Ira

Remnant of Realms

Overview

Hailing from the Nordla mining district, the fiendish lass is the second daughter of the Brayshaw couple. She is one of the survivors of the Nordla mining disaster ten years ago and one of the victims of the Chaos Tide three years ago. She awakened in the year 1750 of the Era of Eternal Flame. Having harbored anger and dissatisfaction for years, she became the Apostle of Sin, embarking on a quest for vengeance.

Chapter One

(1735–Present, Era of Eternal Flame) When Ira Bradshaw was born near the Nordla mines, a crowd of demon miners gathered outside, celebrating the unexpected birth of the Bradshaws' second child, a son. In this world where order held absolute dominance, reproduction was difficult for demons; having a second child was an unexpected blessing. The "unexpected child" was seen as a good omen, an ancient pact between the lower demons and the Lord Deity: "You are still not suited to this pure ordered world. But when the birth of a second or third child becomes common in your race, it will show that you have adapted to this world. By then, your race's decline will end, and a new prosperity will begin." When Ira was born, the demons clasped their hands, waiting and praying, believing that miracles were becoming ordinary. When Ira was four, the Bradshaws returned underground. At first, she wished she were sick like her sister, Serra, so she could stay in the hospital, live on the surface, and read in the sunlight. Rather than growing up underground, hearing her father's nonsensical stories—For example, the one about an unlucky miner he always told. She had to listen to him finish his story, then watch him feign wisdom as he concluded: "If there are too many mines, it's easy to get lost inside...Ira, sometimes years of effort are just spent blindly digging someone else's hole. Instead of getting lost in blind digging, they've always been in someone else's hole. Because they never found their own mine. But no matter what, a person should always be hopeful about their own mine." Then, in the blink of an eye, she would hear that a mine had been disturbed by Apostles or had collapsed. Some of those mines were hers father's responsibility, and that day he had told her to "be hopeful about your own mine," only to nearly be buried by it. It was nothing like the stories he told, where miners only worried about finding good ore—reality was far more complicated. The next day, she heard a mine had found rare ores, and her father hurried there after coughing a few times. "Isn't that dangerous?" Ira asked her mother. Her mother and relatives said mining accidents were seen as natural disasters, beyond anyone's control. Someone has to do the digging. The world needs those minerals to keep on turning. "What if father dies?" She asked again. They answered that it was an honorable thing to work for faith, and even dying in the line of duty was considered a blessing. "I wonder if anyone in this world actually wants us to live..." —Good question. Ira mumbled, said no more, shook her head, and hid behind her sister, who had just left the hospital. Without a doubt, although she was called the "unexpected child," Ira was not an extraordinarily different child. In fact, she had many similarities with her sister, Serra. Both were gentle, enjoyed reading, and trusted their parents and relatives' judgment. So, no matter how many questions she asked, in the end, they were just sparse, ordinary complaints, nothing that would cause any real problems or stir up strong emotions. It wasn't until she was six years old that Ira believed she would continue living this way. Her life's path seemed as clear as the tracks a mine cart leaves behind.

