Capella descended into the room where Elsa waited, her footsteps heavy and deliberate. Each step echoed across the stone floor like the toll of a distant execution bell. The scent of iron hung in the air, mingling with the suffocating silence that swallowed the chamber whole. When she reached the threshold, her shadow spilled across the floor like an omen, announcing her presence even before her voice broke the stillness.
Meili's eyes widened in terror. Her instincts screamed: run, hide, survive. But her body froze, paralyzed by the oppressive aura Capella exuded. She jumped back with a start, seeking refuge behind Elsa's tall frame. Her small hands gripped Elsa's cloak tightly, trembling as she tried to steady herself. Her heart pounded violently in her chest, like a caged bird desperate to escape.
Capella surveyed the room with cold indifference, her gaze settling on the lifeless corpses of the assassins littering the ground. There was no sorrow in her expression, only a grotesque pride. Her lips twisted into a smile that dripped with deranged satisfaction.
"They were your siblings, you know that, right?" she said, her voice laced with honeyed poison. Each syllable oozed with false affection, as if she were reminiscing about fond memories instead of speaking of the dead.
Elsa's face turned to stone. The flicker of broken memories—the dim corridors of childhood, the screams, the silence—tried to claw their way back to the surface, but she buried them deep. Her voice was flat, devoid of warmth:
"I don't care. Anyone who gets in my way dies. That's the rule. And rules don't change."
Capella's grin widened into a monstrous thing, like a mask peeling back to reveal something far worse underneath. Her eyes sparkled with madness, dark and suffocating, corrupting the air like a slow-acting poison.
"Still the same child," she mused, tilting her head. "So proud, so defiant. Always biting the hand that fed you. But perhaps that's what I admire about you, darling. The fire... the ungrateful spark. It makes you interesting. Still, let me ask just one thing—why did you run?"
Elsa had no intention of playing games. Not with her. She remembered too well the trials, the twisted games, the endless bloodshed she had been forced to endure under Capella's rule. Her voice was cold, steady:
"I made a choice. My own. I chose freedom. I was offered something better... and I left."
Those words struck like knives. Capella's smile evaporated. Her eyes widened, lips trembling as her fury began to boil over. Then, without warning, a deafening shriek erupted from her:
"YOU BELONG TO ME! YOU EXIST TO SERVE ME! TO CARRY OUT MY WILL! YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A FAILED CLONE—A TOOL CREATED TO REPLICATE MY POWER!"
The sound shook the walls. Meili flinched violently, eyes filling with tears. She bit down on her trembling lip, willing herself to stay on her feet. Beside her, Elsa's grip on her daggers tightened, knuckles turning pale as steel.
Capella's rant only intensified, her voice fraying into hysteria
"AND YOU, MEILI! YOUR ONLY WORTH IS IN CONTROLLING THOSE PATHETIC MABEASTS AND DYING FOR ME! YOU'RE USELESS OTHERWISE! YOU FILTHY, DEFECTIVE THINGS!"
Then, like a blade sliding back into its sheath, her voice softened. The sudden shift was chilling. Her tone became syrupy again, a mockery of motherly care:
"So... come back now, won't you? I insist. Return to me, and your punishments will be minor. Sweet little corrections. I'll make you obedient again. It'll be just like the old days."
Meili trembled. Her knees nearly buckled under the weight of that false kindness. The warmth in Capella's tone was worse than her rage. But deep inside Meili, something resisted. A stubborn ember of willpower burned on. She wiped away her tears, voice cracking but steady:
"I-I won't go back to you. Never again."
Elsa lowered her head slightly, her bangs casting shadows over her eyes. The memories came unbidden: a life stolen, a girl raised among blades and screams. The nights spent in silence. The cold. The blood. Her fingers flexed around her weapons. The weight of her past pressed on her, but she stood tall against it.
"I'm sorry... Mother. But that place... you... I can't go back."
Capella tilted her head, her expression shifting into something childlike and almost pitiful. She feigned thoughtfulness, tapping a claw against her chin as though genuinely pondering something. Then her eyes narrowed with wicked intrigue.
"Oh? Is it because of your new master? If I remember correctly... wasn't it the Sin Archbishop of envy? That boy... what was his name again? Natsuki Subaru. Hmm... yes, that's right."
A dark light gleamed in her gaze. Her body began to contort, bones cracking and reshaping with grotesque elasticity. Her skin twisted, her frame stretching, her hair blackening like spilled ink. Her voice fell to silence.
