Of Steel and Roses: Silver-Haired Loli on a Rampage Chapter 89: That’s not what you told me back then

Eisenburg Imperial Gendarrie Headquarters.

Third floor, the temporary rest room at the end of the east corridor.

This room was originally the office of a high-ranking military officer, hastily converted after being temporarily requisitioned. It contained a field cot, an oak desk, a chair, and a steam wall lamp.

An Imperial map, left behind by the previous occupant who hadn't had ti to take it down, still hung on the wall, with countless small holes pricked by thumbtacks all over Eisenburg.

Margaret stood by the window.

Outside the window, the night of Eisenburg pressed down heavily.

Snowflakes leaked from the gaps in the sky canopy, spinning, falling, and lting away in the halo of the gas streetlights.

Occasionally, gendars on horseback patrolled the streets, their hooves making dull thuds on the accumulated snow before being swallowed by the wind and snow.

Her right hand rested on the window fra.

Bandages were wrapped around the back of her hand, with faint traces of blood still seeping between her fingers.

The white edge of a bandage from her left shoulder peeked out from under the collar of her military uniform, rising and falling slightly with her breath.

In that explosion,

Her injuries were more severe than anyone else's.

That was a self-detonation triggered by a Sequence ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) V incarnation of destruction within its own void realm.

It was the collapse of the entire void realm.

All the destructive power compressed within that battlefield mory poured out the mont the core shattered, like a detonated sun.

Frederick, Reinhardt, Alicia, and Pavela, who was closest to the epicenter.

Especially Pavela.

Zero distance.

The mont that young girl shoved the barrel of her sniper rifle into the fissure on the incarnation of destruction's chest and pulled the trigger, Margaret knew that if she didn't do sothing, Pavela would certainly not survive.

So, Margaret chose to completely exhaust herself at that mont.

She distributed the remaining power—which wasn't much to begin with—to a degree that wouldn't cause fatalities.

She intercepted, twisted, and reshaped the furious power released by the incarnation of destruction's self-detonation, constructing temporary defensive shells around everyone's bodies.

The price was that her own body had to bear all the residual impact that couldn't be completely transford.

Internal organ shock, torn ridians, the backlash of The Way Back's power—all these combined caused her to lose consciousness the mont the void realm collapsed.

When she woke up, she was already lying on the field cot in the Gendarrie Headquarters, inford that 'You have been unconscious for thirty-seven hours.'

Then ca the endless 'talks.'

People from the Academy, the military, and the Imperial Security Bureau took turns questioning her, but the questions were largely the sa.

What was the real cause of the explosion?

What exactly was the special teaching project doing?

Why could a'steam pipe explosion' in an underground classroom create a teorite crater twenty ters in diater?

Margaret handled the vast majority of people in the way she was best at.

Half-truths and half-lies, avoiding the crucial points, occasionally throwing out one or two insignificant details to make the other party feel they had gained sothing, while in reality, no core information was leaked.

She had been playing this trick for twenty years; she was adept at it.

But there were always so people who couldn't be fooled.

Like a certain student's parent.

However, compared to those things,

There was sothing else that concerned her more.

Sothing that had been lingering in her mind, refusing to leave, since the very mont the explosion occurred.

Sothing about Pavela.

When she constructed the defensive shells for everyone, she could clearly sense each person's rejection reaction to the foreign Way Back power.

Frederick's Path of the Chariot instinctively resisted her transformation power, like two like magnetic poles pushing against each other.

Reinhardt's Path of the Hermit was a passive aloofness; her power slid over his surface but struggled to penetrate.

Alicia's Path of the Moon was the most troubleso; the interference between illusion and transformation almost caused cracks in the defensive shell.

Only Pavela.

Her transformation power enveloped Pavela's body as naturally as water flowing into an empty cup. The speed of constructing the defensive shell was faster than the other three, and its stability far exceeded expectations.

Her power was 'accepted.'

It was as if sothing within Pavela was saying: 'Co, co in, there is a place for you here.'

Pavela's adaptability to The Way Back power of the Magician's Path.

It was beyond ordinary.

No—this couldn't be described as 'beyond ordinary.'

It should be described as 'impossible.'

The repulsion between different Way Backs is one of the most fundantal rules in the Wayfarer system.

The higher the sequence, the stronger the repulsion.

Even a Sequence II sensitive person's resistance to foreign Way Back power is already quite obvious, let alone sequence iv or Sequence V.

But Pavela—

A Sequence V Destroyer.

How could this be possible?

Unless—

Margaret's dark green eyes narrowed slightly.

Unless Pavela's true Way Back was not the Path of the Tower.

Or rather, not *only* the Path of the Tower.

If that were the case...

Her long-cherished wish might co true sooner...

"Knock, knock, knock."

The sound of knocking interrupted her thoughts.

No.

It wasn't knocking.

It was the sound of fists hitting the door.

"...Your Excellency... This is the rest area... You require..."

The voice of a young gendar ca from outside the door, nervous and respectful.

Then the voice stopped abruptly.

Because the door was kicked open.

"Bang—!"

The heavy oak door panel slamd against the wall, and the hinges let out a piercing screech.

The cold wind from the corridor outside rushed into the room along with the dampness of the snowflakes, and the fla of the steam wall lamp shook violently once.

Eleanor von Schwartz stood at the doorway.

She was wearing a dark greatcoat with a thin layer of snow settled on her shoulders. Her ice-blue eyes looked like two pieces of honed ice under the dim light.

The young gendar who had tried to stop her was slumped against the base of the corridor wall in a very undignified posture.

Eleanor had grabbed him by the back of his collar with one hand and thrown him out. The back of his head hit the wall, his eyes spun, and though his mouth was open, no sound ca out.

Margaret sighed.

The student's parent had arrived.

She turned around, a slight curve just beginning to form on her lips, and raised her right hand to wave hello—

She didn't get to finish.

Eleanor crossed the room in three strides, grabbed Margaret's collar with her left hand, and pressed against her with all her strength, slamming her back against the window glass with a "thump."

The glass let out a dangerous creak.

The icy coldness seeped through the military uniform into her back. Margaret could feel the tal edge of the window fra digging into her shoulder blades.

It was pressing right onto the wound on her left shoulder.

The pain was like a thin needle stabbing in, but she managed to keep her expression unchanged.

Eleanor's face was close at hand.

So close that Margaret could see the tiny snowflakes clinging to her eyelashes, and see the extrely suppressed but still burning fla deep within her pupils.

"Little Ele—"

"Shut up."

Eleanor's voice was very light.

As light as a blade slicing through silk.

"That's not what you told back then."

Eleanor spoke word by word.