"Ha… hahahaha!"
Kiara broke into laughter at Avia's words, laughter so unrestrained it bordered on madness.
"Even if you stop the descent of the alien god—what of it?"
The Savior stretched out her hand toward the man. Her fingers slowly curled shut, her smile twisting with devilish delight.
"Even if you force me to remain here for all eternity—what of it?"
"What of it! What of it all!"
With a sweep of her arm, she seized Avia and slammed him into the ground.
The pain of torn flesh was nothing compared to the torment gnawing at his spirit. Bereft of Norse authority, stripped of Typhon's protection, that searing agony once branded into his very psyche rose again to scourge him—like hammer blows of frozen iron striking endlessly, shaking his consciousness, blackening his vision.
And yet, through the haze of pain, Avia heard a sound.
What began as prayers had turned into voices—summoning, calling, chronicling sin in detail. But he rejected them without hesitation. He forced himself to stand.
"You will remain here forever as well. A soul steeped in sin such as yours must be judged before Revelation arrives. And so—your eyes, nose, ears, your viscera, your very bones—soon they will all be torn from you.
But even then, I can promise this much. You will not be allowed to die. I will replace the blood in your veins with the deadliest venom, transmute your body into an endless vessel of suffering. I will bind your soul as though reforging bone, wrenching out your essence drop by drop, endlessly siphoning it to repay the sin of obstructing Revelation."
Her eyes softened with tenderness. Yet her expression was one of chilling, intimate cruelty—like a farmer gazing with love upon livestock, her gaze alight with joy, expectation, devotion.
"Until that day comes—until the endlessly long, unfathomably distant day when the love of salvation is complete, and before Eden descends—you will melt away in joy. And when you die, even the ashes of your soul will dissolve into the sinful dust of the world.
And as for me—until that day arrives, I will not allow a single part of you to go to waste."
Smiling, the Savior raised her hand and thrust forward. Terrifying force erupted. Amid the flood of ether cannons and the phantasmal shadows of the moon, only one man stood before her.
"And finally… look at yourself. What can you do now?"
The moon descended, shrouded in violet radiance, jagged and scorching with substance. Alongside it, torrents of mana cannons burst forth, their attacks weaving together into an inescapable net. Avia was ensnared.
"…So in the end, it cannot be done."
Avia gripped tightly the primordial holy sword—once brilliant, now dim—fused with the cursed blade True World.
He was already a Dead Apostle. A being that denied human history. To humanity, he was nothing but evil itself. The planet could never again allow the greatest of its phantasms to shine through his hands. The supreme honor, the path of radiance—it was lost.
Though he stood amidst a boundless world of light, in truth he lingered upon a narrow, perilous ledge of darkness. Alone. Unflinching.
With each second, he slipped closer to death.
With each second, he drifted further from life.
Yet even so, he did not waver. He stood tall.
Because—
What mattered was not a mighty phantasm. Nor the recognition of the planet. Nor even the acknowledgment of humanity.
Avia's awareness blurred, as though wrapped in gauzy veils. Nightmarish unreality stretched, repeated, endless. He could no longer count the days and nights—time itself had ceased to matter.
What sustained him was no lofty ideal of heroism. It was simply the resolve to keep moving until he could move no more.
To dodge the Moon of Death with the barest movements.
To forbid himself despair even as his mind frayed.
To endure the breaking of his Dead Apostle's body in the endless dark, even as his heart fell silent.
He heard bones shatter, flesh rupture, nerves torn apart with grating screeches.
Beneath the fading dream of the stars, the end drew near. The sacred violet would inevitably consume the final black. The hour had ripened. An ancient bell was about to ring once more.
The bell would toll over the whitening earth. A new world approached.
So it would be, they said—that the world must reach a new heaven and new earth, radiant with "salvation."
The first bell: hail and fire, erasing all plants.
The second: the seas struck, every creature within slain.
The third: oceans dried, and water was no more.
The fourth: sun and moon turned to darkness, awaiting death eternal.
The fifth: the flood of demons, heralding ruin.
The sixth: the legions of devils, rending all resistance meaningless.
The seventh: the bowls of wrath, and at last the delayed new heaven and new earth would come.
The Savior would surely applaud that ending—a joyous finale, "destined" for humanity.
But Avia remembered.
That day he fell from the heavens, the One God's words to him. A single nod would have resolved everything. But as then, so now—he refused to nod.
Because life held value.
Even if humanity repeated sin.
Even if they were flawed, filthy, unjust.
Their history held meaning.