Chapter Two

"Serra Bradshaw, born in 1731, Era of Eternal Flame, died in December of 1747, Era of Eternal Flame..."Serra threw a stone at the raven perched on her grave. She despised those crows, unwilling to allow either her or her parents' graves to be tainted. Her sister Ira once told her not to throw stones at the crows, as they were harmless animals. "I couldn't care less if they mean harm. My grave, though I hate it, they shouldn't stare at it." She hated the crows, and often fantasized that, once Ira grew strong, she'd bring stones and a sling here and leave with dead crows. But first, Serra Bradshaw had to get used to this situation, to calling herself Ira Bradshaw…Though perhaps she'd never fully get used to it. But at the very least, she had to conceal it well enough to avoid being dragged to the small chapel for an exorcism. Surprisingly, she soon adjusted. It felt as if Ira Bradshaw was her true name all along. This strengthened her resolve—she would never accept this fate. Each day, she reminded herself:Ira Bradshaw is my sister; this body is hers. And she, Serra Bradshaw, was the one who died. The Chaos Tide brought many strange phenomena. During that time, even a soul could enter another's body. She was proof of the rumor—a lucky one who died and returned, yet usurped her sister's body. —Her sister, Ira, didn't think so. She always said: "This isn't usurpation, it's OK; it was all given to you, sister; this is my way of atoning for my mistakes." This made Serra more determined never to accept it as fate. Even after she repeated this over a thousand times, she'd never stop. Her sister seemed to be saddened by it. But now, Ira had become silent and gentle, speaking in soft tones, unable to voice her opposition as sharply as she once did. —Why had her sister changed like this? Serra often wondered. Last year—or perhaps a little earlier, when they still had their own bodies and identities. Back then, Serra was a bookworm, soft-spoken, and read several books every couple of days. Ira, on the other hand, had no interests but was astute, calculating life's gains and losses, loud-mouthed at times.Their uncles and aunts said that Ira looked like the elder sister. And in fact, Ira was the one who managed affairs at home, worrying over every detail. For instance: "Sister, you should be exercising." Ira would constantly urge her. Serra would lazily respond, "Next time." To which Ira would huff, "Tch." When it came to other matters, Serra could be diligent, but exercising was something she never welcomed. "The doctor said, someone like me, with an unstable condition, should avoid strenuous exercise. A small amount of exercise is fine, but too much will be harmful." On this issue, Serra and Ira never agreed. Ira insisted, "Since you'll be going to the mine soon, all alone, you should at least prepare by exercising beforehand." Serra felt that as a sixteen-year-old demon in the mines, her job would be simple. The danger was low, and the labor minimal. Besides, she wouldn't be in the mines for long. The Sanctuary of Truth's regulations allowed miners who had worked for ten years underground to retire. Their family could apply for early retirement, and with her fragile health and a doctor's note, she'd be in the mines for no more than three years before returning home. "I'm still a demon. Even if I'm not fit, I won't die just from spending a couple of years in the mines." "You better hope so," Ira would say. The disagreement, like an unresolved splinter, only deepened. When the time came for Serra to go to the mines, Ira's complaints grew sharper. "Ira, what exactly is your problem? Stop this already." "You should stop this! You don't want to sweat, so you don't want to exercise? Put in some effort, and none of this would happen!""Stop it! Just stop it! No matter how hard I train, I won't grow taller or stronger!" "What? Do you know if your stubbornness has helped or hindered us?" "That tone, is that really how you should speak to your sister?" "Useless liar. How could you be my sister? Just get sick already!" That day, Ira was furious with her, cursing her to fall ill. The next day, she did get sick. Panicking, Ira prayed to Lord Deity, "I was just kidding!" What happened afterward, the memories of her sickness, being sent to the mine's overseer, and starting work there… Serra couldn't recall. Not just that time, but much of her memory was… muddled. The only thing Serra remembered, and would always remember, was working in the mines for a year, falling ill, being sent back home, and then...At the end of December 1747, the Chaos Tide came stronger than ever, exacerbating her condition. She barely managed to say "thank you" to her sister before death. Then, when she opened her eyes again, she had occupied her sister's body. She could still recall the jarring moment. Death had not been the end but a new beginning? And behind this question was the reflection of her sister in the mirror. "Sister! Serra…" The voice of Ira echoed in her mind, followed by the chaotic anger...and the chaotic sorrow. Looking back now, Serra realized—her own personality, Ira's personality, might've changed from that very moment. Serra climbed up the small path. The hill where the Nordla mining disaster victims' cemetery stood, within the Patricia District of Midgard City. She reached the summit, looking out over the gravestones below and the distant white buildings of the Sanctuary, its radiant spires glowing as always. "Lord—" "No praying, Ira," she stopped her sister. But the prayer "Lord…" still echoed from the hill. She couldn't stop the other demon miners from praying, and she too had to join in, lest her solitary nature be exposed. After the prayer, as the miners descended the hillside, Serra and Ira's aunt announced that she and her husband were approved to return to