Darkness.
Endless, suffocating darkness, thick and viscous like congealed blood, enveloped Celica’s consciousness.
No—perhaps it wasn’t even consciousness anymore.
It felt more like the final gasps of a shattered soul teetering on the edge of an abyss, the last, meaningless bubbles sinking into the swamp of despair.
The cold metal slab pressed against her skin—
If that could still be called skin.
Every breath carried the bitter scent of rust and disinfectant, stabbing into her lungs, reminding her that she was still “alive.”
If such a state could truly be called living.
Whips, cuts, injections… The researchers in white coats, their faces blurred under the harsh shadowless lamps, revealed only indifferent eyes and whispered data recordings etched into her bones.
They spoke of her “tolerance,” “degree of mutation,” “energy threshold,” as if she were merely meat on a chopping block, a collection of parts awaiting disassembly and reassembly.
The Wings of the Goddess… what an ironic name.
Once, she had been the proud cleric swordsman of the Wings of the Goddess Knight Order, clad in shining silver armor, wielding a longsword etched with the goddess’s blessing, guarding the faith and order of the Holy City.
Her captain—the stern yet kind old man who was like a father to her;
Her comrades—the brothers and sisters she could trust her back to… Their faces and laughter grew clearer in the darkness, stabbing deeper.
All because they could not turn a blind eye to Jelorur’s increasingly insane “Purification” policy, because they dared to raise their voices in doubt…
The entire order was branded heretics and apostates.
Blood stained the square of the Holy City; their screams drowned beneath sacred hymns.
The captain was publicly burned at the stake; her comrades were secretly executed or exiled to their deaths.
And she, Celica, because of her “special knight constitution” and “affinity with sacred energy,” was deemed a “valuable experimental subject” and thrown into the deepest, most sunless hell beneath the Holy City.
Day after day of torment.
Her body forcibly infused with tainted abyssal energy, bones twisted and stretched, skin overlaid with cold, hardened scales, arms mutated into inhuman claws…
She could feel her “self” crumbling piece by piece, the rationality belonging to humans drowning in beast-like screams of pain.
Every time she regained clarity, the monster staring back at her in the mirror—if that filthy glass could still be called a mirror—was the cruelest torture for her soul.
Goddess… Celica prayed countless times deep inside, begging for forgiveness, pleading for salvation, even just release.
But all that answered her were deeper despair and endless agony.
Had the goddess abandoned her? Or… had the goddess never existed at all?
Eventually, even her prayers ceased.
All that remained was numb silence and one clear thought: death.
To die.
She tried smashing against the cage, tried starving herself, but each time she was forcibly “rescued” and subjected to even more cruel “punitive experiments.”
No way to live, no way to die.
That was all the meaning of her existence.
Until that day.
Unusual commotion came from outside the cage.
No longer the cold, regular footsteps of researchers, but chaotic, panicked running and shouting.
She vaguely heard fragments: “The Pope is dead!” “Dark Giant!” “The Holy City is lost!”
Jelorur… dead?
A sudden, indescribable, blood-tinged joy broke through her numbness.
That madman who had dragged them into hell finally got her due!
Yet after the fleeting joy came deeper confusion.
What did the pope’s death mean? She was still a monster trapped in this cage, her fate long sealed.
Death was still the only escape.
Then, she saw her.
The silver-haired girl, like a pure moonbeam tearing through endless darkness, appearing in this filthy hell.
Her gaze was clear and resolute, carrying an incredible power.
She effortlessly shattered the cage’s barriers as if brushing away dust.
“Kill me… please…” Celica squeezed out a hoarse, broken plea from her mutated throat, “I beg you… kill me… end… this pain…”
She saw sadness and anger in the girl’s eyes, but the expected fatal blow did not come.
The girl refused.
“… I’m here to save you!” The girl’s voice was not loud, yet it carried an unwavering conviction that pierced Celica’s walls of despair. “Please don’t ever give up hope! Trust me, there will be a way!”
Hope?
That word was like a red-hot iron branding Celica’s soul, making it twitch in agony.
Hope? In this hell? In this body that was neither human nor beast? Such a luxury and a mockery!
Instinctively, she wanted to scoff, to argue, to question if this girl was just like the researchers—planning to make them new lab specimens…
But the girl’s golden eyes, like burning stars, held no deceit or calculation—only pure, undeniable resolve and… compassion?
No, it was more than pity. It was a heavy sense of responsibility and kinship.
At that moment, the long-dead lake of her heart seemed to ripple imperceptibly as if a tiny stone had been cast into it.
Salvation… hope…
Before the potent sedatives injected into her consciousness dragged her back into darkness, these two words flickered like a faint firefly in the wasteland of her mind.
The journey that followed was a haze in Celica’s memory.
She could feel her body moving—sometimes jolting, sometimes smooth—but her mind remained as if sunk in deep-sea mud, foggy and half-awake.
The intense pain and distortion from mutation lingered, but the despair that had seeped into her bones seemed to be driven back, little by little, by that faint glimmer of light.
She no longer actively wished for death, but sank into a vague waiting.