Even in endless mistakes—if something still could be done, then something could still be saved.
To erase everything under the excuse of sin—that was wrong. Is it not precisely because we long for a world of happiness that we cannot abide endless tragedy?
So, no matter the pain—he would not hesitate.
Even if it meant wounding his own pride.
He spoke, words from the brink of death:
"Kiara. You call yourself the god of your own heart. But to pursue the god of one's heart is dependency. To depend on god is to abandon judgment. If god declares right, then it is good. If god declares wrong, then it is evil. Yet where is your own will in that?
I do not mean a particular god who exists—but the mindset. Whoever you rely on becomes your god. A teacher. A friend. A companion. The people you lean on—they are the 'gods' you speak of. You may borrow their wisdom, seek their counsel.
But judgment must be your own. God is but a signpost, a destination.
For one without light in their heart will be crushed by the darkness called hardship."
Perhaps it was only a reflex of a body already dead. Yet he still said it.
"So—you must be small, to know greatness. Fragile, to respect strength. Mortal, to know eternity. Able to think, to marvel at creation's design. And yet not omniscient, lest all be revealed in an instant.
One day, they will place their frail bodies into metal seeds, fly across desolate and thriving worlds, and perceive what gods cannot. Perhaps that is the very purpose of their existence.
That is true life. To be its witness—"
The Holy Sword of the Stars could only be wielded by one shouldering the planet's sorrow—a blade forged to strike down foes from beyond the world. The strongest of swords, meant only to save.
A Dead Apostle, a denier of mankind, a blight upon order—how could such a creature be acknowledged by the planet, by humanity?
Especially now, when the foe was none other than the "Savior"—the strongest of this age.
For Avia, simply to exist was to be rejected by the planet, condemned by humanity.
In other words, a Dead Apostle could never truly protect mankind. Humanity could never truly trust one. It was impossible.
Only in the truth of glory and mission could the Holy Sword shine once more.
He smiled, closed his eyes, and exhaled his final breath.
"Not god. Only man."
His strength was long since spent. His battle ended. His fate sealed.
What image was carved into the eyes of those who remained?
Was it the cruel end—lives erased, fates defined as meaningless, dust to dust, ashes to ashes, dreams dissolved into nothing?
No.
Time turns seas to fields. Ancient heroes sleep beneath earth.
Trees root deep. Steel's music fades. Blossoming civilizations vanish without trace.
And still—humanity endures.
The covenant of good outlives time, carried onward. The denied future remains.
A future born of a covenant. A future worth protecting.
Flesh may fall, but man will not. Ideals may dim, but hope will not.
He would not vanish. He would not be broken.
No weapon, no ending could erase him.
Though his body lay in ruin, his will endured.
And so—the true battle began.
Unseen by any living eye, a miracle was born.
Countless lights. Countless hands. Supporting the man who could no longer lift the Holy Sword, yet still upheld his vow.
"If night's darkness shrouds the forest, then kindle light to pierce it—that's what you said, isn't it?"
A voice from dragon-slaying days.
"No problem. I'm still waiting for you to come back and drink with me."
A voice from the sea-monster hunt.
Memories. Warmth. Gentle miracles of kindness.
Avia raised his head. Countless voices, like points of starlight, shimmered before his eyes, illuminating the long and lonely road.
When he looked upward, he saw the clouds parting, the stars shining beneath the moon, the sea clearing of its blood-red stain, and a gentle breeze stirring.
At the end of his darkness, the outline of the world appeared.
More voices rose. More prayers. More thanks. More calls.
Souls gathered once more, merging, guiding. Countless lights streamed past his eyes.
The darkness was filled with endless light.
The lonely road was crowded with falling stars.
Souls smiled in passing, gave him their names, then returned to the starry sea.
Name after name, lifting him up, guiding him back from the void.
When he raised his head, a torrent of light-rain fell into his empty hands. Each drop carried a smile.
He looked upon the downpour, smiling back. "Thanks."
And the voices came.
"This is the battle of mankind." — Recognition: The Twelve Apostles of the Church.
"This is one who bears the Dead Apostle's name." — Recognition: Arcueid Brunestud.
"This is one who saved the planet." — Recognition: Attila.
"This is one acknowledged by the planet." — Recognition: The First Wielder of the Holy Sword.
"This is one who inherited the will." — Recognition: Jesus.
And at last, the covenant itself—shining stars of every hue—flooded the abyss, drowning out the Savior's solitary radiance, becoming a true, multifaceted, dazzling new world.
Prayers became summons. Voices became one wish:
"This is… Novia."
