Since the day she t Sif, Visa’s heart was in turmoil. She originally thought she was ready to die, prepared to end everything in silence.
But at that mont, seeing the girl she had sworn to protect appear in enemy territory, standing among the enemy’s ranks, her faith collapsed.
In the following days, she stayed in the depths of the dungeon, not speaking, not eating, just sitting against the wall with a vacant look, believing she would soon be executed.
Until that day, the door opened.
She looked up and saw an interrogator walk in, speaking in a flat tone, "You now have two choices. One is to be executed by us, the other is to beco Lady Sif’s guard."
Visa didn’t answer imdiately. She bowed her head and pondered for a while, eventually nodding slightly.
She wasn’t living for herself but to fulfill an old vow.
The Cold Moon clan was destroyed, and Sif was the only bloodline left.
Visa wanted to protect her until the end, as a bit of repaynt to the old chieftain.
This decision was naturally ordered by Louis himself.
He considered everything thoroughly; Sif’s ntal state had been unstable recently, and she needed soone familiar by her side.
Of course, the most important thing was that the Daily Intelligence System had an intelligence report stating that Visa was one hundred percent loyal to Sif.
As for the other captives, after extracting all the intelligence, they were directly disposed of.
That night, the wind outside the tent lightly rustled the curtains, and the candle fla flickered.
Visa stood outside the room for a long while until the personal guard nodded in indication, only then did she enter. Her footsteps were light, yet she could still feel the slight trembling of the figure inside the tent.
Sif sat at the table, her back to Visa, with a few maps spread out on the table and a pot of cold tea beside her.
Visa didn’t speak, first standing for a mont, then slowly kneeling down, placing one knee on the ground, and lowering her head: "I... am unworthy to call myself a warrior of the Cold Moon. But if you still acknowledge , I am willing to use this life to protect you."
After speaking, she did not raise her head again nor wait for a response.
She knew what she had done wrong, serving under Titus, living after the Cold Moon perished, yet doing nothing.
She neither saved Sif nor avenged the clan, and even once worked for the murderer.
Kneeling now was not to beg for forgiveness, but to perform one last duty.
The room was suffocatingly silent, with only the slight sound of the firelight flickering.
Sif slowly stood up and walked in front of her.
She lowered her head to look at the woman who had once wielded a spear to protect her in her youth, shielding her with a blanket against the wind at night.
At that ti, Visa was like an immovable shield, her most reliable guardian.
But now, that image had been shattered amid blood and fire.
"Do you know?" Sif’s voice was so soft it was almost inaudible, "That day I saw you, I almost went mad. I thought... you had abandoned the Cold Moon as they did."
Visa slowly lowered her head, her knees almost touching the ground, her voice barely audible, "I didn’t. I just... took the wrong path."
Sif closed her eyes for a mont, letting out a long exhale.
There were so many things she wanted to ask, so many things to say...
But in the end, she just gently nodded, as if finally releasing a breath, also as if making a very difficult decision.
"Follow ."
Visa looked up, a bit of disbelief and a hint of struggle in her eyes.
She understood that this was not forgiveness, nor a rekindling of old relationships.
It was just an order, a permission, that you could still stand by my side, but you could never return to the past.
But Visa stood up.
After this mont, she was no longer a warrior of the Cold Moon.
She was Sif’s shadow, the blade to atone for the clan’s sins, the guardian of the last mories of the Cold Moon in this new world.
She responded in a low voice, "Yes."
Sif said nothing, just returned to the table and sat down, as if nothing had happened.
......
From afar, Visa looked at the outline of the city, but she couldn’t see it clearly then, only feeling its bustle, but too far away to sense reality.
But this ti was the first ti stepping in during the dayti.
She followed Sif’s convoy, entering the main street of the Red Tide through the city gate.
Sunlight shone on the neatly paved stone road, rows of do-topped houses lined up neatly, the streets wide, the pedestrians orderly.
The vendors’ shouts, the blacksmith’s hamring, the children’s laughter intertwined into a kind of unfamiliar clamor to her.
She saw an old man with a broken leg sitting at a street corner, drinking hot porridge, with a child beside him handing him a at pie.
This was an unimaginable scene in her mory.
In the Northern Territory, in the world of the Barbarian Race, wounded soldiers could only be left to fend for themselves in the snow, and the elderly survived by robbery.
But here, there were no frozen beggars, no starving scavengers, at least none she saw.
At lunchti, soone handed her a steaming bowl of demon beast at stew, along with rye bread.
She intended to refuse, but the aroma reached her, and her body acted faster than her reason.
She took a sip, the warmth flowing into her stomach, making her feel suddenly alive again.
At that mont, she was stunned.
Not because the food was delicious, but because she felt lost.
For a long ti, she survived on dried at and cheap liquor, filled her stomach with plunder and slaughter, while ordinary residents here could eat stew and bread on the streets, a feeling of indescribable uncertainty rising in her heart.
She didn’t know that the Northern Territory could live like this.
Walking on the street, she saw that the roadside drainage ditches were designed neatly and ticulously, no longer like the tribe’s sewage flowing all over the place.
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