The ruins smoldered.
The air was thick with the scent of blood and fire. Fragments of massive stones lay scattered across the ground. The roar of battle had faded.
A woman with pale skin and silver hair lay among the rubble, her eyes closed. The dark, gothic-style dress clinging to her body was torn, soaked in blood and soot.
Her body—long weakened by years of illness—no longer responded. Open wounds, severe burns, blood—hers and others'—clung to her skin like a second layer.
And yet, Alfia did not cry.
Not for the pain. Not for the defeat.
Not even when she chose to walk beside Zald to defy the gods and their hypocritical blessings.
She had accepted her death… until now.
Zald had died minutes earlier, smiling at her one last time. The same smile he wore on the day they vowed to destroy Orario together.
Destroy it? No… not exactly.
She remembered her true purpose—the one neither heroes nor gods had ever understood.
It wasn't hatred. It never had been.
They fought because it was necessary.
Orario was weak. Pampered by the gods, lulled into a peace that could never last.
Alfia knew the truth:
The One-Eyed Black Dragon was still out there, lurking beyond time and history.
The final enemy.
And if the city didn't grow stronger, if its heroes didn't evolve… the world would be doomed.
—"The only way to force the strong to evolve… is to push them to the edge," she murmured, as if still speaking to Zald.
Her attack hadn't come from hatred.
It came from love.
Love for the world.
And for her nephew… for Bell Cranel.
She wanted a world where he could live without ever lifting a weapon.
And yet, here she was—broken, defeated by her own illness.
The body collapsing before the soul.
I don't want to die. Not now. Not like this.
Beyond the pain and the guilt, beyond the image of her sister and a promise left unfulfilled, deep within her soul, she longed to see Bell.
To see him grow. Happy. Free.
For the first time… without excuses, without causes, without necessary battles, she wished to live.
Just live.
And the world… answered.
The air trembled. Not with light or thunder, but with a whisper.
An ancient resonance, as if the earth itself had drawn a breath.
A red, intricate circle emerged from the scorched ground.
And a figure appeared. It didn't descend from the sky nor rise from the earth.
It was simply there.
Barefoot. Clad in a robe white as moonlight. Hair the green of eternal forests.
Eyes that mirrored the stillness of creation before mankind.
The figure stepped forward.
—"Servant, Lancer. Enkidu," they said in a calm voice, without gender, without haste. "I have answered your call, Master. Use my existence as you see fit."
Alfia barely managed to open her eyes.
The figure's aura… was like nature itself. Pure. Indescribable.
—"You… you're a spirit," she whispered, gasping through the pain.
Enkidu smiled gently. He didn't answer right away. He knelt beside her, unbothered by the blood and rubble. His hands touched her broken body with the calm of a river caressing the land.
—"Your condition is severe. You will die soon without proper care," he said, inspecting her wounds.
—"Why… are you here?" she asked, with no strength or will left. Her face was expressionless, but her voice held the faint desire to disappear.
—"Your wish to live called me," he replied. "And I answered, Master."
Alfia stared at him, confused. Why did he call her that? Why was he responding to a summoning she didn't remember making?
Then Enkidu looked up, alert.
—"Many people are coming. Armed. Approaching fast." He rose to his feet. "Do you wish to stay and speak with them?"
She shook her head without hesitation.
Her vision blurred. The world spun, and her consciousness unraveled like smoke.
—"Take me away… as far as you can," she whispered, before collapsing into darkness.
Enkidu caught her gently, lifting her in his arms as if cradling something sacred.
With one last glance at the ruined battlefield, he stepped forward.
And vanished in a flash of green light.
A whisper slipped into the wind:
—"What a strange and new world…"