Last Rite

CODENAME: Last Rite

GENDER: Female

AUTHENTICATION: Seš'qa

DOB: November 12

RACE: Sarkaz

[ORIPATHY INFECTION STATUS]

Oripathy positive (infected), based on medical examination reports.

[INTEGRATED PHYSICAL EXAMINATION]

PHYSIOLOGICAL STRENGTH: Excellent

COMBAT SKILL: Standard

TACTICAL ACUMEN: Normal

ORIGINIUM ARTS ASSIMILATION: ■■

DOCUMENT: Records from a Logistics Operator

Miss Last Rite accidentally damaged several training machines during testing. From the perspective of the Logistics Division, the scope of damage she inflicted is still within reasonable limits. To put it simply, there are other operators who inflict greater losses during routine inspection. Hence, we wonder if you can help inform Miss Last Rite that there is no need for her to keep delivering handwritten letters of apology to us, or actively avoiding members of our division for that matter.

DOCUMENT: A certain log that requires sufficient authority level

Adelheid's Originium Arts should only get an [Excellent] rating. However, when this Nachzehrer attempts, bashfully, the manipulation of death, everyone at the scene witnessed a shadowy figure behind the curtain. It felt cold, ancient, grand, and ... serene. It was a discomforting experience though Instructor Maze tried to soothe my concerns... What is Seš'qa trying to hide?

Operator Last Rite (ID name: Adelheid) is a special brand ambassador for Seš'qa. She is now working under the Specialist Tech Division following recommendations from "Bridge Builder" Fleming, senior business consultant of Witching Hour.

If this is your first meeting with Last Rite, consider a relaxed and friendly approach. Treat her temporary silence or avoidance with understanding and acceptance. Last Rite is not skilled at dealing with strangers, but attending to the meeting with a few snacks or candies at hand will actively build her trust in you.

And please, AVOID getting too close to her when she panics as this is extremely hazardous. If she sees you getting wounded due to the resulting accident, her panic attack will only escalate.

— Martin Marvin Malen, Assistant, HR Division, Endfield Industries

"The internship mission was a success. She's far more committed than we thought. The girl literally commands to the letter. Also, can we ask the Business Office to convey this to Seš'qa: Reading ad lines to beasts and Aggeloi doesn't achieve anything."

"We are really happy that Operator Last Rite helped clean out the mountain of chores that slowly built itself up over time. But can someone tell her that this is a buffet-style canteen. No one's going to be charged extra for big appetites."

"Specialized Emergency Ice Melter Sprays are now available. We got plenty in store, so grab what you need. Now, we know that Last Rite gives off freeze gases when she panics. I guess it'd be nice if you people can stop triggering her panic attacks."

"Last Rite is getting on pretty well with the other patients of the rehab center, and she believes that volunteer work can help her with stress relief. Chew on this, people. Why is she feeling stressed, hmm? In any case, do not tell any of our patients that Last Rite is an undertaker. It is unnecessary and we will have a lot of explaining to do if word of this gets out."

HR Division Operator Bulletin. The girl was so stressed and embarrassed she inched towards the dustbin to conceal herself. "Relax, girl. Everyone says you're really friendly and easy to get along with."

In the beginning, children at the Den of the Brave always poked fun at Adelheid. No one really knew the girl who lived so far away. She was shy, introverted, dressed in boring clothing, slow to react, and never caught the ball during conversations. "Biggie" Tom started by badmouthing her at every turn. He wanted her out of the children's secret base. But Tom eventually relented because of two reasons: The grown-ups respected the Caprinae couple who adopted Adelheid, and even though she was teary eyed and sniveling, she never forgot about stuffing herself with apple peelings and turnip leaves.

Everything changed in that atrocious summer. The rains poured in June, the entire place was flooded, and the bandits were finally evicted after a grueling battle. The ordeal left scars upon five families who lost their loved ones. The unsuspecting children followed the procession to the suburbs, and they saw her atop the hills. Adelheid, except it was not the little crybaby they knew. They saw the girl and her family cleaning out the resting places, cleaning the headstones, and offering elegies to the deceased. It was not until the coffin was laid to rest when the children finally realized that Tom would no longer return to Den of the Brave.

Instead of fear, it was panic and denial that spread. The children could not accept the machinations of fate, and failed to figure out a way to make up for the missing position. It was then when Adelheid placed a simple wooden statuette before Tom's grave. It was very roughly carved, crooked, imbalanced, and unpolished.

"He always wanted a figurine of a Competition Knight," the girl said. "That would be Tom's final wish."

The grown-ups fail to control their tears again. They lamented the death of a life so innocent and young.

But the children tried not to laugh as the statuette looked nothing like a Competition Knight.

In the end, they bore it no longer and burst out laughing.

They took out their Knight Cards and discussed how to make the statuette more knight-like. Although Adelheid failed to follow their conversation and the task of carving the figurine fell to a more dexterous companion, the children would always hand the new and much improved statuette into Adelheid's hands, for she was tasked with leading their own procession into the cemetery and perform the annual ceremony.

"Tom is right here," the girl promised every year.

