The Witch Was on the Hill of Shirano: EP-01

EP-01: The Holy Knight, with the Wind

The wind raced by.
As if chasing that sound, a thin, glowing cord tore through the air and wrapped around the wounded soldier's shoulder.
The platinum-glowing cord produced a smooth heat the moment it touched, gently pulling the soldier's body down.

“Ugh... no way, my body...”

The man let out a voice of surprise, but he was safely handed over to the shield bearers in the rear guard just like that. Blood had splattered on the slope, but the cord of light helped stop the bleeding as if wrapping it up, soothing the pain.

The woman who had been casting that spell—a tall knight clad in silver armor—breathed out faintly.
Practical armor with little decoration, the kingdom's crest on her chest. And on her shoulder, the crest of the wind was doubled.

“Right slope, enemy reinforcements. Three riders, advancing.”

From the shadows of the grove, a man carrying a quiver spoke in a hushed voice.
The hooves of the horses galloping up the gentle slope were shaking the earth intermittently, which she could also feel.

“I’m changing the field.”
The knight said quietly.

When she held her palm forward as if stroking the ground, a pale spherical light appeared, and from it, many cords spread out radially.
The light dissolved into the air, turning into a transparent barrier that controlled the enemy's footing.
The movement of the horses gradually slowed. The flow of the wind was also being placed under her control.

“...Don’t shoot first; being impatient has always been disliked.”

The archer, who spat this out quietly, was already drawing his bowstring but did not release it.
His fingers only let go for the briefest moment when one of the three riders exposed a gap in his armor.

A whistling sound rushed by, and the enemy's vanguard collapsed from his horse.
Immediately after, the remaining two riders tried to detour, but the cords of light were bundled together again, and the grass on the ground swirled up to entangle and catch their legs.

“Can you do it? Three seconds.”

“Enough.”
At the same time as her answer, she drew the dagger at her waist and started running.

The sound of kicking the ground. The sound of the wind tearing.
And, with a stance of “cutting to protect” rather than “fighting,” her sword flash roared.
The enemy's armor split, and a second strike was unnecessary.

Her movements were fluid.
Not relying on brute force.
Sword techniques that read the flow of the wind and the constraints of magic to surely end a life—that was the reason she was called the “Holy Knight of the Wind.”

After the battle.
In the center of the small encampment, the soldiers were starting to prepare a meal.
Sitting on the ground, she removed her gauntlets and slowly steadied her breathing.

“...Left leg, you pushed it too hard again, didn't you?”
Along with the voice, a steaming ceramic bowl was offered.

When she looked up, the archer was there, taking his jacket off his shoulders.
Accepting it in silence, she smiled and said while holding the bowl,

“...You really watch people's movements well on the battlefield.”

“Well, yeah. On the battlefield, you’ve got nothing but time to watch.”

He knelt on one knee and looked at her feet, his expression serious despite his joking tone.
There were no wounds—but from the subtle distortion in her movements, he was certain.

“Rest before you can’t walk anymore. This time, for real.”

There was no anger or pity in his words.
Only his calm demeanor and the heat of the soup he offered were his way of showing he cared.

Night.
Stars twinkled in the sky.

The return from the front lines took several days by carriage.
Yet, during that journey, she felt a silence different from that of the battlefield.

The realization of returning home.
The certainty that someone was waiting for her.
That warmth was the only thing that caused her sword to waver.

The carriage door opened, and the sound of small footsteps came running over.

“Mommy!”

Before she could even turn around at the voice, thin arms lunged at her waist.
She froze for a moment, and then... she smiled.

“I’m home. I’m sorry I’m late. Hey, did you listen to what your father said?”

“Yeah! I was drawing, look, look!”

On the paper clutched in the small hands, written in clumsy letters, were the words “shining magic,” accompanied by blue lines and circles.

Looking at that drawing, she smiled once more.
She wouldn’t bring tears to the battlefield. But at home—that was different.

The war was beginning to change.

On the southern front, which the kingdom had controlled, different kinds of “knights” began to appear.
An uncanny infantryman who could cut down fifty soldiers alone.
A powerful female commander who would leap while in heavy armor, accompanied by a roar.
And even a man called a “Domain Disruptor” who ignored all magical syntax—.

The speed at which the lines on the map were being redrawn was too fast for the supply units to keep up.
She, who was at the heart of the front lines, felt that anomaly on her own skin.

“It’s strange... the threads are trembling.”

Whispering that to herself, she stood in the forest, simply feeling the wind.
Her binding magic was born from resonating with the flow of the “wind.”
She had even managed to pull back wounded soldiers by controlling and manipulating the air.

But that day, the wind was restless.
It was a commotion, as if something else had intruded.
The wind was angry.

"Get back!"
Immediately after she shouted, the air exploded.

It was neither a roar nor a shockwave.
A "denial" of existence had pierced a hole in the wind.

