[Realm: Álfheimr]
[Location: Heart Kingdom Outskirts]
The forest blurred around him as he moved, his every leap fast, every landing featherlight despite the weight strapped to his body.
Mikoto slipped through the trees as the wind tore at him, violent in its resistance, still, he pressed forward. His eyes were fixed on one thing: the source of the mana blaring like a beacon.
("Hm, I'd rather leave this be… but things always have a way of circling back to bite you in the end.") He rationalized. His sabatons gripped a thick trunk, kicking off again. ("I've been cautious lately. More than before. Can't say it isn't wise… but sometimes I wonder if I'm starting to think like...") His lips curved faintly, though without humor.
He didn't know what awaited him at the source. It could be a mage far beyond his ability, some magic artifact that could shatter the fragile balance of this land, or worse—something he would regret ever laying eyes upon. But something strange gnawed at him.
("It feels like I'm chasing something familiar. Not from before… something like… home.") His brows knitted faintly. The thought was too foreign to belong to him. Then—
He halted mid-step, landing silently upon a broad branch. His gauntlets flexed slightly, weight settling into his frame as his eyes widened.
There it was.
The mana thickened, humming in the air like a current. Below, the forest broke apart into something wholly different. The ground stretched out in lush grass so vibrantly green it was almost painful to the eyes. Flowers bloomed in scattered clusters, soft scents rising faintly, carried on the air. The trees around the clearing stood tall, brimming with life, their leaves full and glossy. And at the heart of it all lay a pristine lake, its surface glittering, liquid light glowing.
But it was wrong. The life, the beauty—it stopped abruptly at the borders of the glade. Beyond those few yalms, the forest remained what it had been: dark, brittle, dead. It was as though two worlds had been stitched together and poorly at that.
Mikoto's gaze narrowed as he leaped off and landed gently on the lushes grass.
("So that's it. Whoever owns this mana let it run free. Instead of containing it, they bled it into the leylines, feeding everything around them. It reshaped this place. It isn't natural, but… it explains the scene before me.")
His voice cut through the silence.
"Why don't you stop hiding and show yourself already?"
The glade didn't stir. The air was heavy with silence. Not even the faintest rustle of a small creature disturbed it. Mikoto stood, waiting, fingers twitching faintly in irritation. He could wait as long as he needed—patience was as much a weapon as Sabre—but something told him he wouldn't have to.
Because then, a voice.
"It's not polite to keep one waiting, see?"
Mikoto turned sharply, eyes locking on the speaker. She was seated at the edge of the lake, as if she had always been there.
A crown-like headpiece, dark metal inlaid with faint blue etchings, rested atop her long raven hair. Her eyes—dull, luminescent blue—were unreadable, empty yet all-consuming, deep enough to make Mikoto feel as though her gaze were peeling him apart thread by thread.
Her garments moved strangely, fabric that looked like cloth one moment, like smoke the next, constantly shifting as though the laws of material didn't apply to her. They clung loosely around her pale skin—skin that looked untouched by the sun, unmarred by anything.
Unreal. That was the only word Mikoto could find. Her beauty wasn't human. It was unsettling precisely because it was flawless.
And that familiarity sparked again, stirring in the pit of his stomach.
("…No. I've never seen her before. But then why—")
"Tis not you," the woman spoke softly, her voice calm yet carrying easily through the glade, "but the blade. Sabre, as you call it."
Mikoto's eyes narrowed, a faint flicker of unease crossing his features. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"I 'created' it, so to speak," the woman replied, tilting her head slightly as though observing his reaction. "Though… as with all things, there is more to it than that."
Mikoto's lips parted, surprise flashing briefly. "…So you're—"
"Nimue," she introduced herself simply, rising gracefully to her feet. Though she stood several paces away, her height was clear, her presence somehow magnified by the emptiness of her expression. Her hands clasped loosely in front of her, and those pale eyes never wavered from his own. "I have been waiting to speak with you for some time, Mikoto Yukio. Though, I admit, I squandered my first chance. I dragged that Ancestor woman to my domain instead."
