Remember, you're no different from dogs—worse, even. Dogs don't overthink. They don't fear.
So learn from dogs. If you're told to bite, you bite. If you're told to stop, you stop.
Got it?
If crying gets no answer, what's the point of crying?
If needs go unheard, do needs survive?
In the institution, the children have few spare emotions. Obedience and conditioned reflexes are their daily lessons.
Behind closed doors, the "obedience" training never ends.
The instructors clearly tolerate it. As long as they don't have to dirty their hands each time, they're happy to let "natural selection" do the work and discard the "defective products."
The director brought her here personally... what's so special about this candidate?
After a few days of observation and interaction, Eleanor has to admit, she's a little disappointed.
In test after test, Discord's performance is average. Or maybe lacking any competitive drive is more accurate.
She can't even read, just like the others. So what could have earned the director's favor?
At least the name was unique.
Wherever you are, survival of the fittest rules. Fail to grasp it and you're gone.
She lingers at the back of the line and watches older bullies knock Discord's meal to the floor.
The blue-haired girl quietly picks up her food and finds a corner to sit.
Playing weak, are you? Not a bad move.
She walks over and sits beside Discord like it's the most natural thing.
In the afternoon, the scheduled training begins.
Finish your missions. Fall behind and you'll be punished.
Everyone, begin!
Countless parts scatter across the table. On command, the children move as one, assemble a handgun, and chamber rounds at top speed.
Eleanor, complete!
The rest of the kids panic. It's their first day with this training; some can't even tell the trigger from the safety.
Roxie, Eggsy, complete!
Discord, complete!
The rest of you, failed. Hands out.
Eleanor steps gracefully out of line. A beat later, Discord follows.
The stun gun cracks, charring the flesh of the palm until it's black and burning. The punished child doesn't dare cry, only sags to their knees.
No one has ever doubted this place is nothing like ordinary orphanages.
They're afraid of you...
Discord doesn't dare look back. Standing beside the girl, she speaks barely above a whisper.
Is it because you're better than them? Are they jealous?
Being better than a bunch of fools is nothing to be proud of.
What matters is being better than the person you were. That's worth being proud of.
To Discord, Eleanor acts refined around teachers and other orphans—never loud, never foolish. Even when she acts out, she is never scolded.
Her only quirk is that sometimes she's hard to understand. Among kids who lack schooling, that counts as an advantage.
They do fear me. When you fear something, you admit it has power over you.
She tells Discord which children to study and which ones she already understands completely.
People should look for things that have meaning and value, then meet death calmly. Some people's value is to help others realize theirs.
She says her foresight is simply a matter of understanding, like how some creatures are born with a sharper sense of smell than humans.
But to Discord, it still feels like magic.
See? He's about to slip out and quietly ask the kid in front to help him cheat.
The kid in front will agree, then sneak a look around. But the one behind won't like it. He'll... hmm, let me think.
He's gonna punch the kid in front of him.
Ow! My nose!
I ******* hate you sneaky cheaters!
The class stops when a brawl breaks out, and the instructor storms over. Discord stares, stunned, as Eleanor's predictions come true one by one.
...Can you make people do what you want?
No. I certainly can't.
An expression crosses her face that mingles an adult's calm with a child's innocence.
All I do is observe. I watch what someone wants, what they need most right now, what they value.
Then you know more about them than they do.
Then... do you understand me the way you understand them?
She smiles and says nothing. Discord can already ask questions and doubt—better than the other fools.
Like... which foot I'll use when I step through the door next?
A coin has two sides. You only get two outcomes when you toss it.
The commotion ends at the whistle. The older girl strolls back into line. The younger girl realizes she's asked something dumb, flushes with embarrassment, then remembers the secret game that sealed her fate.
A weathered portrait of an old man. A bird with outstretched wings.
She chose the old man's face, and that path led her here. The other path...
So "free will" is a joke—an illusion.
The freedom people talk about is just making limited choices inside countless restraints.
They wield freedom the way they wield power. In the end it's the same prewritten road. Boring. Mind-numbingly boring.
At the end of her sentence, the girl's voice suddenly slips back into a child's tone. She steps closer; her shadow and breath fall over Discord.
Oh dear, is that a bit too hard for you?
Every window here is carefully covered so the children won't glimpse a scrap of blue sky and dream of freedom.
Yet the children still whisper about freedom. During breaks, they stare at clouds through the cracks and watch leaves fall with the seasons.
If only they could be a cloud in the sky! Then they could drift anywhere. Almost every child has thought this.
Until Eleanor said it, Discord never considered that freedom might not be a good thing.
Do you want freedom?
No... we... should follow orders.