Then, standing before them, was not Capella anymore—but a perfect, terrifying replica of Subaru. Eyes as dark as night, posture uncanny, smile eerily familiar.
"Let's see how loyal you really are... now that your precious master is standing before you."
Capella tilted her head ever so slightly, the grotesque corners of her lips curling into a smile that reeked of mockery and decay.
"Well? Have you changed your mind yet? I can mimic dear Subaru's skin... even his scent, his warmth, the tremble in his breath when he's afraid. Would that be enough for you? Suppose I offered to rewrite our little agreement right here and now—what would your answer be?"
Elsa's eyes narrowed. She knew this performance far too well—it was a twisted theater born of Capella's diseased imagination. A mask of affection covering a festering sickness. Deep within, a wave of revulsion rose like bile, but her face betrayed nothing. Her expression was cut from granite.
"No. Fuck off."
Capella exhaled dramatically, as if theatrically disappointed, and her voice took on a syrupy softness. That same false warmth stretched across her features like a cracked porcelain mask.
"Ahh... I had hoped you'd be more reasonable. In that case, children who defy their mommy... must DIE!"
With a sharp motion, her arm contorted. Skin peeled back like decayed bark, cracking to reveal the nightmare beneath—an enormous serpentine mouth embedded in her limb. Its fangs gleamed with venom, dripping acidic trails onto the floor. The tongue darted forward, eager to strike.
But just as it surged toward Elsa—it disintegrated mid-air. Torn apart, slivered into ribbons by an unseen force. Mana screamed through the room in a violent torrent, intercepting and annihilating the monstrous limb. The air crackled with energy.
Elsa didn't hesitate. She hurled herself forward, daggers gleaming like twin stars as they cut through the flickering shadows. Each strike landed with crushing force—not just tearing Capella's flesh but hurling her against the cold stone walls like a ragdoll possessed.
Meili retreated a few steps, her eyes fluttering closed as she whispered to herself, her lips shaping silent incantations. The mabeasts she summoned responded immediately, their forms slinking from the room's corners like shadows come to life, their growls low and electric.
Capella's laughter pierced through the chaos, wild and shrill.
"Oh? Staging a rebellion, are we? Against your own mother? Oh, how adorable..."
Her voice rose into an unhinged screech "COME AT ME THEN! SHOW ME WHAT YOUR HATRED HAS TAUGHT YOU!"
Elsa clenched her jaw. The floor beneath her cracked as she kicked off again, surging forward with the deadly grace of a predator unleashed. Her daggers blurred into arcs of silver. Each blow was a vow reforged, a scream that had been silenced too long. Again and again, she struck, driving Capella back. Her body shattered, exploded, scattered—only to reform with a grotesque hiss of flesh reknitting.
This was no duel. It was a storm. A reckoning. The fury of a woman reclaiming herself.
Capella tried to strike back, but Elsa's momentum was merciless. Her body was torn to pulp, reassembled, and torn again in a never-ending cycle of pain. Bones snapped like twigs. Veins spilled their poison across the tiles. But she could not be killed—not truly. Her regeneration was obscene, as if time itself conspired to keep her alive.
Elsa didn't care. Her arms moved with unwavering rhythm, her soul blazing through every strike. There was no hesitation, no room for despair. Only the rhythm: silence, impact, scream. Silence again. The tempo of rage.
Blood mist filled the air, sticking to Elsa's face. But her eyes stayed locked—unyielding, bright with vengeance. This wasn't just a fight. It was the climax of years lived in a silent prison. The jagged edges of the past being hammered flat, moment by moment, cut by cut.
Meanwhile, Meili was locked in her own battle—not physical, but internal. She fought to suppress the chaos within her mind, the fear clawing at her gut. Sweat ran down her cheeks, mixing with dust and blood. Her voice trembled at first, then steadied.
She summoned more. Six mabeasts now hovered above her, eyes glowing like coals.
"Elsa-nee! Get back! NOW!"
Without looking, Elsa sensed the urgency. One last kick drove Capella back, smashing her into a collapsed pillar. Elsa flipped backward, landing beside Meili just as the beasts attacked.
Massive winged mabeasts—armor-plated and radiant with magical energy—dove onto Capella. Their claws clamped onto her regenerating limbs and carried her skyward. The chamber shook from the force of their lift.
Capella's screams cut through the air like knives, high-pitched and maddening. The sound echoed off the walls, reverberating in the ears like a curse.
But it wasn't over.
