A Nagawira's body, much like a human's, is composed mostly of water. In theory, that should make it difficult to burn—like a leather waterskin that defies the flames even when roasted for an eternity. Water absorbs heat, delays destruction, and provides a fleeting illusion of resilience.
But theory always crumbles before the reality of war.
A body can still burn, not because its water has vanished, but because of what sustains the life beneath it. The fat that stores energy, the proteins that build the flesh, and the oxygen that flows freely around it. As long as the air is available and the heat is extreme enough, the body itself becomes the fuel.
The Hellfire Spell is exactly that kind of heat.
Blackened crimson flames now devoured Johan's body. The man who once stood at the very vanguard of the battlefield, his frame imposing, his scales shimmering like polished steel. His face was once famed for its beauty; deep blue eyes that brought calm to his allies, and a confident smile that assured the ranks behind him that victory was merely a matter of time.
Now, all of that was gone.
"AAAARRGGGHHH—!! HELP! HELP ME…!"
His screams tore through the night air, replacing the firm voice that once barked commands. It was no longer a battle cry, but the raw howl of a living creature being slowly unmade. The Hellfire licked at his skin, wrapping him in a living shroud of eternal flame.
An ordinary Nagawira would have turned to ash in seconds. But Johan was no ordinary Nagawira. His blood was thicker, his frame denser, and his endurance far surpassed any other. Ironically, that strength was his greatest curse.
The fire worked more slowly on him.
His high-grade plate armor, forged by the finest smiths, was the first to give way. The fire swallowed the metal as if it were mere silk; the steel glowed white-hot, then buckled, dripping to the earth like molten wax. When that protection vanished, the Hellfire finally touched his skin.
The sweat pouring from his pores did not extinguish the flames. Instead, it became additional fuel.
The pain did not arrive all at once. His nerves were scorched one by one, creating a measured, sadistic suffering. Johan roared, his body slamming into the dirt, thrashing in a desperate attempt to quench the fire that clung to him, that kept biting. But Hellfire does not die by earth or dust. It lives only to destroy.
The extreme heat evaporated his bodily fluids first. The water in his blood, his muscles, and his tissues began to boil, turning into steam that forced his flesh to bloat and rupture from within. Small popping sounds crackled beneath his screams, like damp wood forced to burn.
When the water reserves were spent, the fire moved to the next stage.
Johan's body fat ignited.
He became a natural fuel source, accelerating the combustion as it fed on the oxygen. The light grew brighter, the heat more brutal. Carbon dioxide and steam hissed out of his open wounds. His muscles tightened unnaturally, bulging like over-inflated bladders, before convulsing violently and losing function one by one.
The fire crawled toward his face.
The fluid in his eyes evaporated in an instant, leaving behind an indescribable agony before his sight vanished entirely. Those blue eyes that once charmed and comforted now blackened and collapsed, leaving behind smoking, hollow sockets. His screams dissolved into a raspy, guttural sound that no longer resembled human speech.
Time passed.
Second after second the torture continued, until even the Hellfire seemed satisfied. The flames finally ebbed, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating silence.
Where Johan had once stood, only a blackened, huddled mass remained. A silhouette of ash, charred tissue, and cracked bone—a pitiful thing.
Like a burnt twig fallen from a campfire.
The night wind blew softly, carrying the pungent stench of scorched meat, blood, hot iron, and sulfur. The odor blanketed the battlefield, clinging to the clothes, the weapons, and the lungs of those still left alive.
It was a scent that required no explanation.
A scent that could only be called by one name:
The Burning War.
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Shiki stared at what remained of Johan's body.
Faint wisps of smoke still drifted from the ashes scattered across the earth, carried by the night wind until they brushed against the scales on her feet. But Shiki's gaze did not linger there. Her eyes were open, yet they seemed to pierce through the ruins of the battlefield, as if her mind had already drifted to a place her body could no longer reach.
Those gold eyes—the ones that once made fellow Nagawira catch their breath in her presence—now looked dull. The spark that was usually vibrant, sharp, and commanding had faded, clouded by a layer of weariness she could no longer hide. Her eyelids drooped slightly, not because she sought to blink, but because the weight pressing from within her mind felt too heavy to bear.
Her chest rose and fell slowly.
The breath that had previously been ragged—choking on heat, blood, and smoke—had turned short and calm. Too calm. Like the breath of someone who was no longer fighting to stay afloat, merely following the final current before falling into a deep sleep.
Shiki was going to sleep.
The thought surfaced naturally, without fear or resistance.
