The journey back was solemn. The Cyclopes, with heavy hearts but renewed purpose, departed for their habitat in the Curan forest.
Their massive forms moved with surprising grace through the landscape as they began the long trek home, carrying the memory of Princess Argia and the promise of vengeance.
Sengoku and his companions took a different path, heading toward the Sengoku Kingdom—the realm that bore his name and awaited its ruler's return. The carriage ride was mostly silent, each occupant lost in their own thoughts.
Ron occasionally glanced at his friend, concerned about the physical and emotional wounds Sengoku had sustained.
"We're almost home," Ron said finally, breaking the silence as the familiar outlines of the royal castle came into view.
Sengoku nodded but said nothing. His chest throbbed beneath the bandages, a constant reminder of his failure to protect Princess Argia.
Though Astro had closed the wound, the damage from Necrotic's dark energy lingered in his system, requiring time to fully heal.
As the carriage approached the castle gates, Sengoku was surprised to see a figure waiting in the courtyard—the unmistakable tall, slender form of King Elvis of the Elves. The Elven king stood with the natural dignity of his race, his long silver hair catching the afternoon light.
The carriage came to a stop, and Sengoku carefully descended, moving with deliberate caution to avoid aggravating his injury. King Elvis approached with arms outstretched, clearly intending an enthusiastic embrace, but stopped short when Sengoku pulled back the edge of his robe to reveal the bandaged chest beneath.
"How did you get it?" Elvis asked, his ageless face creasing with concern. "Did you manage to rescue the Cyclopes princess? My daughter told me all about it."
Sengoku's expression darkened immediately. The question struck at the raw wound in his heart—one that no magical sword could heal. His lips pressed into a thin line as memories of Argia's sacrifice flooded back.
Ron, noticing his friend's distress, quickly stepped forward. "Your Majesty," he said respectfully, "the mission did not end as we had hoped." With careful words, Ron explained what had transpired—Yamato's attack, Sengoku's injury, and Princess Argia's ultimate sacrifice.
As the tale unfolded, Elvis's expression shifted from curiosity to shock, and finally to compassion. "My bad!" the Elven king said, genuine regret in his voice. "I shouldn't have asked."
"It's quite ok, you couldn't have known," Sengoku replied, though his voice lacked conviction.
Elvis studied him for a moment, noting the exhaustion evident in every line of Sengoku's body. "Rest for now," he said gently. "I have something to say to you formally, but it can wait until you've recovered some strength."
"Alright," Sengoku agreed, though curiosity flickered briefly in his eyes. What formal matter could the Elven king wish to discuss? The question lingered in his mind as servants carefully helped him to his quarters.
The royal bedchamber was a testament to Sengoku's status—spacious and elegantly appointed, with a massive bed that could accommodate not only him but his six wives as well. The servants helped him onto the soft mattress, and exhaustion claimed him almost immediately.
When Sengoku next opened his eyes, the golden light of dusk filtered through the tall windows. He found himself surrounded by his six wives, all of them asleep. They had clearly been watching over him but had eventually succumbed to their own fatigue. With careful movements, he extricated himself from their midst without waking them.
After washing and changing into fresh royal garments—clothing befitting a king rather than a warrior—Sengoku stepped into the corridor outside his chambers. To his mild surprise, Ron was leaning against the wall, apparently waiting.
"Did you wait the whole time?" Sengoku asked, adjusting the collar of his robe to better cover his bandages.
Ron straightened, offering a casual smile. "Of course not," he replied with a hint of amusement. "Just had a hunch you'd wake up by now so I dropped by."
"Very lucky guess indeed," Sengoku said, not entirely convinced. "Anyway, has King Elvis told you what he has to say?"
"No," Ron shook his head. "He said he'll tell only you upfront at the royal chamber."
Sengoku's brow furrowed slightly. "I wonder what he wants to say."
A sly grin spread across Ron's face. "Maybe marriage with Elven beauty Elora," he suggested, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
The comment drew a genuine laugh from Sengoku—the first since before the battle. "That'd be the most interesting thing if it happens by chance," he replied, the momentary mirth bringing some color back to his face.
They both laughed for a while, the sound echoing in the stone corridor. As their amusement gradually subsided, they began walking toward the royal chamber where King Elvis awaited. The Elven king rose as they entered, his eyes brightening at the sight of Sengoku moving under his own power.
"Ah! You're finally awake," Elvis said warmly. "I was waiting for you."
Sengoku offered a slight bow, mindful of his injury. "Sorry for the wait, but you can now carry on regarding what you wanted to say."
