On the other side of the forest, the battle had raged non-stop for several minutes—though for those fighting, time felt as though it moved much slower.
Rhett gritted his teeth.
His sword was raised high, holding back one of the three blades that floated in the air. The clash of metal screeched sharply, scattering small sparks between them—but what nearly made him lose his balance wasn't the sparks. It was the weight pressing down on his blade.
Heavy.
Not like an ordinary sword. Not like a monster's attack, predictable from the movement of its body.
It was as though the full force came from the very air itself.
"I KNEW IT WAS HEAVY!!!" Rhett growled, both feet digging into the ground to keep from being pushed back.
On the other side, Kael rolled roughly to the side, dodging the second sword that swept low toward his calf. He sprang up swiftly, a new arrow already nocked—but the moment he aimed, the third sword was already hovering before him, ready to strike at any moment.
"DAMN IT! THAT'S CHEATING!" Kael shouted, releasing his arrow without fully aiming.
CLANG—!!
The second sword moved, cutting the arrow mid-air.
Without Shura moving.
Without Shura shifting position.
He simply stood in the same place as he had from the very beginning—an old iron mask with a crack on the right cheek, hollow eye sockets with two glowing red dots, and a body that did not move at all, as if this entire battle required no effort from him whatsoever.
Bram cursed under his breath as he dodged the third sword's slash, which suddenly changed direction mid-air.
"How much longer can we keep this up?!" he shouted.
Darian did not answer.
He simply smiled.
A strange smile—not a smile of victory, not a smile of despair. But the smile of someone witnessing something he had long admired, and now realizing that admiration was not misplaced.
"...so this is... Shura..."
The nearest sword shot toward him at high speed.
Darian raised his blade.
CLAAANG—!!
His body was pushed back several steps, his footprints scraping long grooves into the earth.
Yet his eyes remained bright.
"...amazing..."
In the middle of them, Harlan stood.
His body trembled.
His hands gripped his empty waist pouch tightly—no potions remained.
He was not a fighter.
He knew that.
But he also knew he could not stay still.
"..."
He watched the battle before him. Rhett held his ground against one sword. Kael dodged and kept firing arrows. Bram and Darian tried to flank, but the swords kept spinning like an unrelenting whirlwind.
And Shura—
Shura still stood in the same spot.
"...this is endless..."
Harlan bit his lip.
"...they can't win..."
"...they must already know that..."
But if they stopped—
they would die.
And if they kept fighting—
they would die as well.
Suddenly—
the voice came again.
Like a whisper in his ear, inside his head, between the rapid beats of his heart.
"...use..."
Harlan stiffened.
His eyes widened.
"...the..."
"...bracelet..."
"..." Harlan looked down.
At his wrist.
The old brown leather bracelet—the same one worn by all the people of Eldwyn.
The bracelet they had always believed was merely protection against low-level monsters.
"...the... bracelet...?" he whispered, confused.
The voice did not answer his question.
But it continued speaking.
"...throw..."
"...it..."
"...at... Shura..."
Harlan's breath caught.
Throw it?
The protective bracelet?
At Shura?
"..."
He did not understand.
But the voice kept whispering—quick, fragmented, like someone struggling to deliver a message before time ran out.
"...that... bracelet..."
"...will..."
"...produce..."
"...a..."
"...light..."
"...diversion..."
"..."
"..."
"...flee..."
"...you..."
"...cannot..."
"...defeat..."
"...him..."
"..."
Harlan fell silent.
He stared at the bracelet on his wrist.
Light diversion.
Flee.
Cannot defeat Shura.
"...so..."
"...the only way..."
"...is to escape..."
He lifted his head.
He looked at his comrades, still fighting desperately.
Exhausted.
Muddy.
Bleeding.
Yet not one of them had stopped.
"...alright,"
he whispered softly.
His hand began to move.
Slowly, he removed the protective bracelet from his wrist.
