BGDN 01

Chapter 1

The Northern Empire, Duchy of Bellum.

A land of snow-capped mountain ranges, endless dense forests, long winters, and short summers.

The maps called it Bellum, but the Northerners often addressed their homeland as if whispering a lover’s name. My Bellusa, where the spring breeze blows.

Their first impression resembled the North itself – rough and blunt. Yet once you sat with them around a campfire, they would hide their faces and smile shyly.

Bellum, home to people as unchanging as the eternal snows and as unyielding as steel. My homeland, my Bellusa, where my pride still remained.

And that North has fallen.

Diasta lifted her heavy, feverish eyelids. At once, the ladies-in-waiting around her called her name.

“Lady Diasta!”
“My lady has opened her eyes!”
“My lady, you mustn’t lose consciousness. Please take your medicine!”

Strange. No one should be calling me my lady anymore. It had been a long time since she had heard that title – ever since leaving the North, she had been addressed as madam.

Diasta managed a faint, pained smile. It was the wrong address, but it didn’t feel unpleasant.

The ladies clustered around her. Some wiped her sweat, others trickled medicine past her lips.

Even in her hazy state, Diasta could tell: they were treating her as if she were a precious jewel.

Why are you all so tender with me? I’m nothing but a coward.

She wished she could say that, but only groans escaped her lips. The medicine must have worked – soon the pain eased, and sleep began to pull her under.

As her consciousness faded, Diasta thought: My home, my Bellum, has fallen.

All that remained was regret. If only I hadn’t been so weak. If only I had been stronger. If only I hadn’t cried that day… My Bellum…

“…Grandfather.”

Out of all the words she wanted to say, only one left her lips. Then she lost consciousness again.

When she next opened her eyes, Diasta doubted her own senses. Before her was not a drafty, filthy wall. It was a wall adorned with antique tapestries and beautiful patterns.

The wall carvings, engraved with sinuous acanthus leaves that seemed to link endlessly, were quite familiar. They were the beloved motifs that had decorated her childhood bedroom.

Is this a dream?

As she sat up, a fur blanket slipped from her feet. She had used this one as a child, too.

Not a dream. This was unmistakably her own room in Bellum Castle, in the North.

“What in the…?”

Her voice sounded impossibly young. Looking down at her small hands, Diasta gasped and stumbled toward the mirror in the corner.

Face to face with the mirror, she was speechless. She had been twenty-three years old. Yet in the glass stood a child in billowy pajamas.

“Good heavens.”

Her startled voice must have been quite loud. The ladies who had stepped out for a moment hurried back into the room.

“My lady has woken up!”
“Marianne, run and inform the master at once!”
“My lady, are you all right?”

The ladies moved briskly. In their supporting hands, Diasta felt an unfamiliar ache and froze. A sharp pain stabbed at her left side.

“This wound…”

As they carefully laid her back on the bed, the ladies spoke.

“You mustn’t overexert yourself yet, my lady.”
“That’s right – a white-horned boar! You almost died.”
“You’ve passed the crisis, but you must be careful, very careful for a while.”

At their words, Diasta understood.

The white-horned boar… that was when I was thirteen.

At thirteen, Diasta had been attacked by a monster subspecies, the white-horned boar, and had received a deep wound on her side.

She had never forgotten that day. After the incident, she could never hold a sword again… and her grandfather, the Duke of Bellum, had cast her aside.

“My lady, your tea is ready.”

“Thank you, Marianne.”

Before Diasta sat a fragrant rosemary tea and an array of desserts. On a three-tiered stand painted with golden flowers were treats that any child would adore: rich chocolate terrine topped with raspberries, ginger cookies dusted with sugar, rainbow-colored candies sparkling like jewels, and crème brûlée so delicate it would melt at one bite.

The head chef had prepared these with great care for Diasta, now risen from her sickbed. Any other girl her age would have squealed with delight, but Diasta merely lifted her teacup in silence.

The rosemary scent was lovely. Setting the cup down, she tapped the golden handle.

Ding—

A clear, pure sound rang out – worthy of a craftsman’s masterpiece.

So it’s not a dream. I’m not losing my mind. I’ve gone back to the past. To when I was thirteen.

Despite her calm exterior, Diasta was only just coming to terms with her situation.

If only I had gone back to six… no, even seven would have been better…

Diasta unconsciously clenched her fist.

The year Diasta turned seven, her parents fell in battle against monsters. The hands that had always held her warmly returned cold. Before the bodies covered in bloodstained shrouds, Diasta sobbed.