Elvis clasped his hands together, his expression becoming more formal. "First of all, thanks for rescuing my daughter. I truly appreciate it." He paused, as if gathering his thoughts or perhaps his courage. "And the main thing I wanted to say is... will you consider marriage with my daughter Elora? With someone of your caliber at her side, I can rest easy as a father."
Sengoku's eyes widened in surprise, then gleamed with undisguised pleasure. Ron's jest had proven prophetic. He composed himself quickly and responded with appropriate dignity:
"With pleasure."
The Elven king's face lit up with joy. He turned and called out, "Elora! Come in, please!"
The chamber doors opened, and Elora entered.
The Elven princess moved with ethereal grace, her steps so light they barely seemed to touch the floor. Her beauty was legendary even among the Elves, a race known for their exquisite features. Long silver-gold hair framed a face of perfect proportions, and her eyes held the wisdom and mystery of the ancient forests.
King Elvis took his daughter's hand and explained the proposal. To Sengoku's surprise and relief, Elora nodded her agreement without hesitation, a soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
Sengoku found himself staring at Elora, taking in her unmatched beauty. She was undeniably more beautiful than Enzu had been, yet the thought of his deceased wife and their unborn child sent a sharp pang through his heart. A single tear escaped and trailed down his cheek before he could prevent it. He would move forward with his life, but he would never forget those he had lost—nor would he abandon his quest to bring Yamato to justice for their deaths.
Elora, noticing his intense gaze and the tear, misinterpreted his reaction. A delicate blush spread across her cheeks. "Is there something wrong with me?" she asked, her melodious voice tinged with uncertainty.
The question pulled Sengoku back to the present moment. "Nothing," he assured her quickly. "Just admiring your beauty."
Ron, standing at Sengoku's side, couldn't resist the opportunity to tease his friend. He nudged Sengoku with his elbow and whispered, "You lucky womanizer bastard!"
Sengoku responded with a good-natured mockery of his own. "Don't be a jealous weasel," he retorted quietly. "Your time will come!"
As the details of the betrothal were discussed between the two kings and the princess, the scene began to shift and blur for Nickan, who had been experiencing these events through Sengoku's consciousness. The Memoir System, seeming to sense that he had absorbed enough for one session, began to disengage him from the immersive experience.
With a jolt, Nickan returned to his own reality. He sat motionless for several moments, processing the intense experiences he had just lived through vicariously. Then, as was his habit after each session with the Memoir System, he began to write down everything while it remained fresh in his mind.
His hand trembled slightly as he recorded Princess Argia's sacrifice. Despite knowing it was merely a story—ancient history at best, fiction at worst—he found himself deeply moved by her courage and the meaningfulness of her death. Tears gathered in his eyes as he chronicled the Cyclopes' pledge to avenge their princess.
Yet, as he continued writing, capturing the unexpected marriage proposal between Sengoku and Elora, a smile gradually replaced his somber expression. There was something comforting in the knowledge that even after tragedy, life continued. New beginnings emerged from endings.
Nickan paused in his writing, surprised by the depth of his emotional response. Though he had experienced many stories through the Memoir System, this particular narrative had affected him more profoundly than most. Perhaps it was the themes of sacrifice and resilience that resonated with him, or perhaps it was simply the skill with which the story had been crafted.
Whatever the reason, he felt a peculiar sense of attachment to these characters and their world. He wanted—needed—to know how their story would unfold. Would Sengoku eventually confront Yamato again? Would the Cyclopes get their revenge? Would the marriage to Elora bring Sengoku happiness after so much loss?
With renewed purpose, Nickan finished his notes and prepared for his next session with the Memoir System. The story of Sengoku and his world had captured his imagination, and he was eager to continue the journey—to experience the next chapter through Sengoku's eyes.
As he made his final notations, Nickan reflected on the power of stories to move us, to make us feel connected to people who never existed or who lived long ago. There was something profoundly human about this capacity for empathy across the boundaries of time and reality. Despite the advanced technology of the Memoir System, perhaps this connection was the true magic.
With his notes complete, Nickan closed his journal. He would return to Sengoku's world soon enough. For now, he carried the lessons of sacrifice, resilience, and new beginnings with him as he prepared to reenter his own reality—perhaps seeing it through slightly different eyes than before.
The Memoir System powered down with a soft hum, its work complete for the day. But the story it had shared would continue to resonate in Nickan's thoughts, a reminder of the enduring power of narrative to shape our understanding of life, loss, and the possibility of beginning anew, even after the deepest grief.