Discord unconsciously rubs at the wrists that restraints have cinched for years, and forces the words out, uncomfortable.
Does a puppy want freedom? Can it run wherever it wants?
The girl pictures the attack dogs in their training cages, then shakes her head slowly and heavily.
Then what about the strays outside? They go where they want, bite who they want. They don't need anyone's orders.
Discord doesn't answer. She studies Eleanor's face, searching for the response that will satisfy her.
No matter how hard a small dog tries, no matter how loud it howls, it can't become a big dog.
So... no matter how much children yearn for it, they can't turn into clouds. Discord struggles to take it in.
But a small dog can still kill a big dog—with the same sharp teeth and claws.
I'm the only one who sees your potential. They all underestimate you, overlook you. But you're the protagonist of this story.
You're special. Prove it to me.
Eleanor lets the blue-tinted gauze slide from her fingertips and walks, unbothered, from the sterile corridor into the course room.
Special? Protagonist?
Those words, sweet as honey, seep slowly into Discord's heart.
Could she be a protagonist? Could she protect Eleanor, become the great hero from picture books?
The lamp still glows with its faint, ghostly light, yet she feels as warm as if she were standing in the outdoor sun.
The world gathers in new colors and begins to surge forward. In that moment, her broken childhood and all those years of wandering no longer seem to matter.
By the way, would it be your left foot?
My guess is that you hurt it before. You've been acting like nothing's wrong while quietly protecting it all this time.
She glances back with an innocent smile and speaks the words that land squarely in the heart.
You like to hide important things. Is it because you've lost them before?
The corridor to the dorms is ice cold at night. Many children linger there before bed, dragging their feet on purpose.
Fool!
She's tamed you, got you dancing to her tune, just so she can beat you more easily on the next test!
Tag-along! You'll find out soon enough how terrifying it is to be her enemy!
Yeah. We're just helping you face reality early!
A cluster of kids closes in. A perfect target who never fights back is too tempting for their restless, show-off energy.
Someone shoves her. She stumbles forward and crashes onto the ice-cold floor.
Think you're special? Think you were chosen?
One boy slips a fork from the caretaker's cabinet and climbs to a high perch.
He flicks his wrist and sends a fork flying. The angle is off; it spins and just clips her foot before bouncing away.
Tsk. Missed. These things are a pain to aim. How about this?
In one go, he throws the rest of the forks at Discord.
They rain down like silver, clattering into each other without pattern.
Only one—only one fork—spins fast, the tines flashing as it drops toward the back of Discord's unprotected neck.
...!
The girl doesn't turn. Maybe she catches it in the corner of her eye, because her arm whips back on instinct.
Damn! Lucky dodge!
The crowd scatters in a flash, like ants doused with boiling water. Only two things can get these kids to stop in their tracks with sound alone: a whistle, or her.
Eleanor, they say...
The girl bites her lip, unsure whether to repeat those cruel words. But Eleanor's eyes light up, fixed on the fork that was knocked away and now sits buried in the wall.
As expected.
Smiling, she opens her arms and gathers Discord into lace and ruffles.
The unfamiliar touch makes Discord tense up. She doesn't know what to do.
Nothing to worry about, right?
The girl's hand pats her back, soft and soothing.
Discord breathes in a scent that doesn't match Polard at all. Nestled against gray hair, her tight muscles loosen.
The bullying is brushed aside. A harsh scolding, a token confinement, and then the instructors and caretakers pretend it never happened.
But after their confinement ends, those kids never come near the blue-haired girl again.
They're not bothering me anymore, but... what did you do? Did you beat them up?
The girl asks incredulously. She just can't picture this teenager using violence.
No. I only talked to them, the same way I'm talking to you.
Discord already understands that the girl is far more mature than she looks; she only acts like an ordinary child when it suits her.
Don't you get it? Her forehead's already marked. Even you idiots should know some lines can't be crossed.
The girl's gentle smile smooths out every anxious ripple in Discord's young heart like a calming touch of magic.
From that day on, her time at Polard grows easier. Discord feels as if she's run back to some simple, sheltered place—even if each day's "performance" is anything but peaceful.
As long as Eleanor is there, there's nothing to fear. All she has to do is follow orders and keep living.
Yet a fate no child should bear still comes, mercilessly.
Final training of the year. Make sure you're ready.
Some kids spark with hope at the word "final," but the gray, flat eyes around them show that words like these have long since lost their meaning.
They're forced to fight each other. The closer the bond, the more deliberately they are paired. The rule is merciless; it slices apart what little tenderness remains.
A door opens. They step into a tunnel drowned in pitch-black darkness.
