s a miracle the mines never caved in completely.")

Her gaze lingered on the dead horizon. "It’s as if the world is exhausted," she murmured. "Stripped bare of breath."

She scanned the area with little emotion.

"So," Gretchen began again, turning toward Dante, "what do you plan to do with me now? Keep me on a leash? Toss me back into the dark?"

Dante’s answer came without hesitation. "You’ll remain by my side until I determine whether you’re a threat or not."

She gave a low, humorless laugh. "How romantic. The knight rescues a maiden only to chain her with suspicion. A fine comedy indeed."

Tamamo chuckled under her breath. "Oh, come now. Dante’s better company than he looks. Unless you provoke him, of course. Then he’ll kill you."

Gretchen exhaled, shoulders sagging slightly. "Swell. A generous arrangement."

"This is hardly worth whining over," Tamamo continued. "You’re free. The air’s yours again. You could at least pretend to enjoy it."

Gretchen arched an eyebrow. "And you? You sound far too cheerful for someone wandering a wasteland."

"I make do," Tamamo said simply. "Besides, I find you interesting. You said you studied alchemy — that’s quite the taboo these days."

"Taboo?" Gretchen repeated, a hint of disbelief in her voice. "It wasn’t so rare when I walked free. Have people truly grown that timid in my absence?"

Tamamo tilted her head. "Depends on what you turned into gold."

"I didn’t turn people into anything," Gretchen said sharply, then sighed. "At least, not intentionally."

The fox spirit smirked, letting the words hang in the air before asking, "How long were you down there?"

"It’s hard to say. I stopped counting after the first few years," she murmured, almost to herself. "Long enough for kingdoms to rise and rot it seems. Good riddance to that cursed one, though." Her gaze turned back to Dante. "And as for you—" she smiled thinly, "I suppose I owe you a thank you. But since you still think me a prisoner, you’ll get no more than that, Sir Dashing Knight."

"I wasn’t expecting gratitude," Dante replied, tone neutral.

"Of course not. You don’t strike me as the type who enjoys being thanked." Gretchen turned her face away. "It would make you human."

Before he could respond, the sharp rhythm of boots on dead soil broke through the quiet.

Tamamo’s ears twitched, all nine tails stiffening behind her.

Dante’s head turned slowly toward the treeline.

From the fog emerged figures — twenty, perhaps more. Each identical in build, clad in sleek black combat suits threaded with dull gray plating. Their helmets were smooth and featureless, their movements unnervingly uniform.

"The Retorta Guild," Dante muttered. ("Hm, how did they know to come here? They must have someone who sensed Gretchen’s mana.")

The soldiers froze as they spotted the trio. Rifles rose in unison, barrels trained on Gretchen.

"The captive is out!" one barked, voice distorted through his helmet’s vocoder. "Engage and recapture!"

Gretchen didn’t flinch. If anything, she straightened, rolling her shoulders as though greeting a familiar adversary. "Quite the welcoming committee," she said coolly. "I’d almost think they missed me."

Tamamo smiled. "Quite the party indeed."

Gretchen lifted one hand, golden light beginning to pulse from her palms.

"My mana has begun to return," she said softly. "And I’ve a score to settle with this guild for their... experiments."

Her tone left no room for question.

Tamamo’s tails stirred behind her as she glanced toward Dante. "Your call, serknight," she murmured.

"Do as you please." Dante simply said.

No command. No warning. Simply permission—granted in the flat tone of a man who had no doubt led a rather dull life.

Gretchen glanced back briefly, her expression unreadable. "Don’t regret it," she murmured as she turned forward again.

The Retorta Guild soldiers spread out instinctively, boots crunching in rhythm, forming a loose semicircle around her.

"Stay where you are!" one barked, his voice muffled through the helmet filter.

Another joined in, sharper. "Don’t move again! You are under guild jurisdiction!"

"Hmph, I belong to no one." Gretchen didn’t stop, her steps remained calm.

Two of the soldiers panicked first. Fingers squeezed against triggers.

The shots cracked through the air.

Dante didn’t move. Neither did Tamamo.

But the bullets—

They stopped.

Just inches from Gretchen’s chest, they hung in midair, vibrating with light. Their surfaces glew, bending, melting—metal softening into liquid fire that twisted and reshaped itself into delicate, fluttering forms.

Tiny butterflies.

Each one burned, wings made from fire, pulsing with runes too small for the eye to fully trace. They floated in a halo around Gretchen, her hair stirring in the heat they gave off.

Tamamo whispered, "Oh, that’s quite something..."

The butterflies froze for an instant—then darted forward.

A trail of heat. Then impact.

The forest erupted.

The first explosion rippled outward—sound folding over itself, then breaking into a thunderous roar. Fire cascaded across the clearing, washing over armored figures and uprooting the brittle earth. The shockwave hurled ten soldiers back at once, scattering them like puppets cut from their strings.

The rest dove to the ground, or scrambled behind the remains of stone and wood, shouting orders that were lost in the noise.

When the light faded, the air was filled with smoke and heat distortion. Black armor fragments rained down with dull clangs, the stench of scorched earth filling the air.