Midair, her body began to stitch itself back together faster than before. Her eyes glowed a hellish red. Then, in a violent convulsion, she released a pulse of raw power. It ripped through the beasts carrying her. They shrieked, their bodies torn apart in a gruesome shower of feathers, flesh, and bone.
Yet Capella still lived. Torn, twisted, but not broken. With a final wail, her mutilated body was flung through the open air like a black meteor. She disappeared into the depths of the forest, swallowed by darkness.
For now, she was gone.
But they all knew: this wasn't the end. Only a pause before the nightmare returned.
Elsa and Meili wasted no time taking advantage of the brief pause—they descended swiftly to the lower floor, their movements sharp and purposeful. Their boots struck the stone floor with a heavy rhythm, each step reverberating through the vast hallway. The corridor stretched out before them like a battlefield scarred by chaos. Cracks split the stone walls like veins, some sections had caved inward, revealing the raw bones of the manor's foundation. Rubble lay scattered across the floor, mingling with the bloodied corpses of assassins who had dared to invade. Several of the bodies still bore faintly glowing Minya crystals embedded in their armor or flesh, pulsing weakly like dying stars. Others were charred beyond recognition—evidence of Hikari's merciless Jiwald spell. Scorch marks marred the floor, black rings of carbonized stone encircling where lives had ended in an instant.
From the end of the corridor, Hikari emerged, her small frame nearly swallowed by the dim, flickering light. But there was a gravity to her presence now—a seriousness that exceeded her years. Her eyes glowed faintly with magical awareness, brows drawn in tight focus as she read the fluctuating auras in the air. Her voice cracked with urgency:
"Elsa-nee! There's an army outside! I can feel them—hundreds! Maybe more! But three of them... they're not like the rest. Their presence is suffocating! Each of them commands a legion, and they're all hidden in the forest's depths! One of them is already advancing on the village! If we don't act now, everyone there will be slaughtered!"
Elsa halted abruptly, her shoulders tensing as the weight of those words sank in. Her eyes closed for a heartbeat, a muscle twitching in her jaw as she forced down the swell of fury rising within her. She inhaled through clenched teeth, her voice low and tight:
"Roswaal... where the hell is he? This is his territory. He should've been the first to respond. He might actually be able to turn the tide, if he's not busy hiding."
Beatrice's expression twisted into a scowl, her tiny fists trembling at her sides. Her usually calm tone was pierced by bitter anger:
"That ridiculous clown? Gone. Disappeared like smoke! No message, no explanation. Just vanished—again—when everything starts to fall apart!"
A sharp, echoing thud silenced them momentarily. The sound of heavy, dragging footsteps from below grew louder, closer. Tension coiled tighter in the air—until Emilia emerged from the shadows of the staircase. She was limping, barely upright, her face pale and strained.
"You're here... Good... I'm sorry... I got hurt. Puck... he didn't answer me..."
Her clothing was tattered and soaked with blood, a deep and jagged wound tearing across her abdomen. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, each one labored and shallow. Yet even in her fragile state, her eyes blazed with defiance. She hadn't surrendered. Not yet.
Hikari rushed to her side without hesitation. She dropped to her knees, hands glowing softly as she hovered them over Emilia's wound. Her voice trembled with emotion, but her actions were firm, controlled. A swirling aura of pink and violet light began to coalesce around her hands, shimmering with raw magic.
"Onee-san, stay still. I'll heal you. Just a little longer. You're going to be okay... I won't let you die. Please... hold on."
Elsa's gaze lingered on the girl. In Hikari's eyes, she saw fierce determination. In her hands—though they shook—there was strength, an unrelenting will to protect. It struck Elsa in a quiet, sobering way. She turned to Beatrice, her voice steady:
"Beako-chan. We need to get to the village. Now. That army has to be stopped before it's too late. I think we can do it—just the two of us. Are you with me?"
Beatrice crossed her arms, her mouth twitching into a faint, prideful smile. She turned toward the window, her golden curls swaying slightly as she walked. Her eyes were alight with fire.
"Hmph! Betty could wipe them out alone if she wanted. But I suppose having you along will save time—and someone needs to make sure you don't do anything stupid."
She lifted a hand and, with a flick of her fingers, the window swung open. A gust of wind swept in. Without pause, Beatrice stepped out and drifted gracefully downward, wind magic cushioning her descent. She landed softly, a faint cloud of dust rising around her feet.
Elsa turned once more to the others. Her gaze met Meili and Hikari's, and for a moment, no words were needed. But still, she spoke clearly: "Stay here. If Rem shows up, send her to the village. Her power could change the balance."
