Dawn slowly rose over the capital of Elaria.
The sky, still veiled in mist, was tinged with a fragile blend of gold and gray, as if the world hesitated between mourning and rebirth.
On the Hill of Remembrance, a light breeze made the tall grass sway and sent shivers through the black cloaks of the gathered heroes.
Their silhouettes, aligned in silence, stood out against the pale morning backdrop.
Before them rose a large white marble stele, polished by the nascent light.
Five names were engraved upon it, deep, clear, eternal:
> Riji Sakamura
Shin Aozora
Hina Terakawa
Ken Arisawa
Amane Seiren
Fresh flowers, gathered at dawn, rested at its base—silver lilies, symbols of courage and redemption in this world.
Their petals quivered gently in the breeze, releasing a light, almost soothing fragrance.
No one spoke.
Only the sound of the wind and the distant song of a solitary bird broke the silence.
Itsuki, the group's representative, stood in the front row, hands clasped before her.
Her face, calm in appearance, betrayed the accumulated fatigue, yet also a new strength—the strength of a survivor.
She bowed her head and murmured a short prayer in the language of this world, a whisper carried away only by the wind.
Behind her, Riota stared at the stele with a lost gaze.
His fingers nervously fiddled with the black ribbon tied around his wrist.
"…I promised you we'd see the sky together, Riji…" he thought, unable to voice the words aloud.
A little further away, two other heroes, Kento and Maya, remained silent, their eyes red but dry.
One tried to make a half-hearted joke:
"Hina would probably scold us for looking so solemn…"
But his voice broke before he could finish.
And among them, slightly behind, Yuki stood still.
Her pink hair, touched by the wind, caught the golden reflections of the rising sun.
Her eyes, moist but resolute, remained fixed on the last name carved in stone.
Amane Seiren.
Her lips trembled slightly.
She wanted to say something, anything—farewell, a promise, a thank you.
But no words came out.
Instead, she slowly closed her eyes.
And in her mind, an image resurfaced:
Amane, in their classroom, with a gentle, shy smile, leaning over her notebook, sunlight gliding over her black hair.
Then the rain pounding against the windows the day everything collapsed.
And finally, her last look before the light of the other world swept them away.
A breath escaped Yuki's lips.
"Yukihara…"—the name only Amane had spoken this way.
She felt her chest tighten, but this time, no tears fell.
Because something had changed within her.
It was no longer just grief—it was a silent promise, a quiet flame, born from loss and memory.
The sun finally crossed the horizon.
Its light touched the stele, making the engraved letters shine with a golden glow.
The heroes raised their heads almost simultaneously, as if guided by the same instinct.
Itsuki drew a breath and declared calmly:
"We will keep moving forward. For them. So that their deaths were not in vain."
A murmur of approval passed through the group.
The birds began to sing louder, and the mist gradually lifted, revealing the city below—alive, radiant, perhaps indifferent, yet beautiful in its fresh light.
Yuki remained last before the stele.
Her fingers brushed the name of Amane.
A faint, almost imperceptible sad smile passed over her lips.
"If you're somewhere out there, I promise… I will become strong. And one day, I will know why."
Then she turned and joined the others, as the morning light covered the entire hill, slowly driving away the shadow of the past.
The morning breeze caressed the heroes' black cloaks as they descended the hill. Their steps stirred the still-fresh dew, and behind them, the white stele stood solitary, bathed in the golden light of sunrise. The flowers they had left at its base swayed gently, carried by the breeze.
Aurelia followed them in silence, her gaze fixed on their backs. Each figure, draped in black, seemed to carry both the weight of the past and the flame of an uncertain future. She kept a respectful distance, allowing each of them the time to grieve, to process this moment between loss and renewal.
The path wound through a small valley, then rose toward the still-distant gates of the capital. The light grew stronger, gradually dissipating the morning mist—as if the world itself was preparing to rise.
As they reached a paved road, a figure approached Aurelia. It was the young priestess from the sanctuary, a girl with a gentle face, wearing a simple white robe cinched with a golden ribbon. She held a small notebook against her chest, her light steps contrasting with the gravity of the moment.
