The day my mother died.

I cannot forget that day.

Brother and I had been eagerly waiting for mother to return from the capital.

……but our desire to go meet mother wasn't fulfilled……instead, we were met with a messenger with a grave expression.

And then, we learned the truth.

That mother was attacked by bandits and killed.

At first, I didn't understand what the messenger was saying.

It was not because I was young.

It was simply because……I couldn't believe it.

Why did mother have to die?

Having been born into a military family, I had indirectly come to understand life-and-death from a young age.

Although father is strong, every time he went on a mission, he would always tell us that you never know what might happen. In doing so, we indirectly came to understand it.

In no way did he mean to be pessimistic. He was simply putting his life on the line for the country in a proud manner.

However, why……why did mother die?

Did she have to die?

……not only that, but she was even killed by one of the citizens that father has been putting his life on the line to protect.

Whether they were bandits or not, had nothing to do with it.

The fact that they were this nation's people weighed heavily.

Just why was father……for what purpose was he protecting this country?

At father's despondency, I made a conjecture.

This world is irrational.

That, I understood.

No……I was made to understand.

I was a tomboy, and through my brother's influence, without learning the proper manners of a n.o.ble girl, I would run around the gigantic Anderson home covered in dirt, and climb trees while wearing a dress.

However, my mother who would greet my father with a smile as he came home covered in blood……though she was troubled by my actions, she would always usher me inside with a warm smile.

……I should have spent more time with mother.

If I did embroidery, or more girly things, I'm sure that would've happened.

But after mother died, rather than trying to remember her by doing those things, I chose a completely opposite path.

Leading to my current situation.

After mother's funeral, I cried to the point that my tears dried up.

I cried, and cried……within my gapingly empty heart, the feelings that had dwelled within it for that single instance during the ceremony sprung forth once more.

In short……..anger and hatred.

Desiring to take revenge, I lamented my lack of power.

Cursing the irrationality of reality, I felt ashamed at my helplessness.

That's why I begged my father.

To train me.

Father didn't ask me anything.

In exchange, he simply said, "If you want it, then I'll be strict about it".

And from the next day on, I threw myself into training.