They descend a staircase, pass through another door, and hear the heavy clang of a metal slab sealing shut behind them.
And finally, one last door.
Some children grow restless. Others seem distant, already half-absent. It makes no difference to what lies ahead.
Complete your task: kill your companions! Or you all feed the dogs.
No, you don't have to kill them. Just knock them out and it's over.
Director Pollard, who almost never shows up, drops that remark like a stone before passing the microphone back.
Training's almost over. No point wasting resources.
The other adults glance at each other and shrug. None of them bother explaining to the seldom-seen director how important the preset conditions are for forging the final nerves of steel.
Dozens of trained military hounds come thundering out. They're massive, all muscle—some almost as tall as the children. Every set of eyes locks on the central platform, and their growls rumble like distant thunder.
Weapons of every kind litter the arena floor. The instructors leave for the monitoring room, waiting for the final results of this bloodbath.
Of course, running and giving up are pointless too.
Partially wiped blood stains remain on the platform. The air reeks of iron. Discord yanks at the chain linking her neck to another's, her face twisted in pain.
A person must always obey, be a perfect expendable, adapting to the absurd—that's what soldiers were made to be in the world wars.
Life and death are a performance. Thirty-three ridiculous coin tosses make you believe in fate. You and I are puppets on a stage.
Discord doesn't understand the poem-like murmur. It's even more obscure than usual.
The girl smiles and switches to a simpler story.
Ever heard of your life flashing before your eyes?
Take oxygen deprivation, for example. It can cause hallucinations. In a lot of plane crashes, when the cabin loses pressure, people pass out almost instantly. Your body's dying, but your brain hasn't caught on yet, so it gives you dreamlike illusions.
People who've had near-death experiences say they saw hazy scenes and heard a clear announcer's voice. The moment they step into an unknown river, torches flare to life around them.
The flicker of firelight brightens the space. You see people waving to you. Their faces are blurred, but you feel a strange safety and happiness—like an infant in a mother's arms...
What are they talking about?
I can't hear them clearly. Still this reckless? Are they turning a death test into storytime?
...
The girl keeps talking to herself. The speaker warns that if they don't get moving, the preset lethal current will be switched on.
Are you afraid of death?
The young woman walks slowly to the weapons rack, her pale fingers slipping from her sleeve. She smiles like she's unwrapping a gift and reaches for a brand-new chainsaw.
Discord follows the voice on the loudspeaker and grabs a tactical knife from the upper rack.
A suicidal choice.
At the monitors, one adult mutters that a few casualties are acceptable, but a massive massacre would be too much.
Rosewater's brow furrows.
But Discord is busy building the scene Eleanor once described. Her mind is pulled along as she peers down from several meters above into the darkness below. Barking rises and falls from somewhere under the platform.
Death is... safe and happy?
What she sees instead is the opposite: a cold corner hidden from a bustling street—bleak, shadowed, forgotten.
She's been there before. Felt it. If no one remembers you, maybe the fire in your chest will finally burn out.
The clash of gears and chains, the roar of motors—it all explodes at once. The blast of sound forces the girl to raise her voice.
Jump from here.
That's an order.
Her last thread of hope snaps. So even Eleanor can't conjure a magic that shields them from reality.
Why is the world like this? Is there no hope at all?
Discord wants to close her eyes but isn't allowed to. Her hand grips the chain at her neck, and she stops asking questions.
JUMP, JUMP, JUMP!
JUMP!
Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump Jump
Just... obey the command.
With the countdown to fight blaring from the speakers, she lets the strength leave her body, slides her left foot over the platform's edge, and drops.
The fall should be brief. For a moment, feeling only the pressure of wind, Discord knows nothing. Then the pressure at her neck vanishes—enough to tell her that whatever was on the other end is suddenly gone.
Eleanor, she's passed the test now, hasn't she?
If all she wanted was to give up, she had hundreds of chances already.
Tag-along! You'll find out soon enough how terrifying it is to be her enemy!
After that day, every sleepless night, she chews on that sentence in the rhythm of the dorm's snoring, imagining all the ways it might come true.
In a blink, a puppy doll seems to appear on her nightstand; in the next, she realizes it's a nightmare.
It feels like an unknown force squeezes her heart, slinging her between light and darkness.
A good cry is the only thing that could settle her spirit. But crying is something reality never pities.
At last, she stretches the fingers that the restraints still allow, lips moving soundlessly, tapping a melody from memory into the moonlit air.
Tap, tap, tap-tap.
I absolutely... don't want to be Eleanor's enemy.
But I also...
Don't want to die!
Survival instinct drives her to twist her body midair in a burst of desperate adjustment, and her razor-sharp vision lets her see the ground below—packed with hounds waiting for their meal.