And in his heart, he could only hope—
that the voice was not wrong.
"EVERYONE! COVER YOUR EYES!!!"
Harlan's shout shattered the chaos of battle.
Without waiting for a reaction, without giving anyone time to ask—he hurled the bracelet with all his might toward Shura.
The old brown leather bracelet soared through the air, spinning slowly between the three floating blades.
Shura did not move.
But the nearest sword moved.
SHHK—!!
The blade split the bracelet cleanly in two with perfect precision.
But—
BOOOOMMMM—!!!
Not an explosion.
Not a thunderclap.
But light.
Light so blinding that the entire forest seemed to turn into day in an instant. White. Dazzling. Filling every gap between the trees, piercing through tightly shut eyelids, leaving trails of color behind closed eyes.
"AAAAHHH—!!"
"WHAT—?!"
"DON'T OPEN YOUR EYES!"
Everyone screamed at once, but their voices were swallowed by the hissing radiance that filled the air.
In the middle of that blinding light, Harlan was already moving.
His eyes—which had been scanning the escape route between the trees—were now the only guide in the chaos.
"FOLLOW MY VOICE!" he shouted as loudly as he could.
"RHETT! DARIAN! KAEL! BRAM!"
"THIS WAY!"
His feet pounded against the ground quickly. He did not look back. Did not stop. He simply ran—because he had already read the path before throwing the bracelet, and now it was time to trust the guidance he had received.
Behind him, heavy footsteps followed.
Rhett first.
Then Darian.
Kael and Bram followed behind.
They ran through darkness lit only by the fading pulses of light at the edges of their vision, following Harlan's voice as it continued to call out.
"STRAIGHT! TURN LEFT! PASS THAT TREE TRUNK!"
Harlan ran without stopping.
His lungs burned. His legs felt as if they would detach from their sockets. But he did not stop. Could not stop.
Because at the end of this path—
there was a portal.
And beyond that portal—
there was a village.
"..."
"We..."
"We're almost there..."
And finally—
he saw it.
An old stone archway, almost completely covered in moss and tree roots. On its surface, ancient carvings were still faintly visible among the aging cracks.
A portal.
Eldwyn's old portal.
Harlan did not hesitate.
"GO IN!! NOW!!"
He leaped first.
His body vanished into the shimmering stone surface like still water.
Rhett followed.
Darian.
Kael.
Bram.
One by one, they disappeared into the portal—just as the light from the bracelet slowly faded, leaving the forest dark and silent once more.
Where they had stood before—
Shura still remained.
Motionless.
Not pursuing.
His three swords still hovered around him, but now there were no enemies before him.
Silent.
Shura turned his head.
There was nothing but the now-closed portal.
Crack.
Not long after, the portal crumbled.
Shura tilted his head.
His body, which had appeared to be an ordinary undead puppet—now revealed something unusual.
Thin red threads.
Dangling from various parts of his body.
From his wrists.
From his neck.
From beneath the iron mask.
Those threads stretched far upward—beyond the treetops, beyond the night clouds, toward a place invisible to ordinary eyes.
And at the end of those threads—
a girl sat.
Wavy pink hair fell over her shoulders, moving gently in the night breeze that could not be felt on the ground below. She wore a strange mask—an inverted smile mask. The smile above, the eyes below. An expression impossible to read, impossible to guess.
Her ten fingers moved slowly.
The red threads were connected to her fingertips—like a puppeteer moving her dolls without being seen.
"Tch..."
Her voice was soft.
"How troublesome..."
"So that Driad is still alive..."
Suddenly—
as though something had torn the invisible strings, Shura's body, which had stood so firm and unshakable, tensed. The joints beneath his iron mask creaked, cracked, and then shattered.
"GRRRRRRAAAAAAHHHH—!!!"
The scream came from behind the mask.
Not the scream of a living being.
But a distorted, broken sound—like an old recording played too fast and too loud.