A voice rang out suddenly from behind—sharp, cold, unmistakable. Ram.
"Rem's already on her way. She didn't wait. You'd better hurry if you want to catch up."
Elsa paused only long enough to offer a final nod. Hikari and Meili returned it in unison, their expressions solemn, eyes locking with hers. There was trust in that exchange—absolute and wordless.
Without another word, Elsa turned and ran. Her form blurred into the distance, and with each fading footstep, the air pulsed with the rhythm of unwavering purpose. The battle was already underway—and she would not be late.
When Elsa stepped into the forest, it didn't take long for Hikari's warnings to be proven true. The air itself felt heavy, thick with the scent of moss and something fouler beneath—blood, perhaps. Hidden beneath the dense canopy, cloaked in shades of green and brown, an enormous army lay in wait. It was as if they had risen from the soil like ghosts of the forest, silent and still yet brimming with intent. There were hidden sanctuaries nestled in the brush, barely visible unless you knew exactly where to look. Armed assassins crouched in the shadows with crossbows and daggers drawn. Hooded figures bearing the crest of the Witch Cult watched with lifeless eyes, their silence more terrifying than any battle cry.
Elsa's sharp gaze swept across the landscape, taking it all in. She didn't need confirmation. She could feel it in her bones: this wasn't a trap. It was an execution ground.
"Tch... DIE ALL OF YOU!" she screamed, the word erupting from her throat like fire. The trees trembled as her voice echoed through them. And then she moved.
Her daggers were already in hand, flashing like lightning. She sliced through the first wave without hesitation. Human, mabeast, or cultist—it didn't matter. Blood splattered across the foliage, steam rising from freshly drawn wounds. Limbs fell. Screams pierced the silence, only to be silenced by the next slash. Her regeneration kicked in almost instantly, sealing cuts before they could even sting. Her muscles tightened, bones snapped and realigned, skin stitched itself together with unnatural speed.
Yes, it hurt. Every tear of flesh, every bone she shattered and reformed sent pain lancing through her nerves. But Elsa had endured worse. She always endured worse. Pain was irrelevant. Dying was not an option.
Still, the minutes dragged on like hours. Elsa's breaths came heavier. Her vision, so sharp before, began to blur at the edges. Each step required more force of will. Her arms trembled after each strike. Her daggers felt heavier by the second. She was deep behind enemy lines now, too far from the others to expect any backup. Beatrice was still far ahead, her magic lighting up the sky like falling stars. The Great Spirit was holding off dozens, perhaps hundreds, of enemies. But she couldn't help Elsa. Not here.
Elsa was alone. Again.
With a burst of fury, she barreled forward into what looked like a clearing. For a split second, she thought she had carved herself a space to breathe. But her hope was dashed as her boots hit the ground. Dozens more mabeasts lurked in the shadows. Their fangs gleamed. Their growls rose in harmony.
"Seriously? Fucking ridiculous!"
Snarling, she pushed forward, her blades a blur. Each strike landed with precision, cutting down another foe. She danced in death's rhythm, turning and twisting through the battlefield. Her breaths came in sharp gasps. Her veins bulged. Her limbs screamed in protest.
"Hah... hah... there's too many of you... fucking cheating bastards..."
Then, a sudden silence fell. It wasn't natural. It was orchestrated.
The Mabeasts stopped. Each of them stood motionless. Their eyes shifted—not toward Elsa, but toward something behind them. Something—or someone.
A corridor opened among the monsters, perfectly straight, perfectly deliberate. From the far end of that gap, a figure emerged. His steps were measured, almost lazy. But there was elegance to them—a grotesque theatricality.
A short man, long hair flowing, twin daggers in hand. His clothing was foreign, almost too clean for this battlefield. His smile was wide. Too wide.
The Sin Archbishop of Gluttony Lye Batenkaitos.
"Ah ah! Look at this mess! You've made such a disaster of my sweet children. Naughty, naughty~!" His voice was singsong and high-pitched, but his eyes were another story. Behind the playful glimmer was insanity. Pure, unfiltered madness. "But I forgive you. I'll just eat you up instead! You'll be my dinner tonight!"
Elsa pulled her hair back with a bloody hand, nostrils flaring, chest heaving. Her body felt like it would give in at any moment, but her spirit refused.
"Great. First Capella, now you. Another freak with too much time and not enough brain. Who the fuck are you supposed to be?"