The name clicked into place with a sharp pang. He recalled the blade's retrieval during the festival. His eyes narrowed further. "…You mean Lyra."
Nimue gave no direct reply, her silence answer enough.
"Whatever." His tone cooled. "So why now? And how are you even here?"
"Why? Because I had questions. As for how… this realm rests closer to my own. Through the blade, I can cross into it far more easily." Her tone was almost casual. "What you see before you is not me in full. Only a portion. An echo, if you wish."
Mikoto's brows drew together faintly. "…So this isn't really you."
Nimue inclined her head in confirmation.
("And she's giving off so much mana… wait. No. That's not her.") His eyes slid from her to the lake, glittering with impossible light. ("…That lake. That's the real source.")
Her voice followed his thought, as if she'd plucked it from his mind. "The lake is useful to me. It holds a fragment of my power, enough to sustain my presence here. It is… convenient." She paused, her head tilting ever so slightly. "But enough about that. You deserve to know why I called you here."
"Then get to the point."
Her lips curved faintly. "I will. What I have for you is simple. A question. I would've called sooner but that Goddess beat me to the punch it would seem."
Mikoto blinked, unimpressed. "You crossed realms… just to ask a question? That's either absurd or incredibly stupid." His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing. "Fine. Fire away."
Nimue's gaze softened in a way that unsettled more than her emptiness had. "I am not all-seeing, Mikoto, despite what I am. Through the blade, I feel the pulse of its wielder—fragments of your emotions. Yours are unlike any I have known. Constantly colliding, fracturing, warring against themselves. And yet…" She took a step closer, the ripples of the lake stilling at her motion. "…you persist."
Her voice carried an edge of curiosity that was sharp.
"Tell me, Mikoto Yukio. Why?"
"Huh? Could you be more vague?" Mikoto's voice was flat, though his eyes sharpened. Nimue's face remained unchanged, her expression that same pale, unreadable visage.
"It is a simple question," she answered, her tone devoid of flourish.
Mikoto gave a humorless laugh and shook his head. "Right. You came all this way just to ask that? A question that doesn't even make sense? 'Why I persist'? What the hell does that even mean?" His words were laced with suspicion, though beneath it sat an irritation, as if she were prying too close to something.
Nimue didn't respond. She turned instead, her steps carrying her toward the lake. The faint glow of the water slightly intensified. She didn't beckon him with words—she didn't need to. Something in the tilt of her head, the silence, was invitation enough.
Mikoto frowned, his instincts whispering not to follow. And yet his feet carried him forward, steps crunching lightly against the grass. Too easy. He hated how natural it felt to obey her silence.
When he reached her side, his voice cut through again. "What now?"
Nimue did not answer. Instead, she extended a pale hand toward the lake's surface. Mikoto followed her gesture, brows furrowing as the water rippled and then… shifted.
The lake became a mirror, then a stage. Images burst to life across its surface, flickering and dissolving as quickly as they appeared, yet every scene imprinted itself onto his mind. It was too fast, impossibly fast—yet somehow, he understood. The lake; it fed him context, whispered the stories into his head without words.
A man wielding Sabre, yet powerless to protect what mattered most. His tears fell as easily as his blade.
A young girl burdened by the blade, childhood stripped away, her laughter replaced with silence and duty.
A woman who took the blade but never raised it in anger—who leaned only on her mind, her knowledge, while the weapon lay heavy at her side.
So many more faces, so many endings. Each different and familiar.
"…These are…" Mikoto murmured, red eyes narrowing, "…the ones who carried Sabre before me. The former wielders. So what?"
Nimue's voice drifted across. "Mortals. All of them." She paused, her head turning slightly toward him. "The blade was crafted for humankind. It was meant to be theirs, and theirs alone." Her gaze lingered on him. "You are… an exception. A singular case."
Mikoto tilted his head. "So you know what I am?"