The strongest of phantasms, forged from the sorrow of the planet, decided by every soul upon it.
Could a Dead Apostle wield the Holy Sword of the Stars? The planet itself now answered. Humanity itself answered.
And so—thirteen thousand years later—the First Holy Sword and the final cursed blade True World fused, joined by the anchors of storm and the wishes of every soul—
O sorrow, bind once more.
Beneath the tears of light and the strings of the night.
Countless radiances fell, silent, scattering, fading, yet always another star crossed the sky. The true end never came.
And upon the sword that joined first and last, brilliance beyond all ages erupted—light never before seen, never to be seen again.
Time had not ended.
The sun would rise again.
Moments later, the Savior's cry echoed—anguish, despair, a weeping not of a goddess but of a girl.
…And then, it was over.
No reason.
Only inevitability.
"Eltruchel… I broke my promise. I must leave now."
"…Hah. I know. Get out. The farther the better. If I see your face again, I'll eat you alive."
The Princess of the Night's voice was hoarse. At some point, tears stained her cheeks.
"…Sorry."
"It's fine. Because, until now…"
Until now. And forever.
"Loving you has never brought me misfortune."
Even if I don't realize I'm crying—
I'll love you, silently, until the end of my life.
…
She wished it could end without pain. Without death. That no one need be hurt.
For the guilt of lives lost to her, for her own yearning for death—Attila had once been born to destroy. Yet after meeting him, she had learned she existed.
She was no longer Sephalu. She was Attila, with humanity.
"…Don't."
His fading blue eyes pleaded. Don't go.
The colossus nodded, abandoning her will to break free.
"Thank you, Attila…"
He smiled—the same gentle smile as the day they first met.
"Perhaps it's chance. Perhaps inevitability. But my death—it's only natural."
Attila understood. His flame of life was going out. Here, his story ended.
Her hands trembled as she held him, holding back tears. She dared not blink—lest he vanish.
She forced a smile, clumsy but all she could manage.
"Attila. Listen. In the years to come, someone else will understand you. That makes me glad. But it means you'll wait alone for many years. That pains me. After I die, you'll be so lonely.
If only I could ease that loneliness now. If only I had left you the Valkyries' authority. You could see your sisters, speak with them. You would not be alone."
"Avia…"
"No matter what—promise me you'll go on."
Silence. Avia looked around. A blank whiteness. His soul was fading.
"Don't cry. Even if I wipe away your tears, I cannot stop them."
In his fading consciousness, he saw her smile.
"…I'll wait for you. Always."
His blue eyes softened, smiling back. She held what was no longer there. Tears fell freely, yet her face bore a gentle smile.
Words she never thought she'd say—at last spoken.
"Avia… I love you."
---
Two kings of the Huns, who once swept across Europe in the 5th century—at the very end, their true words were never recorded in history, art, or song.
Yet upon the moon, in a prison of eternal solitude, their final voices intertwined.
The man's name was Avia.
The giant's name was Attila.
…
Dawn broke.
In the molten heart of a volcano, Typhon stirred. She thought she saw a man wave farewell and vanish.
"Avia…"
At the bottom of the volcano, the girl curled in on herself, sobbing.
She had only wanted to stay together. That was enough.
And yet—like the day she first gained freedom—she was now truly free.
…
Years passed.
On Scandinavia's isle, the red dragon returned. The aged Beowulf stood alone. His men had fled. Could he resist dragonfire? Could he strike the weak point?
Time slowed. Questions mounted.
Why did he fight? Why did he still wish to fight?
He remembered. The promise of kingship. The memory of farewell. The happiness of his island since that day with Avia and Siegfried.
"I'm king. If I die, I'll drag you with me!"
His will reignited.
At that moment, another aged warrior stood at his side.
"You made it, Siegfried."
The two old comrades slew the dragon together.
"Tell me, Siegfried—can you outdrink me now?"
"…I doubt it. I never was a drinker."
"Then bare fists, like we promised."
Beowulf laughed aloud.
"Next time… the three of us must drink again."
…
There are meetings. And there are partings.
At last, the Nightmare returned Excalibur to Avalon. Upon the sword bloomed a single flower—an imaginary flower of memory.
The waves whispered.
She wondered: was she human, or nightmare, or both?
It mattered little. For what remained was warmth, comfort, fulfillment.
And she knew—so long as she closed her eyes, she could return to it.
Both good endings and bad beginnings. Ever repeating.
May the world he left behind resound with waves. May new life bloom, bright and vivid.
"Fou!"
