The dawn scorched-earth zone was silent. The smoke from the dying bonfire drifted white, dissolving into the morning air. The smell of charred soil. The dry texture of ash transmitted through the soles of shoes. The Southern Scorched-Earth Zone—the final battleground of the Great War—still bore the scars of that night, even now, three months later. The four of them walked without formation, simply in the same direction. Kei stood at the front, holding white cloth in his left hand. The bearing of a diplomat—a gait without a single wasted movement—but the thin smile that usually played at his lips was absent this morning. His mismatched eyes, one gold and one silver, quietly read the darkness ahead. Raika walked diagonally behind him. The bandage on his arm floated white in the dim light. The wound at his flank creaked with each step. Yet his feet did not stop—he had never intended them to. His short black hair, streaked with red, swayed slightly in the morning breeze. Shuna walked beside Setsuna. Her long pale-purple hair was tied back, her silver eyes gazing quietly forward. The gentle smile she usually wore was absent. In its place was only the will to protect something. Setsuna carried a sealed letter in her breast pocket. The old scar on her left shoulder ached faintly in the cold air of the scorched-earth zone. But her feet moved. The keepsakes that should have been returned to the bereaved families lay in the encampment ahead. The final form of the dead—that alone was what pushed Setsuna forward. The outer edge of the Valgrim remnant encampment came into view about thirty minutes after dawn. Dying bonfires. Weapons piled haphazardly. And—burlap sacks, carelessly stacked on the ground. Over a dozen of them. What lay inside was clear without seeing. Setsuna's jaw set silently. Kei stopped and raised the white cloth high. "[serious]In the name of Tooyama Kei, diplomatic envoy of the Ingrasian Kingdom, I formally request negotiations for return. I demand the immediate return of items stolen from the relic recovery specialist," His voice was quiet, rational. The choice of words had eliminated any room for emotion from the start. The training of a diplomat had soaked into every corner of his voice. A man rose from within the encampment. Large. A full head taller than Kei. A blade scar across his left cheek. He rose from his chair with a slimy smile, feet still planted on the seat. The leader. "[sarcastic]Well, well. A bureaucrat gracing us with his presence. How considerate," Laughter spread through the encampment. A dozen or so followers, all armed, sizing them up with predatory eyes. "[sarcastic]We've got no use for dead men's things. You want 'em back—leave the demon woman here," He gestured with his chin toward Shuna. A moment of silence. Something changed beside Setsuna. Not the air—Raika's hand moved to his sword hilt. His deep crimson vertical-slit eyes fixed on a single point. The demand for Shuna—that single phrase had triggered something within Raika, a sound no one else could hear. "[whispers]Raika—," Shuna raised her hand quietly to restrain him, but in that instant, the leader rose and drew his blade. The sound of steel leaving steel rang out across the dawn scorched-earth. From the rear of the encampment, bows were raised. The remnants had struck first—as arrows shrieked through the air, all four moved at once. ＊ Shuna's hands spread wide. Pale light enveloped the four of them—a barrier spell. The technique cultivated as a close aide to the Tempest administration created a wall to deflect arrows. Simultaneously, Shuna's gaze shifted toward the encampment's exit. Another barrier wall quietly deployed across the remnants' escape route. Maintaining two spells simultaneously was exhausting. Sweat began to bead on Shuna's forehead. Yet her hands did not lower—not while Setsuna was here. Raika surged forward. Human mercenaries could not stop a demon's charge. The difference in physical ability made the battle one-sided. Soldiers sent flying with a single blow. The defensive line crumbling on the second strike. The bandage on his arm had begun to seep red—the wound had opened. Yet Raika did not stop—the heat at his flank, the pain in his arm, were now only fuel to push forward. Kei moved along the outer edge of the battle. Not a combatant. Not a mage. Yet his mismatched eyes quickly read the encampment. The stacked supply materials—bundles of fire arrows and oil barrels—their positions. A torch dropped by a fallen soldier. Kei picked up the torch and threw it toward the oil barrels. Flames erupted. The rear ranks of the remnants collapsed. Supplies burning—that chaos thinned the encirclement around Raika. Setsuna watched the leader. The leader grabbed one of the burlap sacks and began to retreat. "[cold]If you don't want this bag damaged, don't move," He was using it as a shield. The keepsakes. Setsuna's feet did not stop. The old scar on her left shoulder ached. But she did not stop. One step, then another. As the distance between her and the leader closed, she placed a hand on her chest, confirming the sensation of the sealed letter pressing against her skin. "[serious]Those keepsakes are—the final voices of the dead," Her voice rang across the scorched-earth zone. "[serious]I will not let you trample them," It