Wolf's world was collapsing.
The sound of his heartbeat had grown faint—like a drum beaten underwater.
Each pulse was slower, weaker, irregular. His chest no longer rose evenly; the rhythm of breath came in shallow tremors.
Wolf's body trembled as the blood loss caught up to him, and his fingers—those once steady weapons—now shivered uncontrollably, twitching like dying wires.
His vision began to cloud. First the edges blurred, then the colors bled together—red, gray, and ash melting into one suffocating haze.
His ears rang with an endless, high-pitched eeeeee that drowned out even the sound of his own gasps.
He blinked once, twice. His body felt cold, a crawling numbness spreading from his chest to his limbs. His knees buckled.
"...Tch," he breathed, his voice fragile, almost a whisper.
But the light in his eyes dimmed as his lids slowly shut.
And when he opened them again—
He was standing.
His boots pressed against dirt. His wounds were gone.
The sky was gray but gentle, the air dry and still.
Before him stood a small, worn-down building, its cracked windows and faded sign coated with dust and years—the orphanage.
For a moment, he simply stared. His mind froze. Then—he laughed.
At first, it was a faint chuckle, then it grew, louder, erratic, uncontrollable.
He laughed until his stomach cramped, until his balance failed, and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his side, tears threatening to spill.
"Ahahahaha!" His laughter echoed in the empty air.
"So this is it? This is what people mean when they say your life flashes before your eyes? Hah!"
He exhaled through his nose, wiping his face with the back of his hand as the laughter died out into a shaky smile.
He looked up at the building again, voice quieter, almost thoughtful now.
"But really, of all things… why this place?"
His gaze softened for a heartbeat—then hardened again.
"No… this isn't memory replay. More like... Salient Recall," he muttered.
He took in a slow breath, chest rising as he straightened himself. His footsteps felt strangely heavy, like each one sank into time itself.
Dust curled up around his boots as he stepped toward the old wooden door.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the handle, tendons flexing beneath his pale skin. Then, with a deep exhale, he gathered what little strength remained and pushed the door open.
The hinges groaned, long and low, as light began to spill through the widening gap.
It started as a faint gleam—soft, white—but the more the door opened, the brighter it grew.
Until, finally, when it was wide open, it was blinding.
A flood of pure light swallowed him whole.
The orphanage vanished.
And then—sound returned.
Not quiet nor peaceful but instead chaotic.
A roar of voices hit him from every direction. Screams, shouts, orders shouted over the clatter of armor and steel.
The noise was deafening, and for a moment, Wolf didn't understand it—his dazed mind couldn't piece it together.
"What are these idiots doing…?" he mumbled faintly, confusion and irritation tangled in his tone. "Still letting me suffer?"
The ground rumbled beneath him, vibrating through the soles of his boots. Somewhere in the haze, someone shouted again—something desperate, sharp—but Wolf couldn't make out the words.
The noise didn't matter anymore. Not to him.
But to them—it mattered more than anything.
Hyung-woo turned sharply at the panicked shouting. His body was exhausted, his wound still bleeding, but his instincts screamed louder than the pain.
"What is it?" he barked, his voice cracking slightly.
Someone from the formation pointed with a trembling hand.
"There! Look—!"
Hyung-woo followed the direction of the pointing finger—and froze.
In the far distance, through the thinning fog and shimmer of the dying ether, a figure stood.
A silhouette. Unmistakable.
His breath caught. His heart—already unstable from exhaustion—skipped a beat. His fingers loosened from the wound at his side, his palm slick with blood.
That… that figure…
It couldn't be—
His face went pale.
A sudden tremor ran through his hand as he grasped the hilt of his sword, panic lacing his movements.
"No…" he whispered, his lips trembling.
"No, no, it can't be—"
Then his voice erupted into a shout.
"Run! Everyone, run!"
The sudden terror in his tone snapped through the survivors like a whip. Heads turned, eyes widened.
Hyung-woo's next words cut deeper than any blade:
"She's with Wolf!"
A wave of horror rippled through the group.
For a single heartbeat, no one moved.
Then—the panic ignited.
In the blink of an eye, the formation broke.