"…Oh? You've come out wandering because your master sleeps? Then follow me, little one."
Things seemed unchanged. But they weren't.
"…You say you'll become the ideal king?"
Hearing the golden-haired girl's resolve, she smiled faintly, and answered—
"Since that is the case, why not try walking the path of the King of the Wild Hunt?"
And after that—
after countless years, countless eternities—
Having parted from the choice that once made her the Knight King of the Holy Sword, rejecting that path and existing instead as a human, then later becoming the Storm-King's Maiden… the white-haired girl who returned to Avalon heard the call of another young girl:
"Merlin, can this really let my voice reach that great Magus…?"
"Of course."
"Ehh?! Really, truly, Lady Merlin!? But… there's no one before me!"
"That's only natural. I don't know why, but right now, I am speaking directly to your heart."
"To think I could receive the blessing of the Grand Magus! I'm so moved I could cry!"
"Mhmhm… naturally. After all, my fame is unrivaled across the Inner Sea of the Stars! Now then—what's your name?"
"I am one of Charlemagne's Twelve Paladins: the White-Plumed Knight, Bradamante!"
At the sound of Charlemagne, the white-haired girl suddenly recalled that long-ago conversation amidst the Alps.
And she understood.
That story—
that was why all of this happened.
The reason within it…
What kind of radiance was it meant to reveal?
"…So this is the gift you left me."
The girl whispered softly.
"Ehh? But we've only just met! Still… if Lady Merlin is willing to give me a gift, I'll gladly accept without hesitation! …Eh? Lady Merlin? Can you still hear me?"
When the link with Bradamante was cut, beneath the invitation of a thousand scattered stars, she walked to the water's edge.
Bathed in warmth, she narrowed her eyes. Her vision blurred.
And there—she saw the light. The blue radiance of the stars.
Why did it feel this way? Was it because the light and the colors had never changed?
Tears, which she thought had long since run dry, flowed endlessly. They refused to stop. They poured forth as though her entire being were dissolving into them—yet still, they would not cease.
Scooping up the starlit water in her hands, she watched as it gleamed for but a heartbeat, only to fall away like tears.
She lifted her gaze to the boundless sky. As though cradling something precious, she kept scooping the water again and again.
After the silence, the words she wished to say never quite became a voice.
No answer came.
He was no longer here. She knew that.
Yet still, she could not stop herself.
"…So beautiful. This… this truly is beautiful."
She spoke the words, hiding her fleeting hesitation within her heart.
And then, across countless ages, only to say—
"You still owe me a promise unfulfilled."
---
Avia (Rider)
Name: Avia
Class: Rider
Alignment: Neutral · Good
Strength: A
Endurance: A+
Agility: A
Mana: A+
Luck: D
Noble Phantasm: A+++
Class Skills
• Magic Resistance · Ashen Pyroclastic Armor (EX):
Wields the armor forged from the incarnation of the Primordial Dragon Typhon. Nullifies all structures and concepts of magecraft before him.
The armor is the reversed concept of Mount Etna, which sealed Typhon. To shatter this shell would require striking with power equal to destroying the 1,200 km² volcanic massif itself—essentially, a conceptual defense wrought by the Storm given form, once feared by the Olympian gods.
Molten-red veins run across its surface like living magma. When they glow brightly, it signifies Typhon's grumbling; intruding upon him then would surely rouse his wrath.
• Riding (—):
Though Rider-class Servants normally command mounts, Avia requires none. By invoking Typhon's True Name, the armor may revert into Typhon's full colossal form—the volcano incarnate.
More than a Rider in the traditional sense, this figure embodies the Rider archetype as conceived in the Far East: a being who becomes the mount.
Character Overview
The Hunnic King of the 5th century, ruler of an empire stretching from West Asia through Russia, Eastern Europe, and Gaul—a man acknowledged in both history and magecraft as the "King of Kings."
As Rider, his might derives from the dual concepts of the King of the Wild Hunt and the Storm-King. Countless figures across myth and history have borne that title: Odin, Freyja, Frigg, Wotan of Germany, Nuada of the Silver Arm in Ireland, Gwyn of Wales, even Britain's Knight-King.
But Avia stands as the most renowned, the archetype from which all others are but pale reflections.
Personal Skills
• Trial of the Wild Hunt (EX):
His will is an eternal land, a deathless world. Constructs a Reality Marble where no soul may flee his hunt. Can invade countless minds within its bounds, eroding and assimilating their spirits.
At its highest level, manifests a perpetual midsummer world spanning 1,200 km².
