Sandra could feel her mana veins emptying, the core of her strength unraveling with every breath. She was going to die. A quiet sigh escaped her lips, resignation settling over her like a heavy cloak. Memories surfaced—fragmented yet vivid, as if her entire life had been condensed into fleeting moments.
She was the second child of the Duke and the granddaughter of the late general. Since birth, she had been given the best of everything—tutors, playmates, books, training. In the Eaglerias Kingdom, she was treated like a princess, even if the title wasn't officially hers. Who could compare to her? The Broissco family had ties to the royal bloodline and generations of brilliant soldiers.
But all of it had slipped through her fingers like sand.
Her mother, heavily pregnant, had nearly died multiple times. The baby had barely survived. And before there could even be a celebration for her new sibling, tragedy struck—her twin brother, Uno, was kidnapped.
She had only been eleven.
She lost Uno that day, but she lost her mother, too. The woman who once doted on her became someone unrecognizable, a grieving maniac obsessed with despair. Every day was filled with screams and tears. Sandra had tried to bring her mother joy, to fill the gaping void left behind, but no effort was ever enough.
Her mother blamed her. "Why wasn't it you who was taken instead?"
She blamed her for being born a daughter instead of a son.
At just eleven, Sandra threw herself into a world of soldiers. While other children laughed, played, and celebrated birthdays, she endured drills, bruises, and exhaustion. Her life was split between the barracks and the academy—school was secondary, yet she pushed herself to remain at the top.
Discipline. Endurance. Survival.
That had been her real education.
In her first year, she still managed to socialize with other noble children. She had stepped into their world, not quite belonging, yet not entirely an outsider. Some looked at her with curiosity, intrigued by the daughter of the famed Duke. Others harbored jealousy, seeing her as an unearned prodigy. And then there were those who sought to use her, eager to claim a connection to the powerful Broissco name.
But thanks to her father's reputation, no one dared to cross the line—at least, not openly. Even then, she had never received either praise or reprimand from him. His silence was heavier than any spoken word.
"I promise I will balance my studies and training," she had told him once, hopeful, determined.
The Duke had only regarded her with his usual measured gaze. "Studying magic in books is different from using it in battle," he had reminded her. "And in the barracks, they won't go easy on you just because you're my child."
It hadn't been a warning. It had been a simple truth—one she would come to understand all too well.
"That's fine. I get to train with people stronger than me, with more experience than me. It's the best way to grow."
By her second year, Sandra had discovered an unexpected talent for leadership. Whether it was a result of her father's influence or something innate within her, she never dwelled on it. What mattered was that people followed her, trusted her. She had no interest in riding on the coattails of her family name—she wanted to forge her own.
She poured everything into her training, determined to maintain her top ranking. It meant skipping more noble gatherings, distancing herself from pointless social games. She didn't care. Prestige wasn't handed out at banquets; it was earned in battle.
But her mother never saw it that way.
"What are you doing in the middle of men all day? Aren't you ashamed?" the Duchess had once scolded her, striking her across the face.
Sandra had barely flinched. "Mom... I'll be moving to the barracks soon. Save your anger, don't hurt yourself."
Her mother's expression had been ice-cold, her next words sharper than the slap. "Whatever you do, you will never replace my son."
That was how the Duchess had congratulated her on becoming a captain.
By her third year, Sandra finally understood the true weight of the battlefield. Glory meant nothing when it was built on the bodies of fallen comrades. Rising through the ranks had come at a cost—one measured in lives lost, not victories won.
She began to understand why her father was the way he was.
That was also the year she turned back to healing magic and formed the Scarlet Team.
"Uncle, I killed a royal demon today," she had admitted one evening, her voice heavy with exhaustion. "But I wasn't happy."
Her favorite uncle, a seasoned healer, had sighed. "There is no happiness on the battlefield. Why not retire early and study under me?"
Sandra had shaken her head. "Just teach me how to control my mana better. If I become stronger, fewer people will die."
He had studied her for a long moment before replying, "Healing magic is the only magic that requires precise mana control. If you want strength, start there."