Men and women scattered like dry leaves before a gale. Boots pounded against dirt. Armor clattered. Screams and desperate breaths filled the air.
Even Klion, whose stoicism had never once faltered, turned and began to run.
But as he glanced back—he saw something that made his stomach twist.
Hyung-woo hadn't moved!
He stood where he was, eyes burning with grim resolve, sword raised. His entire body trembled, but his stance was firm.
The figure in the distance drew closer.
Wolf's body still lay down where it fell—motionless, bleeding—but a strange shimmer gathered around him, a distortion of the air itself.
And then—she appeared!
A shockwave of ether burst outward, rippling through the field. Hyung-woo's sword, already descending toward Wolf's forehead, was stopped.
The air between them cracked like glass, freezing the blade mid-swing.
Before he could even react, a massive surge of ether erupted from that single point.
Boom!
The blast sent Hyung-woo flying back, his body crashing across the ground before rolling to a halt. Dust swirled around him.
And then—clarity returned.
Every surviving men and women turned to look. Their eyes widened, breath caught.
There, standing in the heart of the ether storm, was her.
A woman—beautiful, terrifying, radiant. Her long, violet hair spilled down her back like liquid amethyst, moving faintly though no wind blew. Her eyes—sharp, slitted—gleamed with an unnatural, divine hue.
Her body was bare, revealed to the world without a trace of shame. The sculpted grace of her figure seemed both divine and dangerous.
Her stance—upright, composed—spoke of an unbent will, even after centuries sealed away.
Her abdomen was a map of strength: taut, lined with the marks of someone who had lived and bled through battle. Scars stitched her skin in silver trails—across her ribs, along her thighs, over her forearms—each one a memory of violence and victory.
Her muscles flexed subtly as she raised her chin, eyes narrowing at the terrified mortals before her.
Ether surged around her like a storm rediscovering its sea. The air hummed with the pressure of her reawakening—every breath, every heartbeat commanding silence.
And though none dared speak, a single name slipped from Hyung-woo's trembling lips.
"...Lamentia," he whispered.
The name fell heavy, ancient, dreadful.
"The Crown of Perpetual Paradox..."
The words echoed like a curse, carried by the trembling wind.
And thus—after two thousand years of imprisonment.
Lamentia descended once more upon the battlefield!
The field still reeked of iron and ash, a stench thick enough to stick to the lungs.
Smoke twisted above the bodies, thin as dying breath.
The dirt underfoot was soaked deep red — not mud anymore, but something heavier, something that pulsed faintly with the ether that still hung in the air like static.
Lamentia stepped over the fallen with a languid grace, her bare feet smearing trails of blood behind her. Her violet hair flicked against her back, glimmering faintly with the residual shimmer of ether as she knelt beside Wolf.
He was half-conscious, his chest rising unevenly, his lips parted to drag in what little air he could steal.
Her expression softened for a heartbeat — a small, amused curl at the corner of her mouth — before turning sharp again.
"You stubborn... " she murmured, voice like warm velvet hiding a blade. She extended her hand and pressed her palm against his chest.
Ether spilled from her skin, flowing in faint, glimmering lines — alive, deliberate, coiling into his flesh like serpents of light.
The current raced through his heart, constricting it once, twice — and then forcing it to beat again. The first thump sounded like thunder in his chest.
Wolf coughed violently, dark blood spilling from his lips and staining her wrist, but his eyes flickered open with a faint glint of awareness.
She didn't look at him again.
Instead, her head tilted slightly — her sharp eyes scanning the desolation before her.
The faint wind brushed against her hair. Bodies, twitching still. Ether, leaking from her body.
Then her gaze stopped — far off, where Hyung-woo stood. He was backing away, trembling, his sword shaking in his grasp. Her lips parted into a slow, joyous smile.
And then she laughed.
The sound tore through the field — unrestrained, melodic, alive with delight and mockery all at once.
The laughter carried so far that even the fleeing could still hear it echo behind them. Even when she stopped, it lingered — like a haunting note carved into the wind itself.
A shimmer — then she vanished.
The next instant, she appeared amidst a scattering group, ether trailing behind her like an afterimage.
"My, my…" her tone lilting, almost playful.
