The rest of what happened, Forget-Me-Not didn’t really understand.
The details blurred into a haze within her chaotic consciousness at the time.
She only vaguely remembered that after waking up again that day, everything had changed—the military personnel were gone, those cold, brutal training orders had vanished, and even the oppressive atmosphere that had always hung over her head felt as if someone had forcefully torn a hole right through it.
Later, she slowly learned that it was because Lark had gotten angry.
That senior, who was always smiling, always looking soft and a little silly, had genuinely lost her temper.
She had directly used the highest-level authority of the Morning Star Squad, intervening forcefully as an S-Rank Magical Girl, and had forcibly snatched her back from those cold-blooded people in the military.
That woman, who seemed so silly and easy to push around, was exceptionally decisive and swift when she did things.
Even the military—a department that only cared about benefits and had no regard for personal feelings—was suppressed by her to the point where they couldn’t say a single word.
But…
Forget-Me-Not leaned against the headboard, her gaze lightly falling on the girl beside the hospital bed.
Lark was sitting quietly on a small stool, head bowed, concentrating on peeling an apple for her.
The fruit knife moved nimbly in her hand, the peel hanging down in one long, continuous strip, never breaking.
As she peeled, she kept chattering away in a soft voice, talking to her about all sorts of things—big principles about taking care of her health, not always thinking about sacrificing herself, not overdrawing her energy anymore, eating well, and resting properly.
The sunlight fell on the tips of her pinkish-white hair, carrying a hint of warmth.
Forget-Me-Not remained silent for a long while, listening to her endless nagging, until she finally couldn’t help but speak up softly, her voice still weak and hoarse from her illness:
“You… are you that free?”
Lark paused, the fruit knife in her hand stopping briefly.
She looked up, blinked her clear, bright eyes, and wore a confused, innocent expression:
“Huh? What do you mean?”
Forget-Me-Not let out a soft sigh.
Her eyes, which had long been hollow, numb, and devoid of any light, quietly gazed at Lark.
There were no ripples, no warmth—as if she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her.
“Senior is the star everyone looks up to—an S-Rank Magical Girl,” she said softly.
“There are so many missions you need to take care of, and they’re so dangerous. There’s no need… to take care of a tool like me here.”
She gave a self-deprecating tug at the corner of her mouth, her smile as cold as an autumn frost:
“Even if it’s just me being presumptuous and giving you a piece of advice… Senior Lark, please don’t invest too much emotion in a time bomb like me. It’ll go off eventually. It’s not worth it.”
Lark tilted her head, stunned for a few seconds, as if she didn’t understand the despair hidden in her words.
Then she broke into that soft, adorable smile that made it impossible to blame her, her tone as light as if she were talking about today’s weather:
“There’s a lot to do, sure, but Magical Girls need to rest too, you know. If you keep pushing yourself too hard and putting too much pressure on yourself, even an S-Rank can’t handle it. And besides…”
She suddenly put down the fruit knife, leaned forward slightly, and looked seriously into Forget-Me-Not’s eyes without blinking.
An unusually solemn and earnest expression appeared on her face, and every word she spoke was clear and gentle, striking directly into Forget-Me-Not’s heart.
“A tool? A time bomb? Why… would you say that about yourself?
Little Forget-Me-Not, we have never seen you as a tool. Never.”
Forget-Me-Not let out a cold laugh, tinged with exhaustion.
She slowly lowered her eyelids, her long lashes hiding the emotions in her eyes, her voice so soft it almost dissipated into the air.
“Is that so? Well… it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“The name Forget-Me-Not has always been seen as exactly that kind of existence in everyone’s eyes.”
“Destined to be sacrificed, destined to self-destruct, destined to be the final trump card…”
“Even Grandpa…”
Her voice trembled slightly, but she forced herself to continue, “In the end, didn’t he still make me… the last hope, the final bomb?”
Lark was suddenly stunned.
She looked at the girl in front of her, completely closed off from the world, and her eyes were instantly filled with pain.
It was as if she understood something, or as if she had been deeply stabbed.
Her voice softened:
“Little Forget-Me-Not, you… have you misunderstood something?”
Slowly, Lark told her a story from the past that she had never known.
Back when she first awakened the Mana of Collapse and inherited the title of “Forget-Me-Not,” the Magical Girl Association immediately took notice.
Because this legacy was too special, too dangerous, the Association had a series of meticulous arrangements in place.