the mines. This had become routine. Life on the surface was comfortable for most miners, spent in homes cooking, eating, and tidying up, with simple tasks like gardening or mowing the lawn, leaving little else to do. Living in such inertia, drifting through purposeless days, they began to feel an aching emptiness. They started to long for their life underground. A restlessness, a sense of things that could not continue, began to ignite within them. As a result, retired demon miners would submit applications to the Sanctuary, pass medical checks, and return to the mines. And when the second decade of retirement came around, they would often apply for a second, third chance to return. So, aside from a few "Hmm"s and "Oh"s, Serra said nothing. Ira, on the other hand, wanted to congratulate the aunt, but Serra stopped her. "This is like suicide… not worth celebrating." She wanted to say that to Ira, but the words stuck in her throat far longer than she expected. It then had turned into another question: "Logically, if Lord Deity came down and saw them—fully dedicated to their work, with almost no leisure—what would She say to them?" The following year passed in absolute monotony. Ira Bradshaw, now the only remaining member of their demon miner family, included in the relief program and without working. Her only task was to live, to bear children in the future. In other words, she had 130 years of idle time. Eating what was placed before her, doing the housework, taking on some voluntary labor outside, returning to read in the tidied garden paths, chatting with her sister—this, for the old Serra, would have been the ideal life. But after only half a year, it felt like she had lived an entire lifetime. The ennui was unbearable. Books lost their charm; no matter how many she read, her questions only multiplied, never answered. She bought a pocket watch—then discovered it in a book. It was an item produced a thousand years later, but its design had hardly changed compared to the one described in the book from the past. Looking back even further, it seemed that every few decades or centuries, the world underwent breathtaking changes. The mining techniques, the architecture, even the fashion had remained almost unchanged over a thousand years. It was strange, and obviously, if technology were improved, demon miners would work more safely underground. But people had come to accept sacrifice as an inevitable cost. It wasn't a mistake or a discrepancy. Occasional sacrifices were entirely reasonable. Everyone had grown accustomed to this. Everyone moved past it, questioning with their eyes, their words, their actions: Why are you still here? The books said the Canon Law strictly restricted everyone's desires, confining them to a peaceful range. This allowed people to carry out their doomed roles in life with a calm, sometimes charming mindset—living their destined patterns and trades. Yet, within that peaceful range—the book mentioned issues like economic scarcity, lack of motivation, and poor acceptance of new technology. It was all so complicated that she only fathomed one thing. When the Sanctuary or anyone else tried to invent something new, if it required extensive infrastructure or impacted other trades, or could even eliminate a trade altogether, then the idea was doomed to fail. People in hereditary trades could only make small inventions among themselves, but these had little long-term value. So, why did the world long ago not have these problems? The book explained that this world had suffered from endless chaos and turmoil due to endless wars. There were no inherited trades then; people had to compete for jobs, leaving little time to rest, as wealth was necessary for protection. Rulers, lords, and merchants always found ways to seize the wealth earned through hard labor, leaving people defenseless against risks. While the book seemed to hold some truth, Serra felt that her questions were only being redirected, not truly answered. Over time, she grew tired, no longer believing that books held the answers. After abandoning reading, she stopped visiting the garden. She spent her days in her room, staring out the window, and conversing with her sister. They would reminisce about their life in the mines. Their father, who'd tell them clumsy stories. Their mother, who'd caress their cheeks before bed. The uncles and aunts who'd visit in droves. Occasional explosions from the mines, and the arguments between them. It was a life that, though imperfect, was simple and genuine—an imperfect mix of discontent and immense comfort that defined what it meant to be alive. Even now, it was the same. Life underground was like being buried in dust, utterly dull and lifeless. But when she narrated it with a calm heart, that dusty life still held the warmth of a mother's hand, a lingering heat. She wanted to return underground, to work there once more. She thought of how she should've stayed there, in the tunnels, surrounded by dust-covered faces, learning and working in the embrace of faith. If it hadn't been for the Seventh Day of the Looming Month in the Era of Eternal Flame, 1741, when a band of vagabonds caused a disaster… If her family hadn't just escaped that senseless chaos, only to be swept into the aftermath of a new hero's overwhelming power… If the ground hadn't cracked open before her, swallowing her parents whole… If her illness hadn't coincided with the Chaos Tide, leading to her untimely death......In the end, it seemed she and the other miners were on the same path. Unable to escape their inborn mission; even when they didn't have to work, they rushed back to the mines; they loved the surface world but had to eventually leave it. But when she looked back, she always wondered: What's wrong with me? Why do I think this way? In the end, Serra Bradshaw