The heat from the fires ravaging the battlefield no longer offered warmth. Instead, the night wind felt biting, creeping into the crevices of her scales and flesh. In the center of her chest, a massive hole gaped—the mark of a horrific strike from a Human Bride—destroying the part of her body that was once strong and beautiful. Crimson blood continued to flow, soaking into the soil without any sign of stopping.
A Nagawira's body was too resilient to die instantly.
The strength that had always been the pride of her race had now transformed into a cruel, petty torture. Her heart still beat, forcing the blood to circulate, granting her a few extra minutes only so she could feel everything. The pain was no longer sharp; it was heavy and blunt, like a great pressure slowly crushing her consciousness from all directions.
She made no effort to rise.
There was no resistance, no desire to change her fate. Her hands did not reach for a weapon. Her mind did not search for a way out. Even her anger had been eroded until nothing was left.
She knew—even if she stood again, the outcome would remain the same.
Defeat had arrived.
And with that defeat, extinction awaited her kind.
Or perhaps, if the humans felt merciful enough, those who remained would be shackled and forced to live as slaves. The thought flickered briefly, bitter, before sinking again.
Nagawira did not live for such a fate.
Their pride was equal to the dragon blood flowing through their veins. A life without freedom was not an option. From the beginning, there had only been one path: to fight until nothing remained.
That was their end.
That was the brutality of the Bride War.
As the strongest warrior among the Nagawira, the fate of her entire race had once rested upon Shiki's shoulders. But now those shoulders were slumped, her body leaning slightly forward.
Her body grew colder.
Blood still flowed, but it felt distant, as if it were no longer a part of her. Her fingertips grew numb. The sounds of battle in the distance faded, turning into a faint, low hum.
People said that when death approached, one's life would flash before their eyes.
And as her consciousness began to sink, Shiki realized—
Perhaps… those words were true.
Once, Shiki was nothing more than a spoiled girl who grew up believing the world was created specifically for her.
She was born with shimmering red eyes, the same hue as the dragon ancestors. That color made her different; it made people bow deeper and speak softer in her presence. Since childhood, she had been accustomed to being worshiped, and having never been taught otherwise, Shiki accepted it all as her birthright.
She grew up in a wealthy family, surrounded by servants ready to fulfill her every whim—no matter how strange, selfish, or cruel. The cries of others sounded like mere noise. Their pain never truly reached her ears. In her eyes, life was a grand stage, and she was its center. Others were merely extras—there to serve, to entertain, or to be discarded when they were no longer interesting.
She couldn't even remember how many people she had destroyed with her arrogance. Not because there were too many, but because she never deemed them important enough to remember.
Then that day came.
Every youth aged ten to twenty was dragged by an irresistible force and cast into a new world. A foreign world. A cruel world. Yet, though the setting had changed, Shiki had not.
She still waited to be adored. Still waited to be pampered. She remained convinced that her red eyes and beautiful face were enough to make people kneel. Shiki isolated herself in the Starting City, sitting still like a queen bee, waiting for those she considered admirers to bring the fruits of their labor and lay them at her feet.
She never asked how long it would last.
The question never even crossed her mind.
But this world was not built for just one person. And creatures forced to survive would soon shed their patience.
Slowly, the looks of admiration turned to disgust. Whispers of praise were replaced by cynical laughter. When the old rules crumbled under the ruthless laws of the Procession Tower, there was nothing left to stop them from bowing out.
And when it happened, they did not hesitate.
Those she once called servants began to treat Shiki as a toy. Her red eyes, her beautiful body, the grace that was once worshiped—everything was stripped of its meaning and used as an outlet for their rage. Shiki passed from one hand to another, not as a special being, but as a trendy object.
She tried to fight back.
But resistance built only on hollow pride meant nothing to those who risked their lives every day. Their fists taught her in the most brutal way that arrogance without strength was nothing but a joke.
Bit by bit, Shiki was forced to stare at reality.
She was not the center of the world. She was just one tiny cog in a massive machine that didn't care who was crushed beneath its iron wheels.
When her body was no longer appealing, her value fell lower than a decorative trinket. Her last owner didn't even care to keep her. He intended to sell her, but no one wanted to buy. In the end, Shiki was discarded—left in a basement amidst piles of trash and rotting carcasses.
There, she waited for the end.
The stench of decay filled her lungs. The cold floor seeped into her skin. Her eyes were hollow, reflecting the mountain of garbage that was slowly merging with her. For the first time, Shiki understood her place.
She wasn't different.
She was exactly the same as everything else thrown away there.
It was then, when her heart had frozen and the world was utterly dark—
A light appeared.