• Enemy of Peace (A+):
Embodiment of calamity that opposes the very concept of life's continuance. His arrival heralds war, plague, and death. Legends say one-quarter of humanity perishes wherever the Wild Hunt rides.
• Wind of the Steppes (B):
Commands the chilling winds that scour battlefields soaked in blood, dominion over the realm of death.
• Mount Etna (Sealed): EX → O Stars, To the Path of Heaven (—):
The eternal flame-born mountain that sealed Typhon. A curse—yet, when dawn arrived, it became a blessing.
Noble Phantasms
• Thou Art the Storm that Sunders the Cosmos
Rank: EX · Type: Anti-Divine
"The Wild Hunt encircles mankind, all things are swept into its vortex. War devours blood, drowns the innocent. Hope lost, frenzy unleashed. To staunch blood with blood, to feed endless desire—thus sings the Hunt."
Originally a crimson-black thunder forged from Typhon's stolen schematics of Zeus's thunderbolts. Now, perfected by uniting with the "Storm-King" concept and the Storm-Maiden's form, its power surpasses its original limits: a weapon with both machine and pilot, calamity and will.
• Thou, Ascend unto the Heavens
Rank: — · Type: Anti-Typhon
Born as the concept of god-slaying itself, she was loathed, sealed within Etna, left to die. Cursed with hatred, her body rotted into a calamity that devours worlds.
Yet, within the endless flames, she encountered something greater than vengeance—
A meeting that transformed curse into blessing.
---
Avia (Saber)
Name: Avia
Class: Saber
Alignment: Lawful · Good
Strength: B
Endurance: B
Agility: B
Mana: B
Luck: B
Noble Phantasm: B
Personal Skills
• Magic Resistance · Planetary (EX):
Wields the collective recognition of humanity's souls, granting absolute supremacy over divine and demonic interference.
• Germanic-Norse Authority (EX):
Blessed with the authority of the Norse gods, a paradoxical existence embodying the primeval giant Ymir and the cow Audumla—an impossible birth, yet one that stands as proof of humanity's choice.
• Independent Action (EX):
Requires no Master's mana. The branches of Yggdrasil itself supply him with inexhaustible power through every realm once tied to the Norse cosmology.
Character Overview
The King of the Huns, scourge of empires. Hero and butcher both.
The destroyer of Western Rome, bane of the Eastern Empire, breaker of Gupta India, scourge of the Sassanids. A single man who altered the course of all Eurasia in the 5th century.
He is the "King of Kings."
The judgment that felled gods, heralded as apocalypse by both Church and Clock Tower alike.
Personal Skills
• King of Kings (A+++):
A passive, auto-activated ability rivaling Noble Phantasms. Defines "the Enemies of the Star" and grants super-effective power against them.
Shields him from all interference—physical, parallel-world, even higher-dimensional.
• Star of Oath (A):
His vow: never to vanish, never to fall. His existence itself is immovable will.
• Voice of Heaven Assimilation (EX / —):
By directly affirming an individual, alters their attributes and beliefs without altering their values—true assimilation of spirit and soul. Refused by Avia, who rejects subjugation.
• Lord El-Melloi (E-):
Once appointed head of the Mineralogy Department by the Magus Marshal. Though not of their blood, his prestige elevated House El-Melloi to dominance within the Clock Tower… until Kenneth's tragic death shattered centuries of planning.
• Primordial Dragon · Typhon (EX):
The god-slaying progenitor of Western dragons, son of Gaia and Tartarus, born of vengeance against Zeus. A cosmic machine-beast, yet also the archetypal dragon of legend.
Noble Phantasms
• To Thee, the Eternal Echo of Love
Rank: EX · Type: Anti-Personnel
A Dead Apostle permitted to wield the Holy Sword—a miracle unique in history. His immortality is bound not to curse, but to a vow:
"You cannot die. I drank your blood, you drank mine. Until your last breath, you must live—until you return, safe."
• Dreaming Hope that Calls to Him in Light
Rank: A+ · Type: Anti-Personnel
A flower planted by the Magus of Flowers in Avalon, once thought a simple blessing upon the journey. But over ages, she realized: the blessing was upon him. That flower remains a guiding star.
• The Holy Sword, Distant End of the World
Rank: EX · Type: Anti–Enemy of the Star
The primordial Holy Sword fused with the Cursed Blade True World. A blade embodying the beginning and the end, capable of reviving the Age of Gods, if only for an instant. Supported by anchors of storm and the planet's will, it is the strongest strike—the sword that will shatter all.
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