No one knew how Adelheid was so certain about this, or how she learned of Tom's wishes. Nobody seemed to care about how she performed her work.

In the end, Adelheid did not break her shell. She remained rather inept at expressing herself. Every time her tummy rumbled, she became so embarrassed she would start inching to a nearby dustbin. But whenever new kids arrive in town and start talking about the strange girl humming songs in the bushes, someone would tap them on the shoulder and give them a quite a story.

This was Adelheid's first culture shock.

Seš'qa, the Stop, the capital of Witchcraft, the Sarkazian hub, the gathering spot of vagabonds... It was a city of names and she heard plenty of them. However, it was not until she alighted from the dirigible and stepping onto Seš'qa proper when she realized that "flight" was the most insignificant feature of this strange realm.

The entire place seemed to be a never-ending stream of carnivals. Riot was engraved into the air itself. The decorative furnace that adorned the central plaza spewed waves of heat, clamor, and tons of laughter. Every street was lined with strange shops and signs. People rubbed shoulders in the crowd, chewing food with names that defy even the most dexterous tongues as they marched for the formation of giant figures looming in the distance — Rumors speak of a fighting arena as well as a fairground featuring Sarkazian culture, meticulously prepared for tourists when Seš'qa made itself available to them. However, the purpose of this administrative divisions seems rather limited when Seš'qa itself was already like a giant theme park.

Adelheid's stomach started rumbling again.

Perhaps it wasn't a good idea to accept that wandering peddler's invitation. She heard about Witching Hour, but she could never afford anything from this manufacturer. She only needed a broom to chase away the beasts back home. Like Seš'qa itself, the concept of proper weapons felt foreign and distant. "But I only flipped a truck toppled by the Aggeloi so it got back on its wheels. Why would anyone recommend me a job opportunity for that?" Adelheid started to wonder. What could she possibly do at this place?

The peddler was far away, handling some registration procedure, stringing syllables and words that she could not understand. She suddenly realized that she knew nothing about the Sarkaz, despite being one herself. And is that powerful mercenary a Goliath? A man wore pendants dangling from his sharp ears. Did they mean anything? Everything was new. The peddler explained that her constant sense of hunger was a racial trait as well. But knowing this did not solve the problem. According to Sarkazian standards, her stubborn refusal to "feed" probably made her the one least qualified to talk about the rebellious nature of this city.

Her stomach rumbled louder. Every time she felt afraid or helpless, impulse would find its way in and make it harder to control herself. And this was worse than usual. If someone asks, how should she answer? It would be inappopriate to say: "I'm sorry. I just don't feel like being a Nachzehrer."

There was still a chance to escape. The peddler's route would pass through a few more towns and villages. She could always apologize later. It would be best to find a place to hide and wait for the constant sideway glances to ease off...

"What's happening to you?"

The voice jolted her back from her increasingly sticky sense of anxiety. The lad tilted his head, his gaze more curious than confused: "There's free bread over there. Just tell the guard before you grab one. And there's also a pamphlet with a list of jobs. That's free, too."

"I ... I'm sorry, I'm actually alright," she tried to get her breathing under control and ease the trembling out of her voice, "I'm just waiting for someone."

"Oh. Okay, " the lad sniveled, "But you don't have to worry. Plenty of opportunities here. You'll find something to do. It took me two whole weeks as well."

The lad was mature for his age and did not seem to believe in her words. Adelheid thought about it but chose not to argue. His expressions seem to exude strange powers that alleviated her worries.

He gave her a pat on the shoulders before blending into a nearby crowd once more. She turned to look. It did not appear like a tourist attraction. Sweaty laborers worked on the scaffold as merchants frowned and wrote out their orders. A few well-dressed individuals flanked by mercenaries walked out of what seemed to be a fancy bistro. Everyone looked busy, yet all of them gave off the same relaxing vibe of that young lad. There were plenty of opportunities and she would figure something out.

She saw the lad running towards the mercenaries, shouting angrily as he bundled their weapons. He was like a shepherd trying to herd a flock of giant, half-drunken beasts from their masters into the inn. The lad's tail was short and sharp, reminding her of her foster parents.

The girl suddenly remembered the peddler saying something on the dirigible: "We got it to fly because the Sarkaz everywhere were facing difficulties. But when it started flying, we realized that plenty of others are facing hard times, not just the Sarkaz."

Before it became a flying city of amusements, Seš'qa was a frontier outpost. Despite being involved with countless legends and serving numerous functions, it was a young outpost facing the unknown in the frontiers where humanity strove to build a new home. Life will always find a way. The outpost does not need to house everyone. It just needs to be "a stop", and that would be enough.

And thus, after more than ten minutes of shock and awe, Adelheid began diverting her attention to the streets. Her eyes rested upon a massive pile of roasted stockbeast fillet glistening with grease.

It was salty, so salty that it sent her heart racing wildly.

"Why?"

The legendary senior business consultant of Seš'qa, one of the lead brand managers of the Witching Hour, the downtrodden Sarkaz merchant, "Bridge Builder" Fleming, was taken aback by this simple question. Though it came right out of the blue, Fleming quickly regained his cool, tidied his tie, and started counting the stars as he readied himself for the banter.

