Rosario stood in the middle of the construction site like a commander who had accidentally been promoted to foreman. His red sentinel robe was tied around his waist, pink hair tied messily back with a wire.
A whistle hung from his neck. No one knew where he got it from, but he blew it every five minutes like his life depended on it.
"YOU—yes, you, brick boy!" Rosario shouted, pointing at a Hunter who was trying to carry four stones at once. "You're building a statue, not auditioning for a muscle competition! One stone at a time, unless you want to meet the statue personally when it collapses!"
The Hunter laughed nervously, immediately dropping two of the bricks. Rosario turned away, muttering to himself. "Every day I ask myself why I'm surrounded by idiots, and every day, the world answers by sending me more."
A group of Homans nearby were mixing clay and sand for the base. One of them asked, "Sir Rosario, should we make it smoother or keep it rough like the other side?"
Rosario sighed dramatically, grabbing a trowel and showing them. "Look, you need balance. If it's too smooth, it'll waste under the heat. If it's too rough, it will look like my uncle's back. Like this—gentle, precise.… sexy craftsmanship!"
The workers laughed, nodding, trying to copy his movements. Grace, passing by, shook her head with a small grin. "Hmm, you're enjoying this too." she said.
"Of course I am!" Rosario puffed his chest. "If I wasn't an assassin, I'd be the Michelangelo of Durkan. Maybe even better looking."
He started to brush his hair like a superstar with a absurd pose.
A Hunter shouted from the scaffold, "Hey, boss! The arm's slipping!"
Rosario instantly went pale. "WHAT?!" He looked up. The statue's arm, still half-carved, tilted dangerously to one side. "I told you to use the reinforcement spell, not wishful thinking!"
He dashed forward, using his dagger's teleportation flicker to appear beside the crumbling arm. With one swift motion, he jammed a metal rod into the joint and stabilized it, landing gracefully on the sand below. The workers clapped.
"See?" Rosario grinned, pointing his dagger upward. "That's called professional improvisation. Don't try it unless you want to lose a limb or to waste your virginity."
Grace called from behind him, "You could've just asked me to hold it with time, you know?"
Rosario froze, blinking once. ".…Shut up."
While,
Radahn stood at the far edge of Durkan's dunes where the morning wind still carried faint whispers of ash. The world was healing, but he wasn't. His bare feet pressed against the cold sand.
The sun already bright but he felt no warmth. A single quilt of leather hung loosely over his scarred body, his twin scythes strapped across his back like memories he couldnt forget.
He looked once over his shoulder. The city was alive again. Homans rebuilding, Hunters laughing, the statue of Elior slowly taking shape.
He could hear Rosario yelling somewhere in the distance. The corner of his lips twitched as something almost like peace. But it didn't stay any longer.
A whisper that had followed him through battle and silence alike.
He had remembered. The last message left by the 4th Artorias.
A promise. A warning.
And a door that should never have been opened.
The wind changed. It blew colder, sharper, as if the desert itself sensed his decision. His golden eyes gleamed under the rising sun. Eyes that had seen gods bow, countless deadly wars, but still searched for answers. His memories was unfinished.
He tightened the leather strap around his arm, then muttered quietly, "You all have your dawn…. I am still stuck in my dusk."
The sand beneath him began to swirl as his energy pulsed. He didn't take a mount, didn't summon light. He simply walked. Each step left behind faint glowing prints that faded within seconds, erased by the morning breeze.
Somewhere beyond that line lay the forgotten ruins of the Eastern Wall and the truth buried beneath it.
Before he disappeared from sight, he looked up at the sky—half blue, half scarred by lingering eclipse trails.
"Artorias.… if you're still out there," he whispered, "I'm coming to finish what you couldn't."
Then, without farewell or hesitation, Radahn vanished into the desert.
....
Grace pushed open the wooden door of the bunker's old hall. The morning light entered through the gaps like thin blades. The chaos of the past days felt like a dream someone else had lived.
Her boots clicked softly as she walked down the narrow corridor. An unknown feeling in her chest was making her uncomfortable.
Her fingers brushed along the wall, the rough stone grounding her as her heart started to race for reasons she couldn't name.
Azmaik was standing near the doorway, his black robe caught the faint light. His hair was loose.
"You again," she said softly, exhaling. "You keep appearing like a ghost everywhere."
He gave a faint smile. "I am one. Haha, what a joke."
He was definitely not joking.
They just looked at each other. Grace crossed her arms. "I thought you'd be outside. People are still celebrating."
"I don't fit into celebra—" Azmaik thought for a second, remembering he is now living in his place. "....I mean, I am just tired."
Grace tilted her head. "You sound like you've lost something similar to a huge curse."
He looked away at that, eyes falling to the floor. "Oh dear, you are good at shooting arrows in target closing eyes. However, I'm still searching for what it was."
Grace didn't ask further. Instead, she stepped closer, her voice quieter now. "The war's over. You don't have to keep fighting yourself. You can take a breath in relief now."
He looked up then and for a brief. There was emotion in his eyes. Regret. Guilt. A shadow of someone else he used to be. "Some ghosts," he said, "don't stop following you. They just change faces."
She didn't understand the full weight of his words. Something about the way he spoke like he was holding someone's memory in his throat.
Outside, the wind shifted, brushing against the bunker walls. Grace turned suddenly, her instincts flaring.
"I feel weird often since the sunrise. I feel like someone is peeking me from distance." she whispered.
Azmaik followed her but there was nothing there. The faint presence, the weight of eyes unseen.
When Grace turned back, Azmaik's expression was distant, lost in thought.
Somewhere deep inside, he could recognise the script of a promise and the memory of someone