Cracks began to spread.
From the base of the neck.
From between the arms.
From beneath the mask.
Slowly, Shura's body began to crumble.
Like a clay statue drying and cracking under the scorching sun.
Piece by piece.
They began to fall.
And from behind those cracks—
something else began to appear.
Not a sword.
Not a samurai.
Not Shura.
But—
a shriveled body.
Dry, withered brown skin clinging to bones that were barely covered in flesh. Thin gray hair clung to a skull that was nearly shapeless.
And when the iron mask finally fell to the ground with a heavy thud—
an old man's face was revealed.
Naked.
Without weapons.
Without aura.
Without life.
His body fell to the ground like an old sack abandoned in a corner of the forest. His bones made a faint sound upon impact—weak, brittle, like someone who had been dead for decades.
Just a corpse.
Not the corpse of a warrior.
Not the corpse of a legend.
But the body of an old man who had long since passed, forced to become a puppet for something he never understood.
The pink-haired girl let out a long sigh.
"This one wasn't good either..."
She murmured softly, her fingers pulling the last red thread from the old man's body, now lying lifeless on the forest floor.
She gazed into the distance.
On the horizon, black smoke billowed thickly into the night sky. Eldwyn Village—once peaceful and warm—was now nothing but a pile of still-burning ruins.
"But oh well..."
A faint smile formed beneath her inverted mask.
"I was only tasked with holding them back anyway..."
Her eyes, visible beneath the mask, blinked slowly.
"...she must have found what she was looking for by now..."
A small laugh escaped her lips.
"...hehehe..."
And in an instant—
The pink-haired girl vanished.
Leaving no trace.
Leaving no sound.
Only red threads fading slowly in the air, like a dream forgotten at the edge of dawn.
Inside the old Eldwyn church—
An oppressive silence.
The candles had gone out one by one. Only a few remained, flickering dimly in the corners of the room, illuminating a heartbreaking scene.
The girls lay sprawled across the floor.
Unconscious.
Their faces pale.
Their breaths weak, barely noticeable.
Elder Harald lay slumped in a pool of blood near the church entrance.
Yet his body still trembled, his breath still present—though ragged and uneven.
Beside him—
a woman stood.
Pale blonde hair hung over her shoulders, tangled and unkempt. A worn grayish mantle covered her body, torn in several places, stained with dust and dark marks that could not be identified.
In her hand—a sword.
Its blade still fresh with blood.
The same blood that pooled beneath Elder Harald's body.
The woman was about to step forward.
But—
her foot halted.
Something gripped her ankle.
Weak.
Trembling.
Yet persistent.
The woman looked down.
Beneath her, Elder Harald lifted his head with great effort. His blurry eyes tried to focus on the figure before him—but his vision was already too faint.
He could not see the woman's face clearly.
Only a silhouette.
Blonde hair.
A worn mantle.
"..."
Harald opened his mouth.
His voice came out like a whisper barely clinging to life.
"...don't..."
"...go... there..."
His breath caught.
"...why..."
"...only..."
"...now...."
His grip slowly weakened.
His eyelids closed.
And Elder Harald finally lost consciousness.
The pale-haired woman did not respond.
Did not turn.
Did not show the slightest hint of guilt.
She simply continued walking.
Past the unconscious girls.
Past the shattered rubble of the church.
Until she stopped before an old stone wall at the far end of the room.
The wall looked no different from the others.
But the woman raised her sword.
And in one stroke—
SHHHHHK—!!
The stone wall split.
Clean.
Straight.
As if it had never been a barrier.
Behind that wall—
a small room opened.
Small.
Silent.
Containing only an old wooden chest at its center.
The chest was not large.
Not extravagant.
But carved on its surface were ancient symbols—the same as those on the altar of the sacred chamber.
The woman smiled.
She walked closer.
Kneeling before the chest.
And slowly—she opened its lid.
Inside the chest—
a small object glowed faintly in the darkness.