"I do." Nimue's eyes returned to the water, her tone untroubled. "An Angel of God. And a God of Uhorus." She spoke it without hesitation, as if reciting something ordinary. "A contradiction that should not exist. And yet in you, both natures converge. What you are is an amalgamation. And still—" she inclined her head, "—within you lies humanity. That is why the blade allowed itself to be wielded. That is why you hold it now."
Mikoto's gaze lowered to the mirrored surface, his reflection staring back at him. "…So you know. Then why the little theater?"
"The blade is not mindless." Nimue's hand brushed lightly over the water. "It has absorbed centuries of grief—despair, hatred, sorrow, regrets left unspoken. All poured into it by those who carried it, all staining its edge. It does not think as you do, nor live as you do, but…" she paused, her voice softening faintly, "…it feels. It grew weary of humanity. It lost faith. Yet when you came—" her gaze lifted to him fully, "—it clung to you."
"And?" Mikoto's lips curled faintly. "Like you said, I'm not exactly human."
"Not wholly," Nimue conceded, "but humanity exists within you. That spark is what it saw."
Mikoto exhaled sharply, the sound almost like a laugh but lacking humor. "Humanity. Cute. Unfortunately for you, I used to be an Angel who hated humanity more than anything else. So sorry to disappoint."
"The past does not dictate the present, Mikoto Yukio." Nimue's words fell easily, as if rehearsed, yet her tone was heavy. "But is that how you see yourself? That who you were must bind who you are now?"
Mikoto's gaze hardened, falling back onto his reflection. "…There are some things you don't get to change. Whether I like it or not, I can feel it—piece by piece, I'm slipping back into what I was. That 'past self' you talk about… it's already clawing its way back."
"Do you believe it is preordained, then?" Nimue's question carried neither scorn nor pity, only inquiry. "That your descent is fate? That everything is written already, and you are merely a character acting out a script?" She let the silence stretch for a beat. Then, almost sharply, she dismissed the thought. "Rubbish. Fate is a crutch—an excuse to cling to when one fears the weight of choice. Chains, yes, but chains that only hold those who accept them. Whether you believe in fate or not… do you not think the individual can wrestle their own future into their hands?"
Her voice grew sharper without raising.
"Saying nothing can change is easy. Convenient. But laziness is not truth. So I ask—" she turned her head, those dim blue eyes fixed squarely on him, "—will you not try?" Her gaze drifted toward the horizon, her voice soft again. "The blade chose you. It did not choose lightly. But even so… conviction must be tested. And your test is coming. Soon."
Mikoto frowned, her words settling heavier than he wanted to admit. He rolled her thoughts around in his mind. She wasn't wrong. Saying "things can't change" was easier than believing they could. But wasn't there truth in inevitability too?
His voice slipped out filled with curiosity. "What do you mean, 'test'?"
"Falling, failing, surrendering—" Nimue's gaze lingered on the lake once more. "That is simple. Anyone can break. To press forward after the breaking, to keep moving when loss strips you hollow…" Her words lingered. "…that is the difficult path."
Mikoto parted his lips to push back, to demand more, but then—
His body went rigid, red eyes snapping away from her. His head turned sharply, toward the direction of the village.
A surge. A presence. Ferocious and raw, an unrefined presence tearing through the distance. It wasn't like hers—measured or steady. This was wild, predatory, soaked in something foul and indescribable. It grew by the second, flooding his senses until his gauntleted fists clenched tight.
("That presence… no mistaking it. A Nil. And not Gretel.")
His scowl cut across his features. He turned sharply toward Nimue—
And froze.
The lake was gone. So was she. The verdant clearing had dissolved back into rot and death, trees brittle and gray once more. The silence that had carried her voice was replaced by the stale emptiness of the forest.
He cursed under his breath. "No time for this. Damn it." His hands flexed, mana already spiking. "Teleportation magic it is—"
"Ah. It would seem I have finally found you."
The voice, a different one halted him mid-step.
Mikoto spun on his heel, eyes wide, every instinct screaming.
And there, before him—
"!?"