Silvery-white hair shimmered like a reflection of moonlight in the dead of night. The figure stood before her as if the place weren't a filthy room of decay, but a common path he happened to be walking. His smile was light, almost careless, yet somehow it made Shiki's chest feel tight.
And his eyes.
Those purple eyes looked at her not with lust, not with disgust, and not with hollow pity. His gaze was full of curiosity—as if Shiki were a fascinating puzzle, not a broken, discarded thing.
Shiki's world was shaken.
For the first time, someone looked at her as something other than an object to be used.
"Finished playing?" he said casually, with a mischievous smile that felt so out of place in that wretched basement. "This is only the beginning, you know!"
The words were simple. Almost like a joke.
But to Shiki, they were like a hammer shattering her entire worldview. Her breath hitched. Her chest trembled. She wanted to speak, to ask, to scream—but not a single sound came out.
The man didn't come as a savior. He was more like a traveler passing through, who saw something interesting and then continued on his way.
And sure enough—once Shiki managed to claw her way out of that place, the purple-eyed man had vanished without a trace.
But his smile remained.
His gaze was burned into her mind.
From that day on, Shiki's life was no longer empty.
She didn't know the man's name. Didn't know who he was. But in Shiki's heart, something had been born—an unshakeable conviction. If this world was a story, then that purple-eyed man was the one destined to stand by her side.
That conviction slowly morphed into obsession.
Shiki changed.
She strengthened herself by any means necessary. Sacrificed anything. Calculated every step, exploited anyone who could be used. The world that had once crushed her, she now crushed back without hesitation.
She climbed to the peak of power with terrifying speed.
Yet, she never found the purple-eyed man.
So Shiki searched further. She restarted the Bride War, annihilating species after species. Her name became a terror in the Procession Tower. There was no mercy. No survivors. Even the cries of infants did not stop her.
All for one goal.
And when she finally found a trace of the purple-eyed man, her obsession reached its zenith. Shiki tore through every trap, every enemy alliance, regardless of the consequences.
She lost.
Not because she was weak, but because she had started too late.
And as her body collapsed on the battlefield, the only thing filling her heart was not regret…
But an obsession that had yet to be satisfied.
Her vision began to fracture; the world cracked into shadows that were no longer whole. The sounds of war receded, as if swallowed by water. Her body felt light, numb, as if it were no longer her own. The blood flowing out of her no longer felt warm—even the pain had surrendered first.
In the midst of that void, only one thing still moved within her.
One face.
Those purple eyes appeared in her mind again, clear and calm, just like the first day they met. Unchanged. Unfaded. As if time had never touched him. And for the first time in a long while, Shiki's chest felt tight—not from a wound, but from a loss she had never truly possessed.
Maybe…
Maybe that was the only regret left.
If only she could see him one more time. No need to speak. No need to be touched. Just to ensure that figure truly existed—that her obsession wasn't a lie she had created just to survive.
A single tear fell from the corner of her eye.
The tear felt foreign. Her eyes had long been dry; her heart had long been frozen. Yet still, the tear fell, tracing her dirty, wounded cheek before vanishing into the cruel soil of war.
"I… just want to see you one last time," she whispered faintly, barely audible.
"Please…"
Then, a voice answered.
It did not come from the air. It did not come from a person. The voice simply appeared inside her head—calm, flat, devoid of emotion.
[Do you wish to start from the beginning?]
Shiki was not surprised. In this state, hallucinations felt natural. Her brain must be dying, creating a false hope to make death feel lighter.
But still, her lips moved.
"Yes…"
[Why?]
Her eyelids trembled. She drew a breath—short, fragile, nearly broken.
"Because… this time I know," she murmured.
"I know what I am living for."
[For what?]
Her heart gave a weak throb, as if it had been waiting for this answer for a long time. And when Shiki spoke, there wasn't a hint of doubt in her voice, only a naked, pitiful honesty.
"For him," she said.
"To live with him… and never let him go again."
There was no world. No war. No revenge. All of it crumbled, meaning nothing. All that remained was one simple desire that had transformed into a lifelong shackle.
[Very well.]
[I shall grant you one final chance.]
As the voice faded, Shiki exhaled her final breath.
Her chest stopped moving. Her gold eyes slowly lost their light, staring at the sky without truly seeing anything. On a battlefield filled with corpses and destruction, Shiki, the terror of the Procession Tower, finally fell in silence.
But she did not realize one thing.
On her ring finger, a gold band had appeared. The gem in its center glowed dimly, resembling a dragon's eye watching in silence, holding a promise of time rewound, and an obsession that had not yet ended.