Gretchen lowered her hand as Tamamo let out a slow, delighted breath. "Beautiful," she said, and meant it. "Alchemy of that caliber... that’s no parlor trick. She rewrote the material properties, turned the kinetic metal into self-sustaining combustion constructs. And she did it instinctively." Her emerald eyes turned toward Gretchen, studying her with new curiosity. "That means her control is remembered. Alchemy embedded so deeply into her soul it’s reflex."

Gretchen turned slightly, not toward Tamamo, but toward Dante, her tone dry. "You sound impressed."

Tamamo smiled with amusement. "I am. Most alchemists need circles, catalysts, precise ratios of silver and sulfur. You seem to have no need for materials."

Gretchen’s gaze lingered on the smoke rising from the corpses. "I reshape what I understand," she said quietly. "And I understand destruction far too well."

The last ten guild soldiers rose cautiously from cover. They looked shaken, weapons trembling slightly in their grip, they shifted formation. Fear was in their movements—controlled, but present. Six raised their rifles, forming a staggered line. The other four drew curved swords in smooth arcs.

"Targets resisting. Fire on sight!" a commanding voice barked.

Boots pounded against the earth. The four swordsmen surged forward, the remaining six aimed with precision. They fired in bursts, the reports timed to avoid their rushing comrades.

Gretchen didn’t flinch. Her eyes, more annoyed than alarmed.

"Tch," she exhaled, fingers brushing the air beside her temple. She plucked a single strand of her blonde hair.

The strand began to elongate and twist, the alchemy reacting to the minute gestures of Gretchen’s fingers. The hair hardened, layers folding and interlocking into shining metal. What had once been fragile became a blade, sharp at the edges.

Then she tossed it.

The blade turned lazily through the air, spinning once, twice, its light cutting trails through the dull gray around them. The swordsmen bore down on her, raising their weapons in tandem.

Just before the blade reached them, Gretchen snapped her fingers.

The world seemed to lurch.

The blade fractured—splitting, then reforming in midair, the pieces snapping outward. It widened, warped, and flattened into a thin disc that whirled violently.

It sliced through the first man before he could react. His sword arm fell away before the rest of him followed, cleaved cleanly at the torso. The disc spun on, tearing through the next two just as easily, their armor parting as if it were paper. The fourth man stumbled backward, too slow to realize it was already done—his visor split diagonally, his body following a heartbeat later.

The sound of it was almost unnerving—wet and abrupt.

The disc didn’t slow. It carved a wide arc before dissolving into a thousand glowing motes that drifted apart.

Gretchen didn’t look back at the bodies. Her attention had already shifted to the six riflemen.

The bullets were already in the air, spinning toward her in perfect unison.

She raised one hand, palm open.

The projectiles stopped mid-flight, vibrating violently as her power seized them—metal surrendering. They trembled, their forms stretching, lengthening, twisting into something thin and sharp.

Needles.

Dozens of them.

Her fingers curled slightly and the air whined.

The needles shot back, faster than they’d come. A staccato blur—each one finding its mark with precision. The soldiers didn’t even have time to cry out. Armor dented, shattered and blood misted the air as they collapsed in staggered rhythm, one after another, their bodies folding to the ground as silence fell again.

Tamamo let out a long, appreciative whistle. "Now that," she said, "was artistry."

Gretchen exhaled softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek. "They should’ve stayed away," she murmured, her tone neither cruel nor triumphant.

Tamamo circled a few steps closer, inspecting one of the fallen rifles half-buried in the dirt. "Alchemy like that isn’t simple transmutation," she remarked, her tone shifting from playful to analytical. "You’re not converting base matter—seems you’re binding intent. The hair wasn’t merely material; it seems. Every molecule remembers its shape, its purpose, even after being rewritten. It’s not energy exchange—it’s dominance. So in a way you impose form on a piece of reality."

Gretchen met her gaze. "You talk a lot for someone who just watched people die."

Tamamo smiled, emerald eyes narrowing. "And you kill efficiently for someone who was just freed from a cell. We all have habits."

"Habits," Gretchen repeated, tone flat, though her eyes softened for the briefest moment. "Yes. That’s one word for it."

She turned away, surveying the aftermath. The corpses lay where they fell—motionless, already cooling. And the world around them was still gray.

Behind her, Dante finally spoke. "You didn’t hesitate."

Gretchen didn’t turn. "Neither did they."

"True," he said. "But theirs was fear. Yours wasn’t."

She paused, then looked over her shoulder, her expression unreadable beneath the strands of hair falling across her face. "When you’ve been buried long enough," she said quietly, "fear starts to seem like a luxury."

Dante held her gaze—or at least, she imagined he did behind that helm.

Tamamo broke it first, stretching lazily. "Well, that was all rather morbidly lovely. I’d say we’ve drawn enough attention for one day. Unless, of course, our charming knight here plans to collect their insignias as trophies."

Dante’s head tilted slightly in her direction. "No."

"Pity," Tamamo sighed. "You’d look good with a few medals."

"You both talk too much."

Tamamo merely grinned.

Dante adjusted his coat, the fur collar brushing against the wind. "We’re done here," he said quietly. "Move." Dante turned as he started walking. Tamamo followed, her tails swaying behind her in rhythm, and Gretchen fell into step beside them.