Chapter 62
At seventeen or eighteen, Wakako would blush, grow flustered, and shrink away like a mimosa, closing herself off and refusing to open up.
By twenty-three, she still felt those emotions, but she had learned to bury them deep within, keeping them hidden beneath a calm exterior.
The Saionji clan, where she had grown up, was renowned for its rigid rules as the family that produced the Saint. Back then, Wakako had spent her days with Miki in a small, secluded courtyard, blissfully unaware of the world’s darker realities. But five years as a mercenary had changed that. Through countless missions, she had seen the rot beneath noble facades and come to understand just how depraved people could be.
Therefore, Wakako was no longer the same person she once was.
She knelt on the soft mat before Miki, silently reaching for herself. She wasn’t clever, and no matter how many times she did this, her movements remained clumsy and awkward. She could only slowly, gradually release the fragrance of sunflowers.
Wakako no longer felt as much shame as she used to—perhaps there was still a trace, but it was negligible. Instead, she bit down hard on her lip.
Although she couldn’t feel pain, she could sense her lower lip being crushed between her teeth, leaving a deep mark until beads of blood seeped through the gaps.
Suddenly, a hand slipped into Wakako’s mouth, stopping her from biting herself further.
Even though a slightly bleeding lip was a trivial matter for a mercenary, Miki wouldn’t allow it. She pushed her fingers further in. If Wakako closed her mouth, she would bite Miki’s hand, but she would never do that.
Miki’s fingers were so delicate that they were often cut while playing the seventeen-stringed zither; how could they withstand her teeth?
Wakako could only open her mouth wider, her voice seemingly trapped as Miki’s fingers filled her mouth.
“Mmm…”
No, she couldn’t help but moan.
The scent of sunflowers was faint, not overpowering, yet so subtly pervasive that it became easy to forget it was even there. Normally, Wakako could control it, but now, she felt like a flower blooming uncontrollably, offering its nectar for anyone to take.
As expected, Miki’s free left hand reached for her. Her injured arm was bandaged, but it didn’t hinder her.
But this time, Wakako pulled away.
Miki’s hand paused in mid-air. “You don’t want me to touch you?” she confirmed.
Wakako silently averted her gaze.
Even though she was dying, even though all her boundaries had been eroded, she still had one last bit of dignity left.
On this continent, unwed, illicit relations—those that could result in mixed bloodlines—were condemned by everyone. When she was a child begging on the streets, she had seen people shamed like rats, too afraid to lift their heads in public because of such acts.
Now, Wakako was engaged to Miki. So, Miki couldn’t touch her.
Even if no one dared speak against the Saint, even if Wakako was about to die, some invisible, untouchable mark would remain. She had already sullied Miki too many times; at least this time, she wanted to leave the Saint clean.
Miki was many things—sometimes alluring, sometimes gentle, sometimes with tears in her eyes—but one thing remained constant: her pride.
Miki could always tell the difference between a playful refusal and a serious one, and she knew that Wakako’s “no” was sincere this time, not a tease or playful rejection.
Slowly, Miki withdrew her hand, her expression turning colder, though her gaze never wavered. She stared down at Wakako with icy detachment, watching her every move as though rain were falling, cold and relentless, over her body.
Inch by inch, she watched silently as the sunflower released its nectar, every movement, every breath and tremor, captured in her gaze.
In the end, Wakako couldn’t stop herself from biting Miki’s hand. It was a light bite, barely enough to break the skin, but her small canine teeth pierced Miki’s fingertip, and tiny droplets of blood fell onto her lips. It must have hurt, but Miki said nothing.
Wakako was reminded of her dream—that Miki’s blood could heal all old wounds. But to cure the poison coursing through her, a few drops wouldn’t be enough. It would require cutting a large chunk of flesh from Miki, something that was impossible.
Even if Miki was willing to do that for her, she would never allow it.
She swallowed those slender fingers deeper, her eyes locking onto Miki’s delicate, flawless face. For a brief moment, she was transported back to years ago—Miki’s hand in her mouth, the other around her neck, effortlessly stealing her breath. Miki hadn’t touched her anywhere else, yet she had brought Wakako to climax in an instant.
And now, it was the same.
She left trails of wetness on Miki, soaking her own legs and cheeks.
***
The cold winter finally passed unnoticed, and spring arrived quietly. The trees in the royal palace were draped in a fresh layer of tender green leaves.
Wakako’s recovery had been quicker than most. It hadn’t been long, but her left leg had almost completely healed. Although there were still occasional pangs of discomfort, they were easy to ignore.
Seeing her walk normally again, others assumed she was fully recovered and praised her with a smile, “Only Lady Wakako could survive a musket shot and remain unscathed.”
In all these years, Wakako had never missed a day of training unless she was on a mission. This was her first real break.
The official reason was to rest and recover her left leg, but only she knew the truth: she wanted to stop and rest.
Wakako didn’t dislike being a mercenary; in fact, she was glad her talents could be put to good use. But even with her extraordinary physical strength, she sometimes felt exhausted. It wasn’t physical fatigue—it was the kind of weariness that came from not knowing where to go.
Now, she wasn’t lost anymore. She knew her end would come in three months—death.
When the first bell rang in the morning, Wakako would train Tsukiyo in martial arts. At noon, she would go to Miki and attend to her as a servant should, serving meals and playing the koto.
They exchanged few words. Most of the time, the Saint simply played the seventeen-string zither in silence, without speaking or asking anything of Wakako.