Trees were torn apart, and scouts were blown away.
One enemy soldier—no, that was no longer a "person."
A grotesque being that held no sword, crushing allies with just its fists.

(I can't stop it...!)

Her magic was too slow.
Strings of light tried to capture him, but she couldn't even grasp the "outline" of his body.

The archer fired arrows immediately.
Three, five, seven. All were dodged, and only one grazed him.
In that instant, she stepped forward.

"This step will be someone's life—!"

With a burst of spirit, she thrust her dagger forward.
However, the enemy stopped suddenly and smiled fearlessly in front of her.

"You don't 'have' it yet, do you..."
A low voice, someone's voice, spoke.

The next moment—

Light flashed.

No, it wasn't light.
It wasn't sound either.
It was simply "settled" in her hand.

A sword.
A mass that was incredibly heavy, yet carried a certain "warmth."
She didn't even know where it had appeared from.
But she just knew.

(—Arondight)

The name was conveyed to her from the sword.
As if the will of the blade had chosen her.

The enemy's figure had vanished like mist.
As her companions rushed over, she stared at the sword.

It was made of a material that no magic could replicate.
The intricate details were foreign, and the engraved patterns belonged to no religion.
However, the blade itself was beautiful.
As if it were crafted to cut through "the world itself."

"...Can't you pull it out?"

The usual man's voice came from behind her.
The archer exhaled lightly, leaning against a tree trunk.

"That's not it. I just can't put it back."

“Usually, you call that ‘drawing’ it.”

She did not laugh.
However, the archer did not press the matter, simply sitting on the ground and staring intently at the sword.

“That thing is in exchange for ‘something’ inside you, isn't it?”

Those words did not pierce her heart.
No, she knew he had said it that way so that they wouldn't.

She simply sheathed the sword slowly.
Whether this sword is a blessing or a curse to the world—that, she did not yet know.

The battlefield had changed.
To be precise, she had ‘changed’ the battlefield itself.

Since obtaining Arondight, she could no longer be described within the confines of a “Holy Knight.”

The second front of the hilly terrain.
The kingdom's side was clearly at a disadvantage.
Against the enemy's assault force, the vanguard's command structure had collapsed, and the supply unit stood there in a daze.

In the center of it all, she stood all alone.

The wind wailed.

And then, it was the air that was slashed.

In an instant.
The head of the enemy knight who had been charging flew into the air without a sound.
The massive body, slashed diagonally from the shoulder, collapsed along with the horse, kicking up a cloud of dust.
At the same time, a second strike.
She tore through the torso of an axeman approaching from the rear, along with his chains.

Arondight hummed.
A sword wielded not by strength, but by will.
It turned all of her anger and all of her sorrow into a blade.

(This is something I swing in exchange for someone's life.)

Even as she told herself this, her feet did not stop.

As if she were a “being born to slash,” she moved forward, and forward again.

The archer watched the scene from atop the hill.
The first thing he noticed was that the soldiers around her had been struck speechless.

“Amazing... is that magic?”

“No. That is a war god...”

It was neither admiration nor awe.
She simply stood there as “something that had transcended the realm of humanity.”

The archer drops to one knee and narrows his eyes.

There is no hesitation in her movements.
Or rather,the very fact that she does not hesitate is already dangerous.

"It looks as if 'the sword is moving her,' doesn't it..."

Sweat beads on the fingers gripping the arrow in his hand.

No one notices.
That Arondight is,stealing 'something' from her.

No—
perhaps she herself has thrown that 'something' away onto the battlefield.

The night the battle ended.
She was surrounded by soldiers.

"That was seriously insane! Seriously!"

"Taking on ten enemies by yourself... are you for real..."

Everyone praised her, laughed, and patted her on the back.
She, at the center of it all, smiled and nodded along.

However,the face that was smiling was somehow 'empty.'

The archer watched the scene from outside the circle.
Without joining his comrades, he simply simmered soup near the fire.

"...Can you still go back?"

He mutters in a small voice that no one can hear.

Midnight.
She was looking up at the stars.

What she felt after the battle was not victory or honor, but 'the sensation of being whittled away little by little.'

Arondight gave her power.
But at the same time, it was surely stealing away her 'warmth as a human.'

(So this is what it means to be chosen.)

Thinking this, she suddenly stared at her palm.
Her hand was not stained with blood.
Yet, no matter how much she wiped it, she felt as if something remained.

And then, morning comes again.
She boards the return carriage.
Beside her, a small sketchbook and a short, gripped red colored pencil.

When will the next return be?
Will I still be able to be a mother by the next return?
Or perhaps—.

She said nothing and closed her eyes.

She returned, crossing over the hill where white flowers bloomed.
Her son came running toward her.
With his still-small limbs, he rushed at her with the force of a smile.