"Why do you run away? Shouldn't you take your chance?" Her voice rose, delighted, almost singing. "Perhaps one of you will hit me up. Hahaha!"
Her movements followed no rhythm known to mortals — erratic, fluid, yet somehow intentional. She twisted her hips into a wide spin, her leg swinging low and fast in a circular sweep.
The wind howled with it, followed by the sound of bones breaking as bodies were flung aside like straw.
The air trembled where her heels struck the ground.
The fallen screamed, clawing at the dirt — only for her to glide past them in a blur of movement. Her left hand curved like a ridge, slicing toward a man's head — a sharp impact beneath the ear, a dull crack — while her right hand darted out like a serpent, two fingers driving straight into another's eye socket and through the jugular. Blood sprayed in a fine arc, staining her shoulder.
Two lives ended before either realized they were dead.
Another lunged at her with a blade — she caught his arm, twisted sharply, her fingers digging into his clavicle with crushing precision.
The sound of bone tearing out of socket echoed under her breathless laughter. Before he could scream, she slammed her elbow down at the base of his neck — the Vertebra Hammer. His body folded instantly.
Her laughter rose again — unhinged, jubilant, cruel. Each motion, every swing of her arm, was less a fight and more a dance.
The field became a stage of carnage.
A pile of corpses began forming in her wake, limbs tangled, bodies bent in grotesque shapes.
Those who still moved crawled on their bellies, leaving trails of red behind.
And Lamentia walked among them.
"Still moving?" she said sweetly, her voice turning almost affectionate as she raised her bare heel and brought it down with a meaty crunch.
The head beneath her foot twitched once, then went still. She pressed again, grinding down until the sound was wet. "Ah… fragile things."
Another. Crack.
Another. Crunch.
Each stomp punctuated by her laughter — bright, merciless, childlike.
"Run, little ones! Run while you still can!" she taunted, spitting a streak of red-tinted saliva toward a crawling figure. "Ah, look at you—dragging yourself through mud and blood. Pathetic."
Then —
"Wait! Stop!"
The voice cut through her rhythm. Her body froze mid-step. She turned.
Her gaze softened instantly.
Wolf stood there — his body swaying like he could collapse any second, skin pale, lips cracked. Ether still flickered faintly around his heart. But he was alive. Barely.
Lamentia disappeared from her spot in a shimmer and reappeared right before him. She reached out before he could fall, one arm slipping under his to keep him upright. Her touch, despite all the blood that clung to her hands, was steady.
"You know," she said with a grin that almost looked tender, "I'd be so sad if my first disciple died to these weak little things."
Wolf let out a rough, broken laugh — dry and thin.
"Well… you should know your disciple's only been here for one year."
"Hah!" she barked a short laugh, tilting her head back as if savoring the absurdity.
Wolf coughed again, then smirked weakly. "Haha… guess I'm still the disappointment."
"Mm. Always have been."
He laughed harder at that — the kind of laugh that hurt. And together, step by slow step, he moved toward the crawling survivors.
Wolf moved through the wreckage of bodies. He scanned the few survivors scattered across the blood-soaked field—Hyung-Woo, distant and stunned, and Klion, curled up near the edge of the fight, his limbs probably damaged in the sudden chaos.
Wolf extended a hand. They coiled around Hyung-Woo's torso and Klion's broken body, yanking them both roughly inward until they lay near Lamentia's feet.
Wolf stood over them, his chest heaving, his gaze utterly indifferent as he looked at Lamentia.
"You can kill the rest now," Wolf said flatly, his voice scraped raw but devoid of malice or excitement—just pure, transactional exhaustion. He didn't even turn his head to look at the other stragglers.
Lamentia watched him for a heartbeat. Her face was a porcelain mask threaded with amusement; the blood on her feet turned lines into dark calligraphy on her skin. She gave no nod, no word. Instead she turned, her bare sole planting on a crawling survivor like punctuation, and began to move through the last writhing mass with the same merciless rhythm she'd used before.
Each step was an argument: the rest could not be allowed to live and tell the story. Her motion was almost bored, as if she were tidying crumbs.
In truth — a thought Wolf kept private, like a hand in a pocket — something crude and small felt like hunger. Fuck, man. I wish I could kill them myself for exp… The thought flashed through and vanished, half-apologetic to no one. He let it sit and coldly smiled inward at the thought of numbers rising on his window.
