(Yuuta's POV)
Everything's fading.
My vision blurs, the edges darkening like spilled ink soaking into old parchment. I can barely see anymore, but I know—she's on a rampage.
Erza… she's completely lost control.
The calm, composed girl I knew is gone, replaced by a force of pure fury.
I try to move, but my body lies paralyzed, pinned by pain and exhaustion. No matter how much I scream at my limbs, they won't respond.
Move… damn it, move!
Stupid body!
But nothing. Just the crushing silence of my own helplessness.
I'm drifting deeper into darkness, and if I don't do something, someone will see the truth—what she really is. I force myself to lift a finger, to scream, to crawl… but it's like sinking into tar.
The more I fight, the deeper I fall. I have to stop her. I have to.
But my thoughts begin to scatter, my consciousness flickering like a dying flame. Then…
nothing.
Just endless, devouring black. So this is how it ends. I couldn't stop her. I died like Coward infront of My daughter.
I gave myself to the dark, and I was ready to vanish—until I felt it.
Warmth.
Gentle, golden warmth, like sunlight after the rain.
It pulled me back. Not pain, not cold—something soft, living. I'm no longer drowning.
I'm standing.
Grass brushes against my legs, green and swaying beneath a clear sky.
I open my eyes with a gasp—no pain, no blood, no wounds. My body is whole, untouched not even a scar. As if nothing ever happened. I glance around, dazed.
Then I see her—Sister Mary. Kneeling in prayer, her hands trembling, lips moving through whispered words.
"Thank God… you're safe now," she breathes, her voice raw. My heart thunders. Was it her? Did she bring me back?
Nearby, Sam lies in the grass, unconscious but unharmed. No blood, no wounds.
Elena clung to my shirt, her little fingers digging into the fabric like she was afraid I'd vanish again.
I placed my hand gently on her head, stroking her hair as I whispered,
"Don't worry, Papa's okay."
She sobbed quietly into my chest.
"I thought I lost you…"
"I know," I said. "I'm here now."
Sister Mary stood beside us, her expression caught between shock and relief. I could feel her eyes trying to make sense of everything.
And then I felt it. The shift in the air. The silent tension.
I turned. Not far away maybe ten, twelve feet—three figures stood in formation.
Each of them wore a full black battle suit, heavy with gear. Masks covered their faces: a phoenix, a lion, and an eagle.
They looked like they'd stepped out of a military sci-fi movie—but their presence was real, and their silence was louder than any siren.
They weren't just watching us.
They were assessing.
The phoenix-mask stepped forward first. Her voice was calm, cold, and practiced.
"Civilian identified. Yuuta Konuari,
correct?
Any injuries to you or the child?"
I hesitated.
"Yes. I mean—no. We're fine."
Before I could ask who they were or what they were doing here, the lion-mask turned abruptly.
"Captain Phoenix," he said sharply. "Visual confirmation. Aerial presence detected, two o'clock, approximately 300 meters altitude."
The woman in the phoenix mask turned her gaze skyward.
I followed.
At first, I saw nothing.
But then—
A flicker. A shimmer of magic above the clouds.
And I knew.
Erza.
[Narrator POV]
Erza soared above the city, the wind tearing past her face. Rage consumed her—so fierce it drowned out reason, smothered grief, and silenced the voice of restraint she had carried for so long.
Below, the broken body of the sniper girl lay scattered across the streets. Erza hadn't spared her. She never spared anyone.
Yet… she had always spared Yuuta from that side of herself.
Never had he seen her hands stained in blood. Never had he heard the screams of the dying at her feet. She had hidden that part of her, locked it deep away, so he would never look at her with fear… never mistake her for the monster she truly was.
But now, that choice had cost him.
It had cost him his life.
The grief hit like ice in her veins. The thought of losing him—of Yuuta, who had never treated her as a weapon, who had never recoiled from her touch—burned her deeper than any wound.
And so, the mask fell away.
She would no longer hide her strength. She would kill, and kill again, until nothing remained of those who dared threaten what was hers.
On a distant skyscraper, a figure stepped into the sunlight. Black tactical gear. A rifle braced against his shoulder. The insignia on his arm marked him clearly—Black Viper.
The barrel flashed.
The round struck Erza square in the forehead… and fell away with a dull clang, dented and useless against her scales.
Her head turned slowly, eyes glowing with frost-fire, locking onto the man.
"You," she growled, her voice rumbling low, cold enough to freeze the marrow in his bones. "You wear their mark."
She stepped onto the rooftop with a soundless flicker, her form vanishing and reappearing in an instant. The man froze, rifle slipping from his trembling hands.
"You hurt my mortal."
Her hand clamped around his skull, fingers digging into his helmet like iron talons. He tried to speak, but only a strangled whimper came out.