"Lady Aurelia, may I walk with you?" she asked in a calm voice.
Aurelia nodded gently.
"Of course."
They walked side by side, their steps naturally synchronized. Silence accompanied them at first, then the young priestess broke it with a measured hint of enthusiasm:
"This morning, I received a message from the Grand Temple… The ceremony for Apostle Celestia's descent has been scheduled. It will take place in a month and a half at the central sanctuary."
Aurelia lowered her eyes for a moment.
"Celestia…" she repeated softly, as if savoring the weight of the name.
"Yes," the young priestess continued with a timid smile, "she will bless the heroes for the upcoming crusade. Her presence will symbolize the divine promise, the assured victory over the forces of chaos."
Aurelia glanced at her from the corner of her eye.
"A promise… or a disguised trial," she murmured almost to herself.
The priestess hesitated, unsure whether to respond. The wind carried away their voices for a moment, leaving only the rustle of leaves and the distant chime of the city's bells.
Then, softly resuming, the young girl added sincerely:
"By the way… today's attire was magnificent, Lady Aurelia. Everyone thought it perfectly suited the occasion."
Her gaze softened. "In every fold of the fabric, one could feel your respect for them… and your silent prayer."
Aurelia remained silent for a moment, then a faint smile crossed her face.
"I merely sewed what I felt. This black… is not mourning, but memory."
The priestess nodded, eyes shining with emotion.
"Then your prayers will reach them, I am sure of it."
Their conversation ended there, in a silence both gentle and solemn. Before them, the heroes slowly moved away, their silhouettes framed by the growing light. The capital, still veiled in a thin mist, seemed to await them, like a stage ready for the next act of their destiny.
And as Aurelia raised her eyes toward the sunlit ramparts, a cold, clear thought crossed her mind:
> "The countdown has begun. Let the world prepare—for blessing is often just another form of judgment."
The palace corridors were silent, punctuated only by the rustle of robes and the clatter of boots on polished marble. Itsuki walked with measured steps, her hands gripping the hilt of her weapon, her eyes fixed on the path ahead.
Suddenly, a mocking laugh rang out behind her.
"Well, look who it is… the little dungeon hero, the one who couldn't even handle that dragon," called one of the boys from the second group, shoulders puffed, a smug smile on his face.
Itsuki stopped, her eyes narrowing slightly. Three other boys stepped forward behind him, laughing and whispering among themselves, each adopting exaggerated postures to accentuate their arrogance.
"See? Even heroes can't do everything. She couldn't do a thing against the beast… lucky none of us died, huh!" another jeered, tapping his sword against his shoulder with a mocking, sharp sound.
Itsuki drew a slow breath, letting tension rise in her shoulders, but her face remained cold, impassive. Her fingers tightened on her weapon. Then, in a fluid motion, she pointed it directly at the boy who had spoken first, her gaze piercing like ice.
"If you speak another word, you will regret not staying silent," she said calmly, but with an authority that allowed no reply.
The boys exchanged glances, surprised by Itsuki's determination and cold composure. Their arrogance wavered for a moment, replaced by palpable unease.
"…What? You dare…" the first began, but his voice faltered, stifled by the intensity of Itsuki's gaze.
She stepped forward, blade poised with precision, her measured voice resonating through the corridor:
"I am not someone you can intimidate. Stay away from me, or you will see what it means to be serious."
A heavy silence fell. The boys, still bristling and red with wounded pride, slowly stepped back, their laughter forced and grating.
"Fine, fine… we're leaving…" mumbled the first, grumbling, followed by his companions.
Itsuki finally lowered her weapon, letting it rest at her side, and watched their figures retreat. Her breathing lengthened, steadying. She knew such provocations would return, but for now, the corridor regained its calm.
The sound of their footsteps fading over the polished marble echoed in her mind, reminding her that the true battle was not always in dungeons or against monsters… sometimes it was fought in silence, in the will not to be crushed by those who considered themselves superior.