Klion groaned and then spat out a bitter laugh, ragged with defeat.
"F-fuck man..."
Wolf's head, heavy on his neck, slowly swiveled, his gaze locking onto the man.
Klion was trying to push himself up, his eyes glassy with pain and despair, tears—or perhaps just sweat—streaking down his dirt-caked face. "You could have told me," Klion rasped, a sound halfway between a sob and a cough. His mouth twisted into a grotesque, heartbreaking expression of regret and anger directed inward.
"You know I'm a coward! You know I wouldn't refuse you! I would willingly join you... S-sigh...I—"
His sentence broke into a couple of bitter coughs. Blood soaked the grass beneath him.
Klion's eyes dropped, settling on his lower body. His legs were splayed at unnatural angles.
He let out a chuckle—a harsh, mocking, self-loathing sound that echoed hollowly.
"...Although I never considered you a friend or anything like that," Klion continued, his voice regaining a shred of clarity through the pain, "we did get along good. And at that point, we could trust each other. After all, a mad murderer like you just did your things, whatever the fuck that is, and I just continued my little game of management. But, well…"
He met Wolf's gaze again, the bitterness in his expression absolute.
"Perhaps I was always like this since you approached me."
Klion slumped back, his desperate outpouring finished, leaving the silence thick with his regret and self-condemnation.
Hyung-woo said nothing.
He only clenched his jaw, eyes unfocused, as if some other scene ran in his head on repeat.
Wolf watched both of them with the patient interest of a butcher inspecting meat for gristle.
Wolf slowly crouched, his joints protesting with painful clicks, until his eyes were level with Klion's. His facial expression was unreadable.
"You know, all you said is right," Wolf admitted, his voice unexpectedly soft, losing the manic edge. He reached out and gently brushed a piece of dirt from Klion's forehead—a strangely intimate, final gesture.
He paused, then his tone shifted back to cold, brutal logic.
"Actually, no. Like actually though, I was weighing whether I wanted you to come with me or kill you. But you know, after some time, it kinda… cleared up, right? The less know the better, you know that?"
He leaned in slightly, his eyes holding Klion's.
"So, in the end, I take you as another exp. But listen, despite everything… you are a good man, Klion. You are true to yourself. You know you are a coward. You face it, embrace it, and live as one. Whether for your goals or just to survive, you did not betray yourself. Perhaps not even once in your life."
Wolf pulled back, his head tilted. He let out a deep sigh—a sound of genuine, weary contemplation. "Sigh. If I were to be a decent human, you would have lived. No, in fact, the whole million people would have lived… right, Hyung-Woo?"
He turned his head slowly, the question directed at the silent swordsman.
"Fuck you."
Hyung-Woo spat instantly, venomously, without hesitation, his eyes burning with pure hatred. His body remained in a defensive crouch, poised for the inevitable.
"Hm," Wolf hissed, the sound like air escaping a punctured lung.
He slowly straightened up, his eyes now regaining a flicker of that old, dark amusement. "Still refuse even in the end? Really?"
Wolf turned his back on them both, ignoring the terrifying spectacle of Lamentia finishing her work. He walked a short distance, his gait uneven, and retrieved his saber and his wakizashi where they lay embedded in the earth and bodies.
The second he had both in hand he returned with a slow, deliberate gait. The noises — the dying moans and the faint chorus of panicked flight in the distance — felt like a separate hemisphere he'd left behind.
He returned to Klion, the heavy saber held loosely in one hand, the polished wakizashi cold in the other. He crouched one last time.
Wolf didn't speak.
He simply looked Klion in the eye—a look that was strangely respectful, even apologetic.
Klion's breath hitched.
He closed his eyes, a single, final tear tracking down his cheek, accepting the truth he had just confessed.
The wakizashi flashed once, a sharp, surgical gleam in the dimming light, and was plunged directly into Klion's heart.
Wolf felt the sudden, hot rush of energy—the reward.
He withdrew the blade with a smooth, practiced motion, and the sudden, silent stillness of death settled over Klion's face.
This was the end of the line.
The end of the coward man.