An hour later, in the grove on the hill behind St. Joan's Girls' Academy.
Amy and Sarah were the first to arrive.
Their loose robes concealed an axe, crossbow bolts, and a flintlock.
They walked side by side, Amy adjusting her breathing as she went-a combat instinct she had developed through repeated real battles. Breathing this way made her stronger and faster.
She had first noticed it when she killed for the first time, hacking her adoptive father to death with an axe.
After she hacked the village chief and his three sons to death, that breathing pattern had become second nature. And when the last of them stabbed her, the pain and brush with death had seared it into her soul. Every time she gripped a weapon, she involuntarily slipped into that state, driven entirely by instinct.
Sarah, meanwhile, grew increasingly cautious.
Her palms were slick with sweat, and she was so nervous that she even began seeing things.
Fortunately, she had her own way of steadying herself.
She thought back to Woolt.
To the bastard she had killed by accident.
To the bastard she had chopped into pieces, bit by bit.
Without realizing it, Sarah's lips curled upward.
Release!
It was a sense of release buried deep in her heart. The moment she brought her blade down, she had felt lighter than ever before.
Whenever she was about to buckle under the strain, she recalled that feeling.
Without her noticing, those horrific images became comforting.
Especially when the smell of blood filled the air, Sarah felt joy.
Her nervousness vanished.
All that remained was...
Anticipation!
Would blood come spurting out?
Would she feel that soft sensation of a blade slicing through flesh?
She could hardly wait.
In the sunlight, traces of an unnatural flush appeared on her face.