Waiting for what?
She didn’t know.
Maybe to see if that promise of salvation would prove another cruel lie, so she could finally lose all hope;
Or perhaps… a tiny, humble expectation buried deep inside, one she barely dared to admit.
Occasionally, she heard faint voices—probably the silver-haired girl, whom she later learned was named Eileen, and her companions fiercely debating.
Words like—
“Abyssal Corrosion Rate,” “Sacred Factor Counterbalance,” “Reverse Reconstruction,” “Mana Node Stability Threshold”—
were incomprehensible to Celica, but she clearly felt the burning tension, exhaustion, and repeated failures behind them.
The silence that followed each discussion pressed down on her heart like a heavy stone.
Hope… was it truly too extravagant?
Until one day.
Her consciousness felt wrapped in warm water, slowly rising.
Her body felt unprecedentedly… light? The deep, bone-deep weight and alien sensation of countless chains binding her seemed to… vanish?
She heard voices—no longer muffled debates, but joyous, nearly shattering shouts!
“We did it! Eileen! We succeeded!!!”
“Data stable! Corrosion reversed! Configuration perfectly anchored! Oh my God! We really did it!!!”
“Ahhhhh! I knew it! I knew it! Our direction was right! Eileen! We made it!!!”
That voice… belonged to the purple-haired mage who was always by Eileen’s side.
Usually calm and a little sharp-tongued, her voice now brimmed with childlike delight, piercing enough to shake the roof.
Celica’s heart jolted! An indescribable premonition seized her.
“Wh… what succeeded?”
She asked instinctively, her voice hoarse from long silence.
But the moment the words left her lips, Celica felt as if struck by lightning, frozen utterly in place!
That voice…!
No longer the repulsive roar of the monster she remembered!
No longer the low, murky sobbing as if stones were lodged in her throat!
It was… clear, faint, yet unmistakably familiar.
Her own voice! The voice of Celica Elvin, cleric swordsman of the Wings of the Goddess Knight Order!
Overwhelming shock and disbelief swept over her like a tsunami.
She dared not even breathe, fearing this was just a cruel mirage that would shatter upon waking.
Trembling, summoning all her strength, she slowly, painstakingly… lowered her head.
Her gaze fixed on her hands.
No longer were they covered in cold scales, fingertips like blades of monstrous claws.
They were… human hands!
The skin was pale to the point of near translucence, marked with old and new scars from long captivity and experiments, but it was real, soft, human skin!
Her fingers were slender and delicate, nails neatly trimmed.
Celica’s eyes greedily scanned her arms, shoulders, and chest.
No longer torn experimental rags, but clean, soft cotton garments covered her.
Her body… was normal, feminine in shape!
No protruding bone spurs, no twisted joints, no disgusting scales!
“Ah…”
A short, choked breath escaped her throat.
She raised her hands, trembling, and caressed her cheeks.
The touch was warm, soft skin! No longer the cold rough scales! Nose, mouth, eyes… the contours of her features were clear and familiar!
Tears welled up suddenly, flooding her vision and trailing down her pale face, dripping onto her warm, human hand.
“I… I…”
Celica parted her lips but could only utter broken syllables.
Overwhelming joy tangled with disbelief and fear made her shake uncontrollably. She pinched her arm hard, feeling the sharp sting, and cried all the harder.
“Not a dream… really not a dream…” she murmured dazedly, voice choking with tears, “If this is a dream… please… please never… ever let me wake up…”
At that moment, a warm and gentle embrace firmly held her trembling body.
A faint, crisp scent like the first snow, yet soothing, lingered at her nose.
“It’s not a dream, Celica.” Eileen’s voice sounded softly at her ear, gentle but resolute, carrying a weary relief and heartfelt joy. “You’re back. Welcome home.”
Those tender words were like a key unlocking the last shackle.
All the fear, despair, pain, and the overwhelming joy Celica had suppressed erupted at once!
She suddenly clasped Eileen tightly with a reversed hug, burying her face in her shoulder, weeping aloud like a lost child finally returned home.
“Ugh… ahhh… Eileen… my lady… ugh…”
Tears soaked the fabric of Eileen’s shoulder; Celica’s words were incoherent, spilling raw grief and gratitude pent up for who knew how long.
“Thank you… thank you… thank you… truly…”
Her body trembled violently with sobs, each syllable soaked with tears.
Eileen said nothing, simply held her tighter, one hand gently patting her back, the other softly stroking her hair, letting her release everything.
Haelga stood nearby, pushing up her glasses, uncharacteristically silent, watching quietly, her usually cold purple eyes tinged with emotion.
Lillisa quietly handed over a warm towel.
After a long while, Celica’s sobs gradually dwindled to soft sniffles.
She lifted her head, tears clouding her vision, looking at Eileen.
Her golden eyes brimmed with the gratitude of one reborn from disaster and the bewilderment of a second chance at life.
“I’m sorry… I lost control…” She tried to wipe away her tears, but new ones welled up.