Itsuki resumed her march, confident steps, eyes fixed on the horizon of the palace, where the destiny of their group continued to unfold.
The corridor regained its calm after Itsuki's departure.
The echoes of the boys from the second group gradually faded, leaving only a muted silence, broken occasionally by the rustle of the palace servants' robes.
Then, without warning, a soft pop rang in the air, like the sound of a small firework.
In the center of the corridor, a man appeared suddenly, striking a theatrical pose.
He wore a comical mask with exaggeratedly joyful, almost grotesque features, and a perfectly tailored dark suit, complete with an oversized bow tie and immaculate white gloves. His arrival was impossible, his movements too precise to be natural. He bowed deeply, one arm raised as if greeting an invisible crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen, applause!" he shouted in a booming voice, cutting through the corridor like an actor on stage.
The mask reflected the torchlight slightly, giving his eyes a frozen but terribly expressive look.
"Oh, how dramatic it is here! Heroes walking like tightrope walkers on a line of mourning… and this heavy atmosphere! What a joy!"
He spun around, as if admiring the empty corridor.
"And here I thought this palace held only schemes and seriousness… what a mistake!"
Suddenly, he raised his arm toward the ceiling in a theatrical gesture:
"But really, who could resist my irresistible charisma and my talent for appearances?"
A slight breeze seemed to brush the marble beneath his feet as he stepped forward. His mask did not move, yet his posture conveyed every emotion: impatience, curiosity, amusement.
"And now… hmm…" he said, tapping his gloved chin, "I have the feeling that a certain young lady of impeccable courage has just left these halls."
He gave an exaggerated wink, invisible behind his mask, and continued forward, hopping lightly:
"What a shame… I wanted to chat! But don't worry, I'll find my moment. Always the perfect moment for a triumphant entrance!"
Then, spinning on himself with a grotesque bow, he seemed to vanish suddenly, leaving behind a faint scent of vanilla and gunpowder. The corridor fell silent again, yet the trace of his presence lingered, almost like a comical vibration in the heavy air of the palace.
The corridor had barely returned to stillness when, with an almost imperceptible movement, a shadow slid along a statuette in a wall recess.
Then, like a silver breeze, Katarina emerged. Her dark but elegant maid's dress floated lightly around her, and her silver hair caught the torchlight, giving the impression that it glowed.
She stopped in the center of the corridor, her gaze fixed on the mysterious man who had disappeared moments ago.
Her hands rose slowly, palms open, as if shaping something in the air.
"You thought you could remain invisible… but not in front of me," she murmured, her voice calm yet cutting.
Around her, the shadows of the walls and statues began to twist and stretch, as if obeying her will.
In an instant, they materialized into black spikes floating in the air—sharp, menacing, vibrating with palpable energy. They swirled gently around her, each ready to pierce or seize at Katarina's command.
The mysterious man, who had believed himself protected by his invisibility, felt a pressure in the air.
"Huh… what—!?" he shouted, his voice losing all its theatrical flair.
One of the spikes detached from the mass of shadows and shot straight toward him, stopping mere centimeters from his chest. The air vibrated around the invisible contact, and for the first time since his appearance, he realized that his power of invisibility was not enough.
"Incredible…" he murmured, raising his hands with a mixture of surprise and feigned comedy.
"But, but how—!"
Katarina tilted her head slightly, her silver eyes piercing through the comical mask he wore.
"I have always been patient… but I never let anyone go unnoticed in front of me."
She made a subtle gesture with her hand, and the shadow spikes danced around him, immobilizing him without actually touching him—a silent but terrifyingly clear demonstration of her power.
The man, flamboyant and confident just moments ago, stepped back, his mask barely concealing his astonishment:
"Oh… oh, but you're playing with me…?"
"No. I merely control the shadows. And they never lie," Katarina replied, impassive.
In the silent corridor, only the slight rustling of the suspended shadows and the strange man's held breath could be heard. Katarina remained there, calm and focused, the shadow spikes still ready to strike, while he, for the first time, realized he was no longer invisible to her.