She walked alone through the burning capital. At Celestia's feet, ashes danced. The hot wind, heated by the flames, tossed her once-golden hair into disarray. Streaks of black had begun to weave through those locks, which she no longer bound behind her—they now swayed loosely around her shoulder blades. All around her, the presence of the dead. Beings with ash-white skin and dark violet eyes stood in orderly rows—in the shadows of collapsed buildings, in the depths of smoldering alleyways. They did not move. They simply waited for their master to pass. Celestia raised her head. The Holy King's Palace was engulfed in flames. Its chalk-white outer walls were blackened with soot, and from every window, crimson fire billowed forth. The place where she had once offered prayers each morning as a saint—now, it was nothing more than a coffin, waiting to burn down. Against her chest, a small sensation. A wilting wildflower. The white blossom Ellis had once offered her. Celestia touched it gently with her fingers. Her deep crimson eyes reflected nothing. Sorrow, anger—all of it had sunk deep into the hollow within her, leaving only emptiness spread across the surface. She pressed onward. The corridors of the Holy King's Palace were crumbling. Stonework from the ceiling had peeled away and fallen, and great fissures ran through the walls. The carpets were stained with blood and dust, and the lingering traces of former opulence only made the scene more wretched. Only her footsteps echoed quietly. The door to the throne room—she stood before it. Celestia raised her left arm, now transformed into a limb of the underworld. The semi-translucent arm, wreathed in violet light, pulsed faintly. Her fingertips touched the door. *Creeeeeak...* A groaning sound. The door slowly swung open. ——The throne room. Part of the ceiling had collapsed, letting in the faint light of pre-dawn. Rubble lay scattered across the marble floor, and the sacred paintings that once adorned the walls had burned away. And there, the throne. Clinging to its half-destroyed backrest stood a small shadow. Lilianne Valenford. Her golden drill curls were in disarray, her white saint's robes stained with blood and soot. Both hands were scorched and blistered, her skin ravaged by the backflow of excessive holy light. Even so, she was wringing the last dregs of power from the Grand Holy Stone, deploying a thin barrier of holy light around her entire body. "[scared]S-Sister..." Lilianne's voice trembled. In her azure eyes floated genuine terror—something she had never shown before. Celestia paid the barrier no mind whatsoever. Slowly, she advanced toward the throne. One step, then another. Her gait was so calm, it might have been a leisurely stroll. Lilianne's holy light touched Celestia's body. In that instant—the light scattered like mist. The power of the saint who had once protected the kingdom vanished without a trace, like thin ice exposed to the sun. The moment the barrier made contact, particles of light crumbled away, dissolving into the darkness. "[scared]W-Why...?!" Lilianne's shriek echoed through the crumbling ceiling. She released even more holy light—but the result was the same. Celestia's underworld-transformed body simply erased it, as if drinking the light in. Celestia came to a halt right in front of Lilianne. The distance between them was close enough to touch if one reached out a hand. Celestia stared down at her sister. Her deep crimson eyes simply held Lilianne's azure ones, now stained with fear. "[cold]Why didn't you kill me?" Her voice was quiet and flat. "[cold]If you had just exiled me, that would have been the end of it. But you kept me alive. Why?" Lilianne's face twisted. "[angry]Wh-What... what are you talking about... after all this time..." "[cold]Why did you kill Ellis too? You took the position of saint, you took my fiancé, you took everything—so why did you have to take the last person I had?" Lilianne's mask cracked. The saintly smile she had worn until now warped into something hideous. She fell to her knees on the floor and covered her face with both hands. —And then, she began to laugh. "[laughing]Aha... ahahahahahahaha!!" A mad cackle echoed through the throne room. "[laughing]I hated you!! Just the fact that you existed—I hated you so much I couldn't stand it!!" Lilianne raised her face. Her eyes were wide open, tears spilling over. "[crying]If you died, I'd lose my reason to hate you... and that would be unbearable!! Hating you was the only thing that gave my life meaning!!" That was her true heart. For two years, she had only been able to maintain herself by continuing to hate her sister. The position she had stolen, the fiancé, the trust of the people—none of it had ever satisfied her. Only the fact that her sister was still alive filled her empty heart with hatred. Celestia narrowed her eyes. It wasn't anger or sorrow—just a faint shift, as if something small within the hollow of her chest had been confirmed. (*I see. You too, were just—*) She slowly pointed her underworld-transformed left arm toward Lilianne's chest. "[cold]...That's enough." Her left hand emitted a violet light. The light was drawn into Lilianne's chest—and Lilianne herself felt the holy light remaining within her body