The Crimson Temple, once a symbol of balance and strength, now felt like a monument to contained tension.
The air there… weighed like lead.
The silence was not an absence of sound, but an oppressive presence that suffocated even thoughts.
There were no prayers. No chants.
Only the sound of the world preparing to collapse.
Every step within that temple sounded like a farewell—slow, heavy, irrevocable.
It was the sound of hearts saying goodbye to what they knew, to whom they loved, to themselves.
The sacred walls—stained red not just by paint, but by the memories of generations—seemed to observe the Sifs now marching in silence.
None of them were the same as before.
The last battle had stolen the youth of many, the illusions of others… and, for some, even hope.
In the inner chambers, uniforms were adjusted with trembling hands.
Headbands were tied with excessive force, as if the tightness could keep emotions contained.
The sound of buckles being fastened, of knots being pulled tight, of fists being clenched...
— it was like a silent prayer, a stifled scream:
"Let us be the ones who fall…
...but never the ones who flee."
The mark of the three lines emblazoned on the uniform's chest.
A living tattoo.
Not made of ink, but of promises.
It represented the Sif oath: to rise even when everything crumbled.
And now, everything had crumbled.
In the center of the temple, Fenra stood before the main formation.
Her black overcoat, covered in dust, ash, and dried blood, was like an extension of the war itself.
The torn hem swayed with the wind that swept through the corridors like an ancestral lament.
On her left arm, a torn gray band.
A final gift from Mei.
It was not an ornament.
It was a promise.
It was all that remained.
Fenra had never been officially named a Sif.
The records did not carry her name.
But there, before everyone, no one dared to doubt.
She was a Sif in blood, in soul, in the weight of her gaze.
Her power emanated in silence, like a dark tide about to swallow the world.
A warrior who did not ask for permission—she took it.
Molded by loss. Fed by pain.
And now, guided by a single truth: revenge was not the end… it was the beginning.
Beside her, Aisha was a living contrast.
Dressed in an impeccable white and gray uniform, she seemed ethereal.
As if she did not belong to that plane.
Her eyes were covered by a band.
Even without her sharp gaze, no one there doubted the determination she radiated.
Her body, now slender and firm, exuded a deceptive tranquility.
For within her burned a sacred fire.
A contained hatred.
— The plan is clear — said Fenra, her voice hoarse, firm as stone.
— We go in fast. We destroy everything. We avoid capture. We avoid mercy.
Stella swallowed dryly.
Her chest rose and fell in an irregular rhythm.
Eyes moist, but chin held high.
— And Mei? — she asked, her voice almost childlike in its fragility.
Tekio answered before the silence could swallow them again.
— We bring her back.
Those words… carried the weight of a world.
More than a promise—it was a sentence.
At the temple entrance, the sight was even crueler.
The rescued and wounded Sifs were lined up.
A silent troop.
An army of specters.
Ready to give their final salute to the warriors walking into hell itself—and to smile in its face.
Tekio, Dan, and Stella walked among them, nodding. Trying to maintain dignity.
But their eyes…
Ah, their eyes said it all.
Fear. Rage. Grief. Love.
And then, Julian appeared.
Tall, imposing.
His features were those of a man who had buried too many brothers.
He stopped before Tekio.
Looked at him for a long moment, as if deciding whether there was still time to believe in anyone.
— You saved my brother — he said, his voice low and choked.
— I have no words for that.
Tekio bit his lower lip.
He held back a lump in his throat as if it were an enemy to defeat.
— He would have done the same.
Julian placed a hand on his shoulder.
The strength of the gesture said what words could not.
Trust. Respect. Legacy.
— May the gods walk with you.
And if you don't return… may the Reapers never forget what you took with you.
Beside him, Kion merely nodded.
Eyes red, but posture firm.
More than words—here, only eternal gestures remained.
The path to the portal was made in absolute silence.
But that silence...
It screamed.
It screamed like a battlefield before the explosion.
It screamed like a heart about to break.
Everyone's faces were set and determined.
Before departing, a final message from Levi had been left:
"Dante is distracted. Something forced him to move.
Other countries… other alliances…
The Emerald Gate has begun the attack.
Now it's our turn."
Fenra raised her arms.
And then, reality… tore.
The Rift of Souls opened like a scar upon the world.
Raw, crude, pulsating.
The portal Levi used to travel to the temple isolated from the city.
— Let's go. — she said. — Time is against us.
And then, everyone passed through.
On the other side...
ruins.
The sky was gray, but cloudless.
It was as if the world had lost its color.
The city ahead looked like an opened corpse, its entrails exposed.
Metallic noises, distant screams, sparks of distorted spiritual energy.
It was like stepping on the guts of a nightmare.
Aisha staggered.
Her body trembled.
She fell to her knees.
Her hands, always steady, now seemed like crystal about to shatter.
— They... they are suffering... — she murmured.
— Children... Women... Spirits... are screaming. But no one hears.
Tekio closed his eyes.
He felt it too.
A pain that did not come from the body.
A pain that came from the soul.
And a hatred that he and Aisha shared.
— How did we let this happen? — Stella whispered, silent tears streaming.
Fenra, motionless, looked at the city.
Her eyes were quiet flames.
— Because we were fools.
— Arrogant.
— We thought we knew everything.
We thought our power was enough.
But they… were cold.
They waited.
They studied.
And now… they are winning.
She then turned.
Her eyes seemed ancient.
As if they carried a thousand wars within.
— But we are still here.
— We still breathe.
— And as long as this city bleeds, we will bleed with it.
She pointed toward the center of the destruction.
— Mei is still alive.
— And as long as she breathes... this war is still ours.
Then she raised her hand.
And a spectral, cutting aura enveloped her fingers.
It was like a blade made of grief and faith.
— We are here to save the world.
Or to be the spark of victory.
We will find Mei.
And make the Reapers pay.
— One. By. One.
The city awaited them.
Or rather: the abyss called them.
Tekio, Dan, and Stella were no longer the youths from the beginning.
They had scars.
Visible scars.
Scars that do not heal.
Scars that scream when the wind blows.
But they were no longer apprentices.
They were no longer pawns in the game.
They were lightning ready to strike.
Suns contained in flesh.
Angels marked by scars—and a hunger for justice.
It was all or nothing.
And they, finally…
chose all.
To be continued…