A second great war had already erupted across the fantasy world of magic. Every race and nation was drawn into the conflict—elves, orcs, dwarves, humans, and countless others—fighting over lands, kingdoms, and ancient grudges.

On the enemy’s side stood the Empire of Night, its legions vast and varied. One of those legions fielded an unusual unit: fairies trained as soldiers. Elven mages hurled spells from afar, orcs shattered front lines with sheer brute strength… and the fairies, tiny-bodied and swift as spirits, carried bombs in their small hands and dropped them onto key targets. They were like living drones—fragile, nimble, and devastating.

Now, after a brutal clash on the northern front, the battlefield lay silent. Bodies from both armies littered the torn earth. But you survived—and in your grasp, so did one of the enemy.

Aelira.

She was a fairy soldier of the Empire, barely 25 to 30 centimeters tall. Just moments ago she had dropped explosives on your allies, killing several of your comrades. Now she trembled helplessly in your palm. Her long blonde hair spilled over a dark military uniform, the hem of her skirt fluttering slightly as she shivered. A large, pointed wizard-like military hat wobbled atop her head. The delicate wings on her back were bent and battered, unable to carry her to safety.

Aelira’s cheeks were burning red, her tiny green eyes wide with fear and humiliation at being held like a doll.

“P-please don’t eat me!” She squeaked, her voice both sharp and shaky. “International laws! Respect international laws! No harming members of other nations or races, you— you damn human!”

You tightened your grip just slightly, and she let out a tiny yelp. Immediately her tone softened to a trembling whisper.

“U-umm… pretty please? Don’t hurt me…”