And Non-telle Bellum, who had held her tightly, was forced to make a choice.

It was as if heaven mocked Non-telle.

How unfortunate, Non-telle Bellum. Those you loved have left you on the same day. Now choose: where shall Bellusa go? Into the hands of a distant branch of the family, or a worthless live-in son‑in‑law?

Non-telle chose – but neither of those. After that day, Diasta never saw her grandfather smile again.

Not long after, her formal education began. Swordsmanship, riding, physical training, ancient and foreign languages – and also combat, tactics, and etiquette. She was not formally named heir, but everyone understood: Non-telle regarded Diasta as his successor.

But for young Diasta, everything was sudden and unbearable.

Grandfather! I don’t want to learn the sword! Can’t I just play like the other children? Look – my hands are bleeding.

She whined to her grandfather as she always had. But Non-telle’s response was ice-cold.

Diasta burst into tears, but only briefly. The more she cried, the more terrifying Non-telle’s expression became.

After her parents’ death, the first thing Diasta learned was not to cry.

But instead of crying, she only shrank further into herself. Everything was frightening and difficult. The sword was heavy, the books were hard, and her grandfather… was no longer her grandfather.

Her mother, her father – and now her grandfather had vanished. In his place remained only the stern Duke of Bellum.

…And so I grew up half‑hearted until I was thirteen.

Back then, she was merely a child holding a sword clumsily. If she put the sword down, she wanted to please her grandfather; if she picked it up, she was afraid.

A pathetic child who could neither abandon the sword nor truly grasp it.

Her clenched fist tightened again.

One spring day, she went on an outing. It wasn’t even winter, when food was scarce, yet she encountered a monster – just her bad luck. Diasta drew her sword and faced it, but in the end she was gravely wounded.

And after that day, I never held a sword again. The last shred of courage I had was drained away.

Not holding a sword – for a child of an ordinary noble house, that would have been no problem at all.

But Diasta’s situation was far from ordinary.

The House of Bellum ruled vast lands in the North. Its lineage stretched back to the founding of the Empire, and in power and wealth it rivaled the Imperial Family.

And Diasta was the only blood relative of Non-telle Bellum, Grand Duke of the North – and his tacit choice as heir.

“Isn’t she the heir to Bellum? An heir who cannot wield a sword – that’s impossible.”
“Can someone who fears monsters lead Bellum’s soldiers?”

The North, the West, the East, the South – and the Central region where the Emperor resided. Each region and each noble house had its own requirements for succession.

The North’s requirement was martial valor.

That was likely due to the North’s nature. Since ancient times, monsters appeared there far more frequently than anywhere else. There was even a joke that the North’s true specialty wasn’t iron but monsters.

Perhaps because of that, generations of Northern dukes stood at the vanguard of monster subjugation. And that was the very source of the Bellusans’ loyalty to House Bellum. Hence, the Northern heir had to prove themselves with a sword.

But Grandfather never asked me to hold a sword again.

After that day, Diasta did nothing. No one forced her to do what she disliked; she did only what she wanted.

At the time, she was too young to understand what that meant. So for the first time, she picked up an embroidery needle, like other girls her age. She thought she was rather good at embroidery – at least better than swordsmanship. The day she finished a passable Black Lion crest of House Bellum, she gathered her courage and held out the embroidered handkerchief to her grandfather.

What was his expression then?

In her vague memory, he did take the handkerchief. But she couldn’t recall his face. He must have looked taken aback. Perhaps he frowned, thinking she was pathetic.

After that, until she came of age, Diasta spent a brief but peaceful time. Yet that peace did not last. At her coming-of-age ceremony, Non-telle collapsed… and never opened his eyes again.

“My lady, pay your respects. Here stands the new master of Bellusa.”

A child from a distant branch became the master of Bellum. A stranger sat in her grandfather’s seat and looked down at Diasta. As she bowed her head, Diasta finally understood.

How stupid I was, Diasta. No wonder Grandfather abandoned me.

What happened after that, she hardly remembers. Matters concerning her treatment were decided in an instant.

And in those decisions, her own will had no place. Diasta left Bellum and was married off to an impoverished nobleman in the capital who had only a title to his name.

The elderly husband died before his face was even etched in her memory, leaving behind nothing but debts.

After that, only ruin awaited her. Only then did Diasta realize that the word tragedy from stories was a beautiful lie. Ruin did not happen all at once. It was long, painful, and slowly gnawed away at her.