For some reason, her downward rush seems to slow for a heartbeat—just enough to finish the adjustment.
Dagger clenched tight, Discord picks her landing spot.
Did you catch that move?!
Someone at the monitors cries out.
Discord crashes onto the backs of two hounds, curling up to execute a side roll as her arm grazes their terrifying fangs. Though she manages to break her fall, the impact still forces a muffled grunt from her lips.
No time to register the pain. She rides the momentum into a low crouch, twists halfway around, and drives her knife hard up into the snarling hound's soft underjaw.
Dark blood sprays in twisting ribbons, crawling along the dagger's edge like living worms.
Another hound, closer this time, lunges with a low, guttural snarl.
Discord reacts faster than thought. She boots away the one whose jaws no longer work, winds the too-long chain between both hands, reads the incoming leap, loops the nearest throat, and slams the beast into the ground with brutal force.
She twists her wrists hard. The metal noose bites deep, tightening until foam flecks its muzzle and its legs go slack.
When did she hide a whip in her sleeve?
She slips through the weapon racks, circles again and again, and uses metal fatigue to saw through the chain on her neck.
Hey, hey! She's throwing every gun off the rack! Wait, she jumped down herself!
What is she really trying to do?!
Why are there no cameras underneath? Where are the drones?
Panic erupts in the monitoring room. They suddenly remember the passage beneath the platform—a route to the outside, to freedom.
Someone's getting nervous. Who'd have thought anyone could escape from Polard?
It isn't just that their abilities have surpassed every adult's expectations. Worse than that, what has been done to these children is something even heaven would refuse to forgive. Their will burns longer than the sum of every will set against them.
How many... is that now?
The deafening wall of barking fades until she realizes there isn't a single bark left.
She wipes the blood and sweat running from her nose and finally steals a breath.
Good. I like dogs that bite.
Discord looks up, delighted to see the girl walking toward her, still keeping her weight pressed on one gasping hound. Its last whimper disappears into a heavy silence.
Eleanor...!
She runs over, then freezes when she sees the girl no longer spotless.
Looks like you're enjoying the game too!
She tosses aside a blood-smeared power saw, frowning at her sleeve where flecks of flesh, bone, and blood have marred the fabric.
Not elegant enough.
If only there were a weapon that didn't make me get so close and kept the mess off me.
She selects again—this time a modified double-barrel shotgun—lifts it, and softly mouths a "bang" as she takes aim.
A hound's head bursts; its body stumbles forward a few more steps before dropping, confusion still etched in its movements.
One point for Eleanor.
Ugh, the noise is overdone. Not my taste.
Whoever controls us must be dealt with for good.
Discord flicks the chain into the jaws of the last hound charging toward Eleanor's back. She drives her knife into its heart. The shriek stops.
Looks like the game is over?
Shame. I forgot to keep score.
Haha. Hahaha. Hahahaha!
She reaches out her cool hand. When their palms meet, Discord feels herself pulled forward.
The warmth brings Discord a profound sense of comfort.
She lets herself be led by that laughing figure. There are no more enemies to guard against.
The bloody arena fades into a phantom ballroom. Hand in hand, they walk across carpets cooling into dark red. They drift through the grand halls.
Their skirts flutter. Their steps are light and free. It is Discord's first ball.
She is a flicker of the dark moon, the bloom of a flower, the sweep of purple waves. Calm on the surface, burning inside.
Discord stares at the girl leading her.
Would I one day be like those hounds standing in your way, blindly following commands?
It's not the same. You take orders from me. I'm not a slaughter maniac. Those dogs died, but their deaths had value.
...
The girl stays quiet, so Eleanor turns back and searches her eyes.
You don't like it here anymore, do you?
It's because they made us kill our own. It's too much.
...
Then we'll be leaving here soon.
Coming from her, it sounds like a joke. But deep down, Discord firmly believes it.
After that, everything's a blur. She barely remembers the adults wading through the gore to pull them out, then splitting them apart. Maybe someone even asked why she hadn't opened the door.
That's not necessary.
Eleanor's voice drifts from the next room as Discord sinks into sleep under a net of sensors.
It's all for our own good. For our betterment.
When she wakes, only bare walls remain, echoing in the emptiness.
Metal bunks stand in neat rows. Thin mattresses are stacked flat. No one sleeps here anymore. Every child is gone.
Eleanor's got a new home. Isn't that great?
Relax. Your new life starts soon.
...
She wasn't wrong.
In a cozy bedroom above the Las Prados tailor shop, Discord runs her fingers over the skin where her neck and wrists were once bound. She lets out a sigh that's far too heavy for a child.