By her fourth year, Sandra had become the youngest lieutenant in history. Unlike most nobles, she had never placed herself above commoners, and they respected her for it—far more than they did the crown prince. Even those who once feared her father now spoke of him with admiration, praising him for raising such a daughter.
But that same year, the Duke retired.
And with him, Sandra lost more than half of her fighting spirit.
It was only then that she realized—unconsciously, she had been chasing after him all along.
"You're retiring? Why?" she had asked, unable to mask her shock.
"The war is over," he had replied lightly, as if it had never defined his life. "There's no need for a God of War anymore."
By her fifth year, she was getting married.
Her marriage had been the hottest topic of gossip for months. Nobles whispered behind fans, commoners speculated in hushed voices—but who would dare accuse someone on the throne of jealousy?
"You don't have to feel bad about being my superior," her husband had teased, his tone light but his eyes full of admiration. "I'll be by your side in a few years. I might even become a general before you. Then I'll be your boss."
Sandra had smirked. "Alright, I'll believe you. But if we have children, I really do plan to retire. There's no war, and it's not good to keep the troops active—it only draws too much attention from the royals."
The Broissco family had always produced generals—feared as much as they were respected.
Her grandfather had been strict, impossible to please—but he was a God of War.
Her father had been indifferent, sometimes even cold—but he, too, had earned that title.
So the people couldn't help themselves. They wanted Sandra to follow in their footsteps. They wanted her to become the next God of War.
She was beautiful and kind, approachable to her people, yet ruthless to her enemies.
The young soldiers of the kingdom adored their future general.
But Sandra… after marriage, she had only wanted to be a mother.
She already missed her two sons—Cloud's dreamy expressions, Sunny's bubbling laughter. If the story had come true, she should have died when they were two years old. But now, they were only two months, and she had to leave them behind.
It seemed she wasn't a very good mother after all.
Would they even remember my face? she wondered bitterly. Regret settled deep in her chest.
We should have drawn a family portrait.
["No one was supposed to be here helping Sierra. She was meant to survive alone, hiding in the closet, with no one to remember her. But this Sierra… she went out, searching for help, fighting for a way to live. She helped her mother, only to be met with cold betrayal. She was abandoned.]
[And yet, look at her. She didn't lose hope. She dragged her half-dead body back here.]
[A lifetime ago, at this very moment, Sierra's heart died. But now, you've saved her. The story has changed, so the ending will change too."]
Sandra's breath hitched. "Ten years… you promise?" Her voice trembled, caught between hope and fear.
["Yes. I can keep your soul for ten years."]
"What?" Sierra's confused voice cut through the air.
Sandra turned to look at the little girl she barely knew.
Her short hair was uneven, likely cut by her own hand. Her clothes were disheveled, her bare skin marred with scars and bruises. She looked pitiful—nothing like the daughter of a duke. Where in the world could you find such a sight? How had she even survived infancy?
Perhaps it was a blessing she was born with the mind of an eight-year-old. Otherwise, she would have died a thousand times over.
"Sierra, you're a good child," Sandra whispered. "I'm sorry for leaving you behind all these years. I'm sorry for coming so late. I want you to live—to grow up and one day say that you're glad to be alive. And if there ever comes a day when we're born again as mother and daughter, I promise I'll be the best mother you've ever had."
"What are you talking about?" Sierra's voice wavered, fear creeping in.
Sandra gave her a faint smile. "I restrained your mana veins so your fire magic won't activate uncontrollably. Unfortunately, I'm only a fire user. I don't know ice magic, so I couldn't suppress that. Hey, Sis… I regret it. I should've taken you with me when I got married… I never knew having a little sister could make me this happy."
"Sister? Second Sister? Hey… Second Sister? Sister—"
Sandra's vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges.
When she opened her eyes one last time, she saw Sierra sobbing over her dead body.
A strange weightlessness settled over her, the pain that had wracked her body fading into nothingness.
["Am I dead?"] Sandra's voice echoed in the vast emptiness around her.
["You are indeed dead. Hello, Second Sister."]