They had even planned out a training and protection plan for her.
And at that time, the person responsible for handling all of this was Lark.
But her grandfather—that old man who had run a dojo his whole life, who was full of pride, who always held his back straight and never bowed his head to anyone—after learning the news, personally came to the Association and found Lark.
That old man, who was always strict, always tough, and never one to show weakness—thud—fell straight to his knees.
His eyes red, he pleaded over and over, his voice hoarse and trembling.
He begged the Magical Girl Association not to treat his granddaughter as a consumable, not to turn her into a weapon designed only to be detonated, and not to take away everything about her that made her an ordinary girl.
He only asked for one thing—
Let her choose freely, let her live in peace, and don’t let her bear the fate of a destined death.
His back, which had always been straight, bent for her.
His character, which had always been strong, softened for her.
And Lark agreed to him.
That was why, over the past few years, she had never forcefully shown up.
She never forced her to train, never forced her to fight, never dragged her into the Association’s arrangements.
She only watched over her from afar, silently, occasionally sneaking over to the dojo to catch a glimpse of her swinging her sword, to witness the daily life she shared with her grandfather.
“He just… isn’t very good at expressing himself.”
Lark’s voice was soft and gentle, filled with pain.
“He knelt down and begged us for you… How could he ever see you as a tool?”
“You are the last hope.”
Her grandfather’s heart-wrenching words from that day echoed in her ears once more.
But this time, the meaning had completely changed.
It wasn’t the hope of her sacrificing herself, exchanging her life, or becoming a bomb.
It was—
You are the hope for Grandpa to live on.
You are the hope for your own life.
Forget-Me-Not froze in her bed, her mind a complete blank.
All the coldness, numbness, and self-loathing she had built up over so many years crumbled in that instant, shattering completely.
So… it wasn’t that.
So she hadn’t been abandoned.
So she wasn’t just something to be used.
So she… had always been cherished and loved with all someone’s might.
“Please… could you step outside for a moment?”
She suddenly raised her hand, pressing it tightly over her face, her fingers turning white from the pressure.
Hot tears flowed uncontrollably from the corners of her eyes, streaming down through the gaps in her fingers and splashing onto the back of her hand, burning hot.
She didn’t want anyone to see her like this—completely breaking down and losing control.
Lark didn’t say another word.
She didn’t ask, didn’t offer comfort.
She just quietly stood up, gently tucked the blanket around her, then silently turned and softly closed the door, leaving all the emotions and the space to her alone.
In the days that followed, Forget-Me-Not’s body slowly recovered.
Her injuries healed, and her spirit gradually lifted.
But she still wasn’t used to being around Lark.
This person who called herself her teacher was just too noisy.
One moment, she’d bring her little cakes.
The next, she’d pick out pretty hairpins for her.
Then she’d come over and pat her head.
After that, she’d chirp away about some little thing she saw on the road that day—soft, clingy, always throwing her into a mess of flustered heartbeats, leaving her at a loss for how to respond.
Until one day.
Lark dug out a pair of glasses with no lenses from somewhere, put them on with a serious face, and tried her best to tone down her usual bounciness.
Standing in front of her with her hands on her hips, she squeezed a kind, gentle smile onto her face, cleared her throat, and called out earnestly:
“Call me Mom!”
Forget-Me-Not: “…”
In all her life, she had rarely been this utterly speechless.
The next second, she watched as that girl, who had just been wearing a “kind and gentle” expression, instantly turned red-faced and frantically pulled a thick book out from under the pillow.
The cover clearly read—
Open Your Heart: Then Become Her Mother
She flipped through the pages in a panic, mumbling under her breath:
“That’s strange… Why isn’t what the book says working? Is my line wrong?”
Forget-Me-Not watched her flustered state and silently, gently sighed to herself.
‘What a… complete and utter fool.’
But then…
When Senior Lark gently patted her head, it felt really nice—warm, making her want to stay and never leave.
When she praised her seriously, her heart felt sweet, and the corners of her mouth would lift on their own.
When she gave her a light kiss on the forehead, her face would instantly turn red to the roots of her ears, and her heart would race so fast it felt like it might explode.
Right now, she was huddled obediently in Lark’s warm, soft embrace, her cheek gently pressed against her clothes, breathing in that faint, reassuring scent.
Forget-Me-Not murmured softly, with a little shyness, a little awkwardness, but overflowing with dependence, serious and gentle:
“Geez… I love Teacher the most.”