"Welcome home, Mother!"

She dropped to both knees as if to catch that voice.
Without caring that her layered armor kicked up the dirt, she simply wrapped her arms around his body.

"I'm home—Luca."

Finally, just a little, her eyes softened.

Her husband stood by her side.
Silently, he removed the heavy load from her back.
It included the cloth bag containing Arondight, but he said nothing.

"Thank you."

That one word was enough.
He nodded and began drawing water from the well in the garden.

At night, the fire in the hearth flickered quietly.
Luca was breathing softly in his sleep, and her husband was sleeping beside him.

She alone could not close her eyes.

Even though she was in a place where she should be sleeping, the sounds of the battlefield remained deep in her ears.
The sound of blades clashing, the smell of blood, the flow of the wind...
And the "weight" of Arondight.

(This is not something that can be left outside the battlefield.)

She gently opened the cloth bag and looked at the hilt of the sword.
That name came to her heart once again.

—Arondight.

It was trembling faintly in the deepest part of her soul.
"The battle is not over yet," it said.

Dawn.
The time when the sky had just begun to turn white.

An archer was standing under the eaves.

"…How long will you be here?"

"I've been ordered to return by tomorrow."
She had already finished her preparations.

"You really are falling apart, aren't you?"

"Even so, I cannot stop."

She smiled and adjusted her tied-back long hair with her fingertips.

"I know this isn't my final destination."
But—as long as this child says 'welcome home' at the end,
I can remain a mother."

The archer had no words to reply.
He simply held out a small parcel.

"...It's food. Try eating it on the battlefield at least."

She accepted it.
The parcel was warm.

The carriage for her return began to move.
In the distance, on the hill, a small figure was waving.

As if to respond, she waved back.
For just a fleeting moment, with the face of a simple 'mother'.

However, on her back was a cloth bag.
Inside it was a sword that could cut the world.
And, the quiet scent of sin that had seeped into her heart.

title: "白野の丘に、魔女はいた"
format: "全4話・エピローグ付き"
structure:
  episode_01:
    title: "風と剣と、春のはじまり"
    role: "彼女の黄金期と、癒しの魔法の原型"
    summary: |
      若き聖騎士として戦場に立ち、アロンダイトを手にする。
      淑女でありながら強く、優しい彼女が、魔法と仲間に支えられていた時代。
      だが、弓兵の視線が映すのは、すでに“壊れかけた兆し”だった。
  episode_02:
    title: "魔女の名を授かる夜"
    role: "喪失と狂気の転落、魔法の変質"
    summary: |
      息子を救えなかった悲しみが、彼女を狂わせる。
      魔法は“癒し”から“拘束と破壊”へと変質し、王国から“魔女”と呼ばれるようになる。
      鉄球は敵を砕き、味方をも畏れさせる。
  episode_03:
    title: "戦場に咲くは、白い火花"
    role: "事実上の最終戦、選択と退場"
    summary: |
      最後の戦場で、彼女は一騎当千の敵と激突。
      傷つきながらも、戦友の弓兵に背中を預け、敵を撃破。
      そののち、死を偽装し、姿を消す。
      アロンダイトと、正体不明の死体だけが残された。
  episode_04:
    title: "白野の丘にて"
    role: "再生と継承、静かな救い"
    summary: |
      戦場から逃れた彼女は、羊飼いとして別人のように生きる。
      長く伸びた髪、名を捨てた日々。
      だが、その娘が使った魔法が、かつての“癒し”と同じだったことで――彼女は微笑む。
      魔法は、形を変えても、確かに残る。

epilogue:
  title: "風のゆくえ、花のゆびさき"
  role: "静かな終章と新たな芽吹き"
  summary: |
    娘が自然と“バインド魔法”を模倣したことにより、彼女は理解する。
    過去の呪いは終わり、癒しの力が新しい世代に受け継がれた。
    魔法は“救い”にもなりうるのだと。

themes:
  - 戦と喪失
  - 魔法の変質と継承
  - 女性性と戦士性の両立
  - 母性と静かな再生
  - 偽りの死と本当の生

motifs:
  - アロンダイト（オーパーツ）
  - 鉄球魔法とバインド魔法
  - 弓兵の沈黙と支え
  - 春風と丘
  - 「癒しは魔法でできない」という信念

suggested_continuation:
  title: "魔女の娘たち"
  concept: |
    ・かつて王国を揺るがした“魔女”の娘。
    ・彼女の中に宿る魔法の本質と葛藤。
    ・新たな“魔法の定義”を巡る小さな旅が始まる。
  status: "未定稿"
  hint: "丘の彼方に、まだ物語は残されている。"

#fantasy -fiction
#magic -knight
#tragic -heroine
#motherhood -theme
#light -novel-style
#postwar -healing
#emotional -ending
#magical -realism
#yokootaro -inspired
#arondight -core