Lye came to a halt and placed one hand dramatically over his chest.
"I am the Sin Archbishop of Gluttony! Lye Batenkaitos, at your service! Kekeke! And you? What do I call tonight's main course?" His gaze bore into hers—unnerving, unstable. He wasn't just looking at her. He was measuring her soul.
Elsa squinted, unmoved. "Fuck off You can call me the woman who's going to shove her blades through your rotten skull."
Without ceremony, she flipped him off. Lye's grin faltered for a heartbeat. His Authority required a name. Without it, he couldn't consume her.
"Oi! That's cheating! In a proper duel, both parties exchange names!"
Elsa spat blood to the side. "Go fuck yourself you little shit."
Lye twitched. "Fine. THEN I'LL TAKE IT BY FORCE!"
He lunged. His form blurred, then reappeared mid-strike. Elsa barely parried. His blades moved like illusions, changing direction in midair. Each attack came from an impossible angle. She had fought assassins, monsters, and spirits—but nothing like this.
He was fast. Too fast. His grin widened with every miss, every deflection. She wasn't a fighter to him. She was sport. And he was having fun.
Elsa bled. Her limbs moved on instinct alone. Pain blurred her thoughts, but she kept fighting. She couldn't stop. But eventually, her body betrayed her. Her legs gave way. She fell to her knees, then collapsed onto her side. Her daggers clattered to the ground. Her breath rasped. Her vision dimmed.
Lye stood over her, smiling. Around them, the mabeasts gathered once more. There would be no escape.
And Elsa... was done.
"You know what?" Lye said, flashing his jagged teeth in a grin that seemed to sour the very air around him. His voice was low, sticky with malice, like a child savoring a secret only they understood. "Ever since Capella dragged you off the streets and took you in like some stray, I've wanted to devour you. I've waited patiently—so patiently—for you to ripen. To mature. And now... now you look delicious. I'll start by cutting off your limbs one by one... and once you're nice and broken, I'll go find your sister. I'll carve her name out of her myself. Kekekeke!"
Elsa shut her eyes, her breath shallow but controlled. She could feel the weight of fatigue pressing on her bones, every heartbeat echoing louder than the last. Was this truly her final stand? After everything she had endured, every impossible survival, was this where it would end—on blood-soaked earth beneath a lunatic's smile?
Lye lifted a thin, metallic needle into the moonlight, letting its sharp edge gleam. His smile widened, eyes glittering with that maddening joy. There was something unnervingly innocent in his expression—like a child about to break a toy just to see what was inside. "You wanna know what this is?" he said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. Each word slithered through the night like a curse. "This little thing was made for Capella, actually. A special toxin brewed by the best alchemists in the slums. It shuts down regenerative abilities for just long enough. Long enough to do irreversible damage. A perfect little gift. And now... now it's yours. You're not escaping, . Not from me. Kekekeke..."
Elsa's eyes snapped open, narrowed to slits. Fury danced in their depths, but so did exhaustion—heavy, unrelenting. Her body was ravaged, sliced and torn in too many places to count. Her legs shook as she tried to rise, muscles screaming in protest. The pain was sharp, total. It gripped her ribs, her spine, her very breath.
She had no time to brace.
Several mabeasts struck with brutal precision, lunging from the shadows. One clamped its jaw around her thigh, another latched onto her shoulder, its fangs sinking deep. They didn't roar—they growled low, like machines of flesh and instinct. Their weight drove her down, forced her to the ground. Her blood spilled freely, warm and dark, soaking the soil beneath her. The air smelled of rust and death.
She gritted her teeth, refusing to cry out. But something in her expression flickered. Not fear. Not pain. Doubt. The certainty she had always carried into battle—that unshakable belief she'd win, or at least die fighting with purpose—was slipping. She had always stared death in the eye. But now... it felt like death was done playing fair.
"Is this how it ends?"
Her thoughts churned in desperation, searching for resolve. "No... not like this. Not on my knees. Not without making him bleed."
Then, the world shifted.
The battlefield trembled, not from violence—but from presence.
The sky above them stilled. Even the wind held its breath. Night wrapped the world in its quiet veil—but it was too quiet. Too still. A pulse rippled through the air, felt more than heard, like a breath drawn by something vast.
Then it came. A light split the darkness.
It wasn't sunlight. It couldn't be. The sky remained black, but the glow that poured from the heavens was blinding. Blue and gold, searing and beautiful, pure and terrifying all at once. It didn't just illuminate—it sanctified. The air hummed with power, with something ancient and overwhelming.