[Fragment of Deux Chronos]
A small piece.
Only a quarter of its original form.
But enough.
Enough to make the woman's smile widen.
"Just a little more..."
Her voice was soft.
Yet full of satisfaction.
"...my wish will be fulfilled..."
Moonlight streaming through the hole in the church ceiling illuminated her face.
A face that closely resembled Lilya's.
But it was not Lilya.
Her eyes—not the bright blue of Lilya's.
But white.
Pale white.
With pupils shaped like a monster's—vertical, narrow, piercing.
And behind that smile—
there was something cold.
Something Lilya had never possessed.
Slowly, the woman turned.
Her eyes caught another figure in the shadows.
"Adelia, was it?"
Her voice was calm.
"Good work."
"I have obtained what I sought."
The pink-haired girl emerged from behind a collapsed pillar.
She stepped lightly, the inverted smile mask still fixed on her face.
She laughed proudly.
"Hehehe... it was my pleasure, Mistress."
She glanced toward the hole in the church ceiling, toward the forest where she had left the old man's corpse.
"Only..."
Her voice soured slightly.
"I'm disappointed."
"I couldn't eliminate all of them."
Her hands clenched.
"Especially because that Driad got in my way."
Her tone grew sharper.
"And Rhett..."
"Rhett... I hate him personally."
The pale-haired woman did not answer.
She only stared at Adelia with an empty gaze.
Then—
she turned.
"It doesn't matter. My goal has been achieved."
The pale-haired woman looked at the small object in her hand.
[Fragment of Deux Chronos]
A small piece.
Only a quarter of the whole.
Then—
she squeezed it.
Her fingers tightened until her knuckles turned white. Yet the object did not break. Did not crack. It only pulsed faintly in her grip, as if adjusting to its new owner.
"We're leaving."
Her voice was flat.
Devoid of emotion.
"There's no point in us staying here."
"Very well, Mistress!" Adelia replied with a cheerfulness that did not match the atmosphere.
The pink-haired girl hopped closer, her inverted smile mask still on her face. Her ten fingers moved slowly, pulling the remaining red threads from the air, coiling them back like a violinist finishing a song.
The pale-haired woman did not look back.
Her gaze was fixed ahead.
Far.
Past the ruined church walls.
Past the dark forest.
Past distances invisible to ordinary eyes.
Toward the sacred chamber.
Where the Goblin Shaman still remained.
Where Cecilia lay.
Where Lilya would soon arrive.
She smiled.
"And it seems the Goblin Shaman will use one of my pets."
"But..."
Her eyes narrowed.
"...now that she has awakened..."
"I doubt he will last long."
Adelia tilted her head.
"She?"
The pale-haired woman did not answer.
Only smiled.
The same smile.
Cold.
Full of certainty.
And in an instant—
they vanished.
Eldwyn Village had become a sea of rubble and suffocating silence. Black smoke still billowed from the remains of burning wooden houses. The night sky, once dark, now glowed red from the embers that had yet to fully die. The air felt thick—a mixture of smoke, dust, and the smell of iron that could not be ignored.
Along the pathways that had once been filled with children's laughter and warm greetings between neighbors, now only bodies lay scattered. Some were still recognizable—faces that had once smiled, faces that had once called Lilya's name with warmth. Yet many could no longer be identified. Charred. Crushed. Buried beneath scattered debris. Their faces had vanished along with their identities.
A mother still held her child, though both were lifeless. A middle-aged man with an axe in his hand lay near the gate—his body pierced by a goblin's spear still embedded in his chest. Several other bodies were scattered around the village well, in front of half-collapsed houses, beneath the ruins of the walls that had once protected them.
No sound of weeping. No sound of footsteps. No life.
Only the night breeze blowing softly, carrying ash and dust, as if nature itself was exhaling its final breath for the small village that had long stood at the edge of the empire's border.
Eldwyn Village was finished.