Chapter Text
It was not always like this.
Something changed. No, something was forced to change.
The world is not a collection of lines drawn upon parchment.
It is a vast land, untamed and immeasurable, filled with incomprehensible fauna and countless races who learned to survive beneath the same sky.
But that world belongs to the past.
A past we will never return to.
There once existed a nation spoken of only in legend, a land where coexistence mattered more than nobility, and harmony more than worship.
They denied the Dragon.
They refused to kneel before what they deemed blasphemy.
Instead, they turned to the spirits.
They brewed rituals.
They begged.
They praised, pleaded, and bled devotion into every prayer, not out of faith, but desperation.
Every act was a request.
Every hymn a bargain.
Until, at last, they were answered.
An alliance was forged.
From spirit and craft rose the automated golems, unmanned, unfeeling constructs that worked, marched, and killed in the name of the Church. They did not tire. They did not doubt. They moved as one, steel and mana bound by doctrine.
And with them came a crusade.
“Save the pagans who praise a beast!” they cried.
“Let them be enlightened, oh great Spirit!”
“Gusteko will forever be grateful!”
The Church shouted its gratitude as its armies marched, not to defend, but to conquer.
Across the world, they spread.
Into Lugunica.
Into Kararagi.
Into Vollachia.
The maps flooded with iron and light.
And then-
The war began.
A war far cruel, a war inevitable.
Fear, hopelessness, delusion.
It breeds in people's hearts, a world so vast yet humanity is unable to grasp the gift it was bestowed.
The saying ‘more than meets the eye’ fits perfectly.
They have no names.
They have no graves.
They didn't exist.
‘THEY’
are the 86th unit.
It’s your fault.
It’s your fault.
It’s your fault.
ITS YOUR FAULT!
“HA!”
Emilia woke up drenched in sweat. She held her head, gasping as she recalled the memories of a battle lost. Her eyes were hollow, her expression dim; the ghosts from the past still haunted her.
She got up from her bed. Her room was enclosed from all sides, almost as if it were designed to seal her off. She knew it well, as the Council didn't hide their intentions at all.
For them, she was more of a contingency. In case it all failed, she would be blamed, used as a scapegoat.
Therefore, none shall see, none shall hear, none shall know was the code instilled around her and the people working alongside her.
She walked up to the mirror beside her bed. Staring at her face, she felt disgusted; sharing similarities to the Witch meant she was the one to blame. She felt the Witch had taken away her whole life.
And not only hers, but even the lives of others.
Because the 86 are not self-aware autonomous golems, they are real people.
“Don't you dare say a word!” Emilia covered her mouth. Sitting in her room, she felt the weight of being berated and humiliated by the 86 units.
It was a saying on the front lines: if your battalion is assigned to the Witch, it means your work here is done. Though it was a polite way to say it, everyone knew what that meant.
Memories of the battalions that were killed under her command flashed before her. Each time she recorded them as mere numbers, she drafted reports congratulating the Council for "no casualties."
She felt as if she had drafted them with the blood of the people she had killed. As the imaginary ink dripped onto her white dress, she recoiled. “Eek!” She breathed harshly, trying to calm herself.
She apologised to people, to everyone, for the fact that she was born this way. At one point, even she came to believe it, that she indeed was the Witch herself.
She joined her hands, praying for their lives. Every morning was a funeral for her.
Ready, she walked down the hallway, stripped of all status. Long gone were the days of the Royal Selection; the camps had been dissolved, forcing people to form a Coalition for the betterment of the nation. She ate, slept, and haunted the office every day. Without someone to wait for her or someone to look for her, she was all alone.
People in the hallway averted their eyes. They didn't dare to meet the Witch's gaze head-on. She marched forward without a flinch, rushing down the hallway and entering the Handlers' room. As she shut the doors behind her, her breath hitched; every time, she felt suffocated.
“Good morning, Emilia-sama.”
“Crusch-san!” Emilia bowed.
“You can drop the honorifics, you know,” Emilia replied with a hint of respect for her.
“No, no matter the situation, you still are a rank above me,” Crusch reinstated.
For Crusch, this was the best time to be alive. Learning that the Dragon's Covenant was broken, she had sprung into action, proving how great Lugunica was even before the Dragon came along. She sharply went against the Council and the late Royal Family for their overdependence on the Dragon.
“Well, let's get on with this quickly, since I know you won't like this,” Crusch said, a flicker of pity in her eyes.
“Again?” Emilia mumbled, her face clouded with sorrow.
Crusch tapped a finger on the map of the Northern Front. "This particular 86 unit is the byproduct of that rot. The Council calls them the Witch’s Disciples, those whose blood was tainted by the shadow long ago.”
Emilia’s grip on her uniform tightened. She knew the blatant misinformation Crusch carried wasn't true, but after the number of knights who had died during the Legion's attack, Crusch was far more willing to protect what remained than to trust the "enemy" with even a small chance they wouldn't seek revenge for the treatment they had endured.
"I do not blame you for your lineage, Emilia-sama. None of us can choose the blood in our veins. But we must accept the roles that blood dictates."
Crusch reiterated the line for the hundredth time. She always tried to ease Emilia's burden, but each time, the weight only grew heavier.
“Here.” Crusch placed a heavy file in front of Emilia, the title stamped in bold, dark letters: The Witch’s Contingency.
“They are not an ordinary 86 unit, I warn you,” Crusch said, her voice dropping to a sharp, clinical edge.
“No matter how many Handlers we shuffle, they refuse to back down,” Crusch said.
“Isn't that a good thing? That proves they aren't the enemy and are willing to fight!” Emilia jumped in, trying her best to prove their worth.
But Crusch’s gaze locked her back into her seat.
“Every single Handler assigned to them has died within months of leading them. Only one survivor was still able to speak, and he said...” Crusch paused. “‘She knows me. I will die. I will die.’ That is what he kept mumbling.”
“Does it mean...” Emilia asked, her voice trembling.
“We aren't sure as of now. But when they use the Metia to guide them, it has been concluded that the Witch interferes with the minds of the Handlers directly and has already possessed the 86 fighting on that front,” Crusch said, sweat on her brow as she realised the gravity of the situation.
“So this isn't a mission!” Emilia screamed.
“Yes,” Crusch silently replied.
“How could you? Just because you are all afraid, you're sending them on a death mission? How is this even human?” Emilia yelled back.
“You think I don't know they bleed, Emilia?” Crusch’s voice was a low hum of vibration. “I’ve seen the Od signatures. I know they are as much living beings as you or I. But they are HIS.”
“His?” Emilia asked, worried.
“Yes. He is the worst of them. They call him The Fool. He’s survived so many battles that the Council believes he’s found a way to guide his own squad without any Handler. He’s not a hero, Emilia,” Crusch spoke with annoyance. "He has survived longer than any human should. They say he hears the voices of the dead and that he only follows the Witch's command.”
"Do not let him pull you into the mud, Emilia-sama. He isn't a man anymore. He is a tool," Crusch said, her eyes swaying away from Emilia as she walked away.
Emilia took a deep breath, preparing for what was about to come. She put her hand on the table, calling the spirits to activate the Metia. Flicking through the files Crusch had left, her eyes caught the callsigns: Tiger, Oni, and finally... The Fool.
Static crackled through the Metia. Emilia immediately braced herself, dropping the file.
She didn't just hear The Fool's voice; she felt the vibration of his Juggernaut. She felt the chill of the morning air in the 86th Sector. Unlike her other squads that followed usual formalities, she was shocked by the reality of the ground that she hadn't known existed.
“You must be Handler One,” The Fool's voice cut through the static.