Wakako figured that her refusal to allow Miki to touch her had completely disappointed the Saint, which explained the distance now between them.
She knew that if she initiated a conversation, if she offered an explanation, they could probably mend their relationship. But she never brought it up, carrying on with her duties as usual.
She had three months left—so short that it would be over in the blink of an eye.
Wakako had also entertained impulsive thoughts – to abandon everything, tell Miki the truth, and die without regrets.
But knowing Miki’s nature, she would definitely choose to sacrifice her blood to save Wakako. The Saint’s body couldn’t withstand blood loss, and coupled with the divine punishment… she would only become a burden once again.
Wakako listened quietly to the melodious sound of the koto, vaguely recognizing a tune that Miki would occasionally hum softly.
“Autumn brings seeds to the silver grass,
With you I tie our sleeves together,
Flowers fade, grass withers, but my heart remains unchanged.”
These lines repeated over and over, yet Wakako never tired of them. She was enchanted, lost in the music.
A sound from outside interrupted Wakako’s thoughts. Someone knocked lightly on the door, a sign that they had something to report but were afraid of interrupting the Saint’s playing.
Wakako quietly left the courtyard and saw Rika standing nervously, clearly still traumatized from serving the Saint, afraid of making another mistake.
“What is it?” she asked.
Rika handed a letter to Wakako. “This is for you. Also, someone from the royal palace is here, claiming to be a servant of the Saint. Should I bring her in now?”
Wakako took the letter and gestured for Rika to bring the visitor in.
She recognized the wax seal on the letter; it was the one Miki often used.
She briefly described the person’s appearance, and Wako immediately recognized it was Senryu. She was probably here to deliver some news from the palace. “Yes, bring her in,” she said.
She noticed the “Jin” family crest imprinted on the letter – Miki’s family name – and assumed it was another letter from Miki regarding their wedding arrangements.
However, the contents of the letter were not what she expected. Miki, concerned about the letter being intercepted, had written in mercenary code, making it incomprehensible to anyone unfamiliar with their system.
The letter read, ” I’ve found a doctor. Using our upcoming marriage and my focus on missions as an excuse, I told him I didn’t want children just yet and asked him to prepare the medicine in advance.”
Both kingdoms had strict regulations on abortive medicines. It was only because their wedding was approaching that they could obtain them with a reasonable excuse.
However, as a precaution, the doctor required Wakako to personally collect the medicine to confirm it was a mutual decision. Therefore, Miki included the address of the clinic in the letter, hoping Wakako could make the trip.
Wakako had already decided to help Miki cover up the existence of the child, and a trip to the clinic wouldn’t be too much trouble, so she planned to go when she had time.
Just as she finished folding the letter, she saw a familiar figure approaching in the distance – Senryu, whom she hadn’t seen for a while.
There was something different about her, though Wakako couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Had she grown taller? Well, it wasn’t unusual for someone her age to still be growing.
Senryu greeted her politely. “Lady Kitagawa, I heard you injured your leg. Have you recovered?”
“It’s mostly healed.”
After exchanging pleasantries, Senryu’s gaze fell on the envelope in Wakako’s hand. She asked with a smile, “Is that a letter from Lady Kitagawa’s fiancée?”
She had recognized the sender simply from the “Jin” crest on the envelope.
Most nobles and even members of the royal family rarely referred to their family names—it was a subtle, unwritten rule. Miki’s full name was “Miki Jin,” but she seldom used “Jin.”
Senryu hadn’t been in the palace long, yet she had already picked up on these subtleties.
Wakako was slightly surprised but didn’t overthink it.
Since Senryu had come to see the Saint, Wakako decided it was best to excuse herself and take care of the errand at the clinic. After nodding briefly to Senryu, she headed out.
As Wakako’s figure retreated into the distance, Senryu’s gaze lingered for a moment. Through the thin paper of the envelope, she had glimpsed unfamiliar symbols—likely mercenary code. It was certainly not about the wedding. What was Lady Kitagawa up to?
The koto music in the courtyard stopped. Senryu collected her thoughts and entered the Saint’s courtyard, where she saw Miki sitting quietly before the seventeen-stringed koto.
She bowed respectfully. “Lady Saint.”
Miki hummed in acknowledgment.
Senryu had come for other reasons but found herself reporting about the letter, knowing the Saint would want to hear: “I don’t know the specifics, but Lady Kitagawa left in a hurry.”
“I see.” The Saint didn’t seem surprised. “Follow her later and see how far things have progressed.”
By “follow,” she didn’t mean for Senryu to actually trail Wakako – that would be impossible for a mere servant against any mercenary, let alone Wakako. Senryu understood the true meaning and simply agreed.
She then proceeded with her original purpose. “The Queen sent several mercenaries to track the Eagle Kingdom’s Crown Princess. They finally sent back news that the Crown Princess has arrived in Mios. Whether her health has improved or for some other reason…”
A spring breeze blew past, lifting her sleeve, and Senryu saw the Saint’s bandaged arm. Her voice abruptly stopped.
She asked, stunned, “Your arm…”
Miki seemed unconcerned, her expression unchanged as she said matter-of-factly, “I cut out some flesh to use the blood in medicine.”
She remembered that day when God asked her coldly, “Saving her will come with unbearable pain. Are you willing?”
There was nothing she wasn’t willing to do.
Without hesitation, she had pierced her arm with a short blade, listening to the sound of her blood dripping into the bowl, until the only color left before her was the vivid red of her sacrifice.