The beam descended, crashing into the earth like a divine hammer. It struck the center of the battlefield, just ahead of Elsa, and the impact was cataclysmic. The ground exploded outward, sending a shockwave in every direction. Dust rose like smoke from a fire. The very earth cracked beneath its might—rocks shattered, trees bent, soil ruptured. Shards of stone flew like shrapnel.
Several of the mabeasts were thrown back, whimpering or screeching as they hit the ground. Others simply disintegrated from the impact zone, their bodies torn apart by a force they couldn't comprehend. The beasts that remained hesitated, confused and afraid.
Elsa's eyes widened in disbelief. The pain faded into the background. Something had arrived—something vast, and powerful, and not of this world.
Lye's smile vanished, wiped clean from his face like ink in a storm. He staggered back a step, eyes wide, lips parting in stunned silence. Then came a whisper, sharp and hoarse:
"What the fuck is that?"
Something stirred within the swirling cloud of dust—a ripple in the stillness, a breath where none should be. At first, it was nothing but a shadow among the haze, an indistinct silhouette flickering in and out of view. The air was thick with ash and silence. Then, slowly, a figure stepped forth from the gray mist. It rose, inch by inch, from the cracked earth like a revenant reborn. Shoulders squared, spine straight. There was a strange calm in his movements, a stillness forged in fire and tempered by pain.
His bare feet stepped forward with quiet resolve, pressing against the shattered remains of stone and debris. The broken battlefield beneath him barely seemed to register. Twin daggers hung loosely at his sides, the blades catching what little moonlight filtered through the dust-choked sky. They didn't shine—they shimmered with an ominous luster, like dying stars. Their edges weren't just sharp. They were hungry. Alive. Forged not from steel, but from the void itself.
They were black—not charred, not merely shadowed. But the deep, absolute black of something that devours light. Not dull, but unnervingly vivid. As if the night had whispered secrets into them, and now they longed to act. To feed. It was as though darkness had reached out and placed weapons into his hands—blades born of grief, suffering, and relentless determination.
His hair, dark and damp with sweat, clung stubbornly to his forehead. Dust streaked across his face, painting him like a ghost pulled from the grave. And yet—it was the eyes that truly spoke. Cold, clear, and burning with a quiet intensity. They were not wild. They were focused. Calculated. Behind that gaze was a fury—not a storm unleashed, but one caged, chained, and sharpened.
His breath came in ragged draws, shoulders rising and falling, muscles taut from exhaustion. Every inch of him screamed fatigue. Yet he did not falter. He stood. He endured. Because giving in was not an option.
One step forward.
Then another.
And with each step, the battlefield seemed to notice. The dust around him began to thin, pushed aside by his sheer presence. The groans of the wounded, the distant growls of the mabeasts—all seemed to fade, if only for a heartbeat.
He lifted his head.
First, his eyes locked onto Lye, standing just beyond Elsa. Recognition sparked—but not hesitation. No fear. No doubt. Only purpose.
Then, slowly, those eyes turned to Elsa.
She lay broken, pinned beneath the crushing weight of beasts still gnashing and writhing. Blood pooled beneath her like a dark halo, glinting in the pale light. Yet she too was unyielding, her fingers twitching against the stone, reaching for strength that might already be gone.
And then—he spoke.
His voice was low, raspy from dust and strain, but it cut through the silence like a blade through silk. Soft, yet edged with thunder "Need a hand?"
A pause followed. The world held its breath.
Elsa's head turned slightly, painfully, eyes meeting his. Her expression didn't shift at first. Then—flickers of something unfamiliar danced in those icy eyes. Was it shock? No. It ran deeper. Older. A glimmer of trust, rising like a forgotten ember in the cold.
Blood traced the corner of her lips. Her smile, faint but sharp, curled upward—brutal and familiar.
"Ah... wouldn't mind a little help," she replied, her voice roughened by pain, but unmistakably alive.
The wind changed. The mabeasts snarled, low and tense, hackles raised as if they, too, felt the shift. Lye's brow furrowed. He took a single, uncertain step back.
Because this wasn't the Subaru they knew.
This wasn't the hesitant boy fumbling through fate's cruel designs.
This was something else. This was a man forged in countless deaths, who had clawed his way through oblivion over and over again. A soul tempered in silence, agony, and the weight of every life he couldn't save.
This was Natsuki Subaru—reborn not through mercy, but through fire.
And he had come back to fight.