being ripped out by the roots. "[scared]Ah... Aaaaaahhh!!" A scream that could barely be called a voice. The gold in her hair lost its color. It turned white and fell out like dead leaves. The radiance of her skin faded, and the light in her eyes was snuffed out. The power of the saint was stripped away, down to the very last drop—and the process was not one of a mere second or two. It took a long, long time. A quiet deprivation that felt almost like a full minute. Lilianne collapsed to the floor. Having lost her holy light completely, she was now nothing more than a powerless girl. Her golden hair had lost its color, her skin was dull, and the azure of her eyes had clouded over. Celestia did not deliver the finishing blow. She simply turned away and began walking back toward the entrance of the throne room, without looking back. At the door, a man stood waiting, his back against the wall. Gawain Ashford. Black hair streaked with gray. A brand over his left eye. The hawk-like gaze of his sharp right eye. When his eyes met Celestia's, he said nothing, merely returning her gaze in silence. Celestia said nothing. She merely tilted her chin slightly in the direction of the throne. That was the command. Gawain gave a short nod. "[serious]...Understood." He placed a hand on the sword at his hip and entered the throne room. Celestia stopped just outside the door. After a moment—amid the roar of the collapsing castle, the sound of a single sword stroke mingled. *Shing.* A light sound. That was all. There was no expression on Celestia's face. No anger, no sorrow, no exaltation of victory—everything was quiet, as if none of it had ever existed in the first place. Only once did her fingers touch the wildflower against her chest. She descended the stairs to the underground. Gawain led the way, and Celestia followed. There were no words between them. Everything that needed to be done had ended with the sound of that sword. In front of the secret passage, Celestia stopped. The dead were blocking the exit. It was the place she had ordered them to seal off all night long. When she raised her hand, the dead parted to the left and right. She opened the door. Inside was Prince Alvin. The man she had once been engaged to sat slumped against the wall. His golden hair was disheveled, his expensive clothes soiled with filth. His vacant eyes stared into space, and drool dripped from the corner of his mouth. He had not been executed. There wasn't a single wound on him. He had simply been surrounded by the dead all night, trapped in that place with the exit blocked—and terror alone had broken his mind. "...Ah... u..." Only meaningless sounds escaped Alvin's lips. Celestia looked down at him. She directed no killing intent, no anger toward him. (*He no longer even functions as a target of revenge.*) The man who had once been her fiancé was now nothing but a broken shell. Celestia had the dead open the passage. So that Alvin could go outside. He staggered to his feet and, as if guided by something, vanished into the ruined capital. It was neither mercy nor insult. It was simply a cold, dispassionate judgment. When they stepped outside the castle, the light of dawn was beginning to illuminate the burning capital. The eastern sky was starting to whiten. The red of the flames and the white of dawn mingled together, eerily coloring the crumbling city. Celestia stopped. She turned around. The burning capital. The collapsing castle walls. The abandoned houses. This was the final form of the city once called the "City of Light." In that moment— The black brand that had covered the left half of her face vanished without a sound. Like ashes scattered by the wind. The cursed brand disappeared without a trace. Gawain saw it. He seemed about to say something—but closed his mouth. Only his right eye widened slightly. The mark of the heretic had vanished from Celestia's face. The flawless white skin she had possessed in her days as a saint had returned. But—the light did not return to her deep crimson eyes. "[cold]...It's over." The murmur was far too quiet. There was no joy, no relief, no gratitude. Just empty words, merely confirming a fact. She took out the small, wilting wildflower from her chest. The white petals had already turned brown and were completely dry. Even so, it had somehow managed to keep the shape it had when Ellis had offered it to her. Celestia gazed at it for a while. Then—slowly, she placed it on the ground. Ellis's flower, she would leave here. She rose to her feet and began walking toward the Ashlands. Gawain followed a step behind. He, too, said nothing. Where they were going. For what purpose. Nothing was spoken between them. The revenge was complete. But what lay beyond it—she did not yet know. Behind her— The spire of the Grand Cathedral of Lumiera collapsed with a thunderous roar. The white spire, sixty meters tall, snapped in two and crumbled into a mountain of rubble. The symbol of the Holy Kingdom of Verdan had now completely vanished. Celestia did not look back. She simply continued walking slowly toward the darkness of the Ashlands. Her retreating figure, silhouetted against the burning capital and the ruined cathedral, grew smaller and smaller. It was an utterly quiet end to revenge.