"Where is your nest?" she asked, voice calm—too calm. It was not a question but a verdict.
His eyes rolled with panic. He lifted a shaking finger, pointing toward the port.
That was all she needed.
With a twist, bone shattered beneath her grip. His skull collapsed like brittle glass, blood spraying across the rooftop wall.
Erza let the body fall and whispered, "You'll all pay. How dare you touch what's mine."
Blue-white light coiled around her arm. Her blade manifested in her grasp—ice and ancient arcana entwined, runes burning along the steel. The Darno Iceblade. Forgotten by mortals, feared by dragons.
She held it up to the sky. The weapon thrummed like a heartbeat, alive and hungry.
"It's time," she murmured. "Time to spill blood again."
Wings spread wide, she climbed higher into the sky. Clouds tore apart around her, Sun catching the frost on her White dress. From above, the city looked calm, unaware of the storm about to descend.
But she felt them.
Beneath steel and shadow, clustered among crates and shipping containers at the port—men waited. Watching. Armed. Ready.
Good. Let them be ready.
With a roar, she folded her wings and dove.
The descent was like a comet tearing through the night. The air split with a shriek as she plummeted, wings tucked, eyes locked on her prey.
She struck the docks with the force of thunder. Concrete split, cranes shuddered, containers toppled. A shockwave rippled outward, knocking men from their feet before the fight even began.
Dust rose in choking clouds. Through it, Erza's silhouette loomed—wings spread, blade glowing like a shard of frozen lightning.
The Black Viper soldiers faltered. No war cry, no orders barked could steady their hands against what stood before them.
Erza raised the Iceblade. Frost curled from its edge, eager for blood.
The first man rushed her, rifle half-raised.
One swing ended him before his scream left his throat.
The next tried to fire. The barrel iced over before he could pull the trigger. Erza's blade cut through both weapon and flesh.
Then the storm began.
She moved through them like vengeance made flesh, each step carving crimson arcs across the docks. Bullets split the air, but they slowed, bent, shattered against her scales. Too fast. Too furious.
They fell one by one, their cries drowned in the howl of the sea wind and the clash of steel. Blood sprayed across containers, pooled on the concrete, painted the docks in a brutal mosaic.
Minutes passed. Twenty lay dead at her feet. The blood slicked her arms, her dress, the blade humming stronger with each life taken.
But none of it touched her rage.
Because in her mind burned Yuuta's face—helpless, trembling, eyes dim with pain. That image fueled her more than any vengeance, more than any duty as Dragon Queen.
This wasn't war. This was personal.
The ground rumbled. Heavier boots struck the docks. From the shadows emerged the second wave.
Heavily armed. Tactical gear. Formation tight.
Their faces were hard, trained men who knew fear but walked with it. Their rifles gleamed. Their discipline held.
This time, they were ready.
And Erza smiled. A smile colder than any winter.
The true hunt had just begun.
The next wave moved like a single, practiced machine—tactical units in matte black, faces fixed, formation tight. Their rifles were leveled, voices silent but coordinated. They were trained, disciplined, the kind of force meant to snuff outbreaks before they began.
Erza felt them like a change in the wind. She noticed the man in the center first—the leader. Cold recognition slammed into her chest. The same bastard who had ordered the shot that found Yuuta. Rage rose in her, not a flicker but a tide, drowning every other thought.
They peeled out across the docks, melting into cover behind stacked containers, the girder of a crane, an overturned truck. As if steel and rust could shelter them from what moved through. As if shelter made a hunter into a warrior. They were prey today.
She stepped forward. The Darno Iceblade caught Sunlight; runes pulsed like a heartbeat. Frost crawled along the blade's spine and puffed into the air where it cut. Her gaze swept the line of men—each breath they took fogged and trembled under the weight of the thing she carried: a grief that had turned into a weapon.
"You touched what I love," she said. Her voice was low, almost a whisper carried by the sea wind, but it landed like an avalanche. "Now you will drown in its consequences."
Her aura swelled, dark and viscous, curling upward until it obscured the sky. The sky itself seemed to lean in, drawing breath. The air tightened in their chests; every inhale grew heavy and metallic. Fingers twitched on triggers. Eyes widened. Discipline held for a heartbeat—then wavered.
Erza didn't hurry. She walked, patient and remorseless, the red of her dress like a wound against the dock's gray, The dress was supposed to white but the enemy blood make her red. Frost licked the concrete with each step. The men flinched as if struck. Something ancient and inexorable moved with her, something that the language of war had no name for.
This was not an end so much as a beginning—an opening salvo that tasted of salt and iron and old promises. The harbor held its breath.
She smiled then, and it was a smile without warmth: the calm before a storm that would not be satisfied by a handful of deaths.
This was only the beginning.
To be continued…