Chapter 68: Rescued [1]
"Kyaa! Lady Alice, you’re bleeding!"
"What are you all doing just standing there? Hurry! Help her!"
"Someone bring a doctor—no, a priest too! Quickly!"
Alice could barely make out the voices over the ringing in her ears. The world around her was a blur of panic and footsteps. Maids rushed back and forth, faces pale, eyes wide with fear.
It wasn’t surprising.
After all, a noblewoman had just appeared out of nowhere—bloody, barely conscious, and coughing up blood with every ragged breath.
No one knew how she got there.
No one dared to question it either.
Alice— now—felt like she was drifting in and out of a dream. Her vision swam, her body trembling from blood loss and something deeper, darker—something clawing inside her.
Her throat burned. Each breath scraped raw down her windpipe, and when she tried to swallow, it was like glass had been poured down her neck.
The pain was constant. Throbbing. Alive.
"Don’t move her too much! She’s losing too much blood!"
"But her dress—she’s soaked—what happened to her?!"
Alice wanted to speak, to tell them not to worry—but her lips wouldn’t move. Her limbs felt like they were tied to stone. Cold sweat clung to her skin, and her heartbeat sounded far away, like it belonged to someone else.
Is this what dying feels like?
Her eyelids drooped, but just before everything went dark again, she felt a pair of trembling hands clutch hers.
"Please... hang on, Lady Alice."
There was fear in that voice. Genuine fear.
Alice didn’t have the strength to respond.
At that moment, memories of the lost battle continued to replay in her mind, looping like a cruel, broken record.
She lost.
And it wasn’t even a fight worth calling a fight.
I didn’t stand a chance...
The strikes had come too fast. The power behind them had been overwhelming. No matter how many times she analyzed it, the result didn’t change. Her opponent hadn’t just defeated her—they had dismantled her. Like she was nothing.
A puppet on broken strings.
So weak...
Her pride stung almost as much as the pain in her chest.
The voice from earlier—young, maybe one of the newer maids—was still holding her hand, gently brushing back the blood-matted strands of hair from her forehead.
Alice could feel the warmth of that touch, the tremble in those fingers. That warmth pulled at something inside her.
Not strength. Not hope.
Shame.
She was supposed to be better than this. Trained. Talented. A noble with expectations piled on her shoulders like a crown made of thorns. And yet here she was... barely alive, needing to be saved.
Pathetic.
There were countless excuses she could make.
Her attire—light hunting clothes—offered no real protection, especially not against the brutal force of a high-ranking demon. She hadn’t worn armor. She hadn’t even brought her sword.
All she had was her bow. A weapon she treated more like a pastime than a serious tool for survival.
She hadn’t expected to fight, much less stumble into something straight out of a nightmare.
After all, she was in the Draken Duchy—a land protected by one of the Empire’s finest sword masters. A place that should’ve been safe.
But none of that changed what happened.
She’d been overpowered.
Humiliated.
Not by a cunning ambush. Not by a battle of equals. But by something that didn’t even see her as a threat.
The fight—if it could be called that—had ended before it ever truly began.
I should’ve been stronger .
Her breath caught as flashes of the encounter pulsed through her foggy mind. The weight of her own failure pressed on her chest more heavily than the blood or wounds ever could.
The difference in strength was overwhelming. She hadn’t stood a chance from the very beginning.
And yet... she had fought.
And lost.
That was the bitter reality.
No matter what excuse she clung to—lack of preparation, bad luck, unfamiliar terrain—it didn’t matter.
The result was the same.
She lost.
"Cough—!" A sharp spasm wracked Alice’s body as blood splattered down the front of her dress.
"Get a potion, now!" someone shouted urgently. "Her abdominal wound is the priority!"
"Prepare healing magic! Cast it immediately after administering the potion—go!"
Despite the chaos, there was a sharp sense of order to their movements. No one hesitated. The staff of the ducal household moved with precision, discipline born from experience and intense training.
This was one of the Four Ducal Houses of the Empire, after all. Mediocrity was not tolerated here—not even in the servants.
A senior maid swiftly knelt beside Alice, carefully propping her up just enough to pour a vial of glowing red liquid between her bloodied lips. Another followed behind, her hands already glowing faintly with pale blue magic.
Alice’s eyes fluttered half-open as the potion slid down her throat. It burned going down—then dulled to a strange, warm numbness in her gut. The healing magic followed, and for a moment, the pain that had consumed her dulled into something distant. Not gone, but bearable.
She could breathe.
Barely.
The room was quieter now, but still tense.
She heard whispers. Hushed. Careful. Concerned.
"Did she really just appear like that? Out of thin air?"
"That dress... it’s torn, burned in places. She must have gone through something horrible."
"Lady Alice... where were you?"
But no one dared to ask her directly.
Even as her wounds were being treated, she was still a noble. Still someone above their station.
Still someone terrifying.
Alice didn’t speak. She couldn’t. The memory of her defeat lingered too close to the surface.
She could feel it—each blow that had landed, the sound of her bones cracking, the sensation of her own mana crumbling under pressure.
I didn’t even touch them...
Her fingers clenched weakly over the blood-stained sheets beneath her.
It wasn’t just pain that filled her now.
It was humiliation.
I trained for this. I was prepared. I thought I could protect myself. So why...?
No answer came.
Only silence, and the soft hum of healing magic.
At that moment, Julies’ face flashed through her mind.