The Feline who stood before him always made him tingle with a strange nervousness, ever since that snowy night.

"Ahem. First thing first... We genuinely appreciate Endfield's acceptance of Adelheid. Seš'qa hereby extends its most sincere gratitude."

"Good. That means you'll pay extra for her additional catering fees. Right?"

"Trust me. Sending her to Endfield is considered a loss for our business."

"Oh. You have a slogan for Last Rite ... the Princess of the War Court? Very loud and attention grabbing. Must have made you a fortune."

Fleming laughed. He usually laughs as a means of dealing with his opponent on the negotiating table. But at this moment, he was laughing to give himself a chance to breathe.

M3 paid no attention to Fleming's peculiarities. Her gaze was reserved for Adelheid, seated uncomfortably outside the office — Last Rite herself. Fleming sensed M3's curiosity. He cannot afford to miss the opportunity to regain his initiative.

"What do you think of Miss Last Rite?"

"I think she's hungry," M3 said without averting her gaze from the girl in question. Fleming tried to remember things. Rumors speak of the Feline's ties with the origins of Kazdel, and she hardly paid this much attention to other talents he recommended. "How could you let such a lovely girl starve?"

"I swear..."

"I think you need to pay an additional catering fee to Endfield Industries. Maybe we should set this sum to..."

"I *SWEAR* this is for the best!"

Fleming immediately realized that he had slipped. His opponent was simply trying to muddy the waters... No. She was just having a friendly banter. Why did he suddenly break his composure?

"And why is that?"

"Ugh... You know, a Nachzehrer in a cemetery with an extreme 'shame of consuming'... She has consistently refused to touch the deaths of others. Her constant hunger is only a natural consequence."

"No, no, no... You got it all wrong..."

M3 maintained her coy, relaxed tone. But that was not the worst for Fleming. What stressed him out more was the fact that she had not smiled ever since he stepped aboard Dijiang.

"You know the Sarkaz. No amount of roasted steak fillets could fill an empty soul."

"Soul? You believe in souls?"

"Ahem... Every Sarkaz who benefited from the protection of the myriad souls believes in them."

"I'm sure the myriad souls will be happy to know that," M3 finally moved her gaze away from the girl. She hesitated, a rare opportunity. But Fleming did not treat this as a good sign, "But the time does not match."

"I understand... It took place over a century ago. Nevertheless, Adelheid is definitely a young girl of only seventeen or eighteen years."

"Right. So, why?"

Fleming kept his bitter smile inside. Nevertheless, he decided to confront this question directly.

"I don't know. But like you said ... she remains very hungry."

"Even with 'that thing' following her around? That's practically unheard of."

That genuinely surprised Fleming, if only a little. "Find it rather astonishing that there are things you have not heard about."

Fleming immediately regretted it when those words blurted out of his mouth. Thankfully, M3 was not in the leisurely mood to interpret his verbal mishap as a taunt.

"A vast land has perished in her shadow. Millennia-worth of winters heed her beck and call. Yet she remains hungry."

"It's the blood. We found other Nachzehrers. So many deaths are birthed upon this planet everyday. We have no desire to see another War Court appear without warning. But ... this child is obviously an exception. She has not been 'fed' because she respects every crew mate, messenger, and soldier who died in the frontiers. She could not bring herself to do it. In fact, she refuses to do it."

"Then how did her power..."

"'Though she did not consume the dead to strengthen herself, Death remains willing to assist her.' That wendigo friend of yours gave this assessment."

"...Nezzsalem would be extremely moved if he were here."

"But that also means the child is destined to take on burdens that shouldn't be hers."

"I suppose this is the actual reason you recommended her to Endfield."

"If Adelheid hopes to take upon a path of her choice, I believe Endfield Industries will be her best instructor."

M3 was obviously taken aback. Fleming himself was also stunned by her reaction. He knew that M3 never expected him to give such a ... soft and compassionate answer. However, he also did not expect M3 to had judged him so poorly. It was a depressing realization for the merchant and consultant.

"Well, Fleming ... perhaps you are kinder than I thought."

Those words allowed Fleming's confidence to return.

"And that is also your kindest evaluation of my character for all these years we've known each other, Miss M3."

M3 sighed. It would seem she finally allowed herself to relax. "Now, how would you like Endfield to treat her?"

"The usual," Fleming smiled from the bottom of his heart for the first time in this dialog. "Let her do what she wants, like a normal child. Let her live, get into trouble, grow up, and earn her keep. It would be wonderful if she gets to make a few friends and discover what she wants out of life..."

"Treating her as your own?"

"Hah. Me? My blood's too poor for her," Fleming also shifted his gaze to the window. Adelheid was already getting overwhelmed by other Endfield operators trying to start a conversation with her.

"But before Talos-II forces humanity to the brink of extinction, before Death completely fashions her bloodied throne, and before the next Sovereign of the Nachzehrers is forced to manifest upon this planet ... she simply remains as a shy little Sarkaz girl."