“It’s alright, Celica,” Eileen gently wiped her tears away with her fingertip, offering a warm, sincere smile. “You’ve endured too much. This is a release you deserve. And please, don’t thank me. This isn’t a favor. It’s something I, and all who still have conscience, must do! To pull you all out of that hell and restore your rightful form and dignity—that’s the most basic morality!”
Eileen’s words were calm but powerful, without any patronizing tone—only an inherent, almost instinctive sense of justice.
Just then, Serena entered carrying a tray with steaming, fragrant hearty soup, soft bread, and easily digestible fruit.
“Miss Celica, you were unconscious for a long time and are very weak. Please eat a little first, take it slow, don’t rush.”
Eileen took the tray and personally handed the warm bowl to Celica. “After eating, rest well. Your body needs time to recover, and your mind and soul need even more time to heal.”
The warmth of the bowl seeped into her hands; the aroma of food entered her nose with tangible reality.
Celica cradled the bowl, feeling that long-lost warmth and the true sensation of “being alive,” and tears threatened again.
She sipped the thick soup in small mouthfuls; the warmth flowing into her stomach gave her an indescribable sense of peace.
As she ate, a thought struck her suddenly. She lifted her head, urgency in her eyes. “Lady Eileen! The others… my other comrades… are they…?”
Eileen’s smile faded slightly, a shadow of heaviness passing through her golden eyes.
She sighed softly and spoke frankly: “Celica, you’re the first successful case of reversal. The potion that restored you is extremely complicated and difficult to prepare, needing precise adjustments based on each person’s mutation level and corrosion depth. The materials are also very rare and take time to collect. Haelga, I, and several experts from the Royal Research Institute haven’t slept for days and nights…”
She paused, her tone firm again: “But please trust us! We won’t give up on anyone! As long as there’s a glimmer of hope, we’ll do everything we can! They… will eventually find themselves again, just like you!”
Following Eileen’s gaze, Celica finally took a closer look at the savior before her.
Eileen’s silver hair, like moonlight, seemed a little duller, carrying subtle exhaustion.
Her complexion was paler than in Celica’s memory, heavy dark shadows under her eyes like ink stains, revealing severe sleep deprivation.
Her radiant golden eyes, still clear and determined, were bloodshot with countless sleepless nights etched into them.
Celica’s heart clenched as if gripped by an invisible hand, overwhelmed by bitterness and indescribable gratitude.
So, while she had been dazedly waiting for “results,” Lady Eileen and her companions had borne such enormous pressure, enduring hardships unimaginable to ordinary people!
For those of them who were strangers, even turned monsters and “failures.”
The food in her bowl suddenly felt as heavy as a mountain.
Celica set down the bowl, hastily wiping away the tears streaming down again.
She struggled to get out of bed.
“Celica? You need to rest!” Eileen quickly stopped her.
“No, Lady Eileen!”
Celica raised her head, locking eyes with Eileen’s bloodshot golden gaze.
Her voice was weak but carried the immovable determination of a rock—a steely will reforged by the baptism of hell.
Her tear-washed emerald eyes were like a forest after rain—clear and unwavering.
Ignoring her frail body, she straightened her spine forcefully, as solemnly as when she was knighted in the order.
She placed her right hand over her heart—the place where the Wings of the Goddess insignia once rested, now empty, but etched with a deeper vow.
“The Wings of the Goddess Knight Order… may no longer exist. The goddess… may never have heard my prayers.”
Her voice was low but every word clear, carrying an almost sacred solemnity,
“But, Lady Eileen! It was you who pulled me back from the abyss of despair! It was you who gave me a second life! This body, this life, this regained dignity… it’s all your gift!”
She took a deep breath, emerald eyes burning with fierce loyalty:
“From now on, I, Celica Elvin, with this body and soul, will exist solely to protect you! My sword will strike for you! My life will burn for you! Until the last drop of blood flows! This is my oath—Cleric Swordsman Celica—made with my very soul! Please, accept it!”
She struggled to perform the most formal knightly vow.
Eileen looked at the woman who had clawed her way out of despair, her eyes shining brighter than stars, the resolute determination on her pale face stirring a complex storm of feelings inside her.
Relief, pity, and a heavy sense of responsibility.
She knew that any refusal now would be a desecration of Celica’s newly forged faith.
Eileen reached out, not to help her bow, but gently yet firmly grasped the cold hand Celica pressed to her chest.
Her golden eyes looked kindly and solemnly into Celica’s emerald ones.
“Celica,” Eileen’s voice was soft yet powerful, “I hear your oath. So please, for me and for yourself, live well and become stronger. Because… together, we will bring more people like you back from hell. This path needs your strength.”
She squeezed Celica’s hand tighter:
“Now, rest well. Healing your body is the first step in fulfilling your vow. Welcome… to us, Celica.”
“Lady Eileen…”
Tears streamed down Celica’s cheeks once more, but this time they were tears of blazing hope.
She nodded firmly, imprinting the weight of her vow and the warmth of Eileen’s hand deep within her soul.
Cleric Swordsman Celica was reborn here—and found the light she would follow for the rest of her life.