could never return to the mine—not just because the Sanctuary forbade it, but because it was where their nightmares began. —The orange-red flames flickered in the dark crevice, as if echoing the voices of their parents from the depths: "Run!" "Serra! Your sister—"So, she couldn't return to the mine, but there was nothing to keep them here either. A week passed. A month passed. After she stopped reading and stopped reminiscing about the mines, she stagnated. Like a fish cast out of its school, like a goose falling from the formation, the last half of the year was spent in a state of suspended living. The sun and moon remained unchanged, and the weather came and went without deviation. It was said the crack that swallowed her parents hadn't changed. A bridge had been built over it, and people still crossed. It was said that an uncle had accidentally inhaled toxic gas and died. Everything in the mine, everything on the surface, hadn't changed. People continued to work, live, rest, and work again—this cycle repeated. After the boring year passed, by 1749, she started going to the small church. Why go to such a place? She knew that if anyone found out, it would not end well. A voice in her mind said so. She simply felt that, compared to spending day after day with nothing to do, it was better to find something to stir her up. And if she could die, giving her body back to her sister—with this, she sat in the shadow of the church...She recalled childhood legends—whispers from miners, noble discussions, and Nova sermons—claiming that before becoming a god, Lillia was the revered saint-queen who controlled mortals' fate. Unfortunately, she knew how the story ended. The world of innocence itself was the end of the story. It placed people's personalities, even their joys and sorrows, under tight control by the rules. Was there a mistake in that? It didn't seem so. That person did save Mirren and created the ideal paradise. But since—bang! The bells of dusk rang. That day, she stayed in the small church until the dusk descended. The reason was... though it wasn't out of interest, she wanted to watch those who were about to die. "Hold on! Don't sleep, open your eyes, Lucio! Quick, open your eyes!" "Gace! Think of your children! Gace!" She walked up beside the priest and saw where Lucio and Gace lay. Their faces were so calm and relaxed, immersed in a sense of peaceful happiness. The priest was shouting, but they slept soundly in their beds, undisturbed. A few minutes later, they were dead. Their final expressions were so serene and joyful, like an afternoon nap in a flower field. It seemed that they were saying: you should leave too, we are just like this. Serra spoke with the priest. First, they talked about how people weren't like this long ago. They wanted to stay alive, no matter how miserable their lives became. They'd drink poison, or eat their own kids, just to live a moment longer. Then, they discussed what the moral standards of those who'd do anything to survive, no matter the cost, might be. The priest seemed to be a member of some unsavory organization. Leaving the small church and returning home, she continued to think. No one should ever have to die, but why did the people of this era have no obsession with life? In a world filled with food, why were there still groups walking toward extinction? If the benevolent Lord Deity was watching everything, how would She feel, as She gazed upon the world, where species were dying out? Would She have any special thoughts about this slow extinction? Would She, as a Divine Spirit, agree with their peaceful deaths? By the end of 1749, Serra still found this strange. The perfect Lord Deity, just laws, the Sanctuary's people-focused governance, and the kind citizens working together to build an ideal society.Why is it so hard to live? The moment she voiced the doubt, a slight tremor ran through her, like an electric shock. She knew. Though she perhaps shouldn't have known, she knew now—she actually did not want to live. The fact that she had to live, but couldn't find a reason to die, made her angry. It was truly shocking. How could such a strong emotion lie hidden in her heart? She hadn't forgotten that chaotic anger and sorrow, which the world told backward. The reason for her change, and Ira's change too, lay in that moment of death and rebirth. The noisier Ira, who spoke in a rough, harsh voice—after experiencing the "miracle," became grateful for this world, repenting, praying. While the once gentle, prayerful Serra, having been resurrected, now harbored anger, for death was happiness, for which, she could only feel anger. To give everything, only to exchange it for this life. How unfortunate her sister was. How pitiful the miners were. And then, Serra made her choice, a wrong and foolish one. In early 1750, under the priest's introduction, Ira (Serra) Bradshaw met a detestable dwarf, whose suspicious wording and the enigmatic organization behind her were all full of danger, but enticing. It wasn't that she hesitated; she had the courage, but somehow, she hadn't taken a single step forward. Her sense of whether she was even alive felt hazy and muddled. On the day she decided to join the organization, her heartbeat surprised her—so honest and light. Of course, those people were all bad. If she listened to them, she had no idea what unfortunate events might follow. Just like they hadn't said, she hadn't realized that she could hate the hero, Kurokami Tsukuyo, who had done such terrible things to her. "So what? Today I took the wrong action, and tomorrow the world won't even remember it. One person dies, and that fact won't even last until tomorrow. So whatever foolish thing I do today doesn't matter. Even if I break my head, even if I become a rebel. "

Chapter Three

Coming Soon

Historical Notes

Coming Soon