was the first time since the Great War that Setsuna had spoken the weight of keepsakes with emotion in her voice. For three months, she had dug mechanically. Now, for the first time, she spoke those words with feeling. Raika paused for just a moment. Shuna's hands, maintaining the barrier, trembled slightly. Kei, beyond the flames, heard Setsuna's voice and placed a hand on his chest. Each of the three, in their own place, received Setsuna's voice. And each moved in their own way. ＊ The leader surged toward Setsuna. His blade rose. In that instant—from an unexpected direction, a stone flew. A sharp sound. It struck the leader's sword hand directly, sending the trajectory wildly off course. It was Kei who threw it. A stone picked from the ground, thrown at a precise angle—the only weapon a diplomat who was neither combatant nor mage could wield. Just one stone. But that single stone had disrupted the leader's attack. Raika closed the distance. A blow with all his strength—not to kill, but to subdue. The blade stopped at the leader's neck, not a millimeter off. The leader's knees buckled. His weapon fell to the ground. Shuna's barrier completely sealed the escape route. The remnants' surviving soldiers dropped their weapons one by one. The encampment fell silent. The burlap sacks lay before the four of them. Over a dozen. All of them. Setsuna knelt and opened the topmost sack. A soiled sword hilt. Fragments of a rusted shield. A copper ring with someone's name engraved on it. They were there. All of them. The strength drained from Setsuna's shoulders. Walking the return path, Setsuna continued to verify the contents while cradling the bag of keepsakes. The dry ground of the scorched-earth zone slowly brightened in the morning light. Something traced her cheek. Tears. But—different. The tears she had shed in the cave for three months were of a different quality. Her throat did not tighten. Her chest did not ache. They simply traced her cheeks. Relief. For the first time in three months of relic recovery work, Setsuna shed tears of relief. Raika noticed those tears and silently looked away. Shuna stepped closer to Setsuna's side and gently placed her fingertips on Setsuna's hand. There were no words. Only that warmth was conveyed. Kei continued walking quietly ahead, his hand still placed on his chest until the end. The four of them walked in the same direction. ＊ Afternoon light fell across Tempest's central plaza. Residents gathered. Goblins, Lizardmen, human settlers—a crowd of mixed races assembled quietly before the obsidian memorial stone under construction. A faint breeze blew across the stone plaza. Setsuna stood holding a roster. For three months, Setsuna had conducted this ceremony with emotion drained from her voice. The keepsake return ceremony—a custom established by the Relic Management Bureau, the practice of delivering keepsakes to bereaved families. Mechanically precise, giving the same weight to every name. She read the first name. Her voice trembled. It was not a failure. For the first time, she was able to place the weight of that name into her voice—that tremor was proof. The second name. The third. Her voice nearly broke. Her eyes grew moist. Yet Setsuna did not stop. She was beginning to understand that calling each person's name was not atonement, but prayer. Proof that they had existed here. That they had been. At the edge of the plaza, Shuna pressed her lips together and wiped tears from her eyes. Raika stood with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Setsuna, giving a small nod. Kei stood until the end, his hand placed on his chest. Among the residents, some had reddened eyes. The voice that had lost emotion had regained it, and for the first time, this ceremony carried the air of prayer. When Setsuna read the final name, the plaza fell silent. Not silence. The stillness that comes after receiving. ＊ The residents dispersed. The four remained in the plaza. Setsuna, cradling the roster to her chest, looked across the three of them. "[serious]...I still cannot provide an answer," The same words as that morning in the sixth chapter. But now, there was no apology in speaking them. Only honesty. "[gentle]By your side, I will try to live a little longer," Each of the three absorbed the lightness and weight of those words in their own way. Shuna's possessiveness had not vanished. Raika's clumsy passion had not cooled. Kei's conflict between reason and emotion had not been resolved. Yet what the three felt now was—Setsuna said she would live. That single fact was certain. That was the sensation. An early autumn wind blew across the plaza. The scaffolding at the memorial stone construction site creaked faintly. ＊ At night, the relic storage room of the Relic Management Bureau was quiet. The orange light of a mana lamp—the illumination used in Tempest, fueled by mana—cast its glow on the shelves lined with keepsakes. About four hundred items, each wrapped in small cloth, arranged in order. All had been returned. Setsuna carefully rewrapped her friend's letter in cloth. She opened the storage box. As she was about to place it at the bottom—she noticed something adhered to the back of the letter. Thin paper. The adhesive had begun to peel from age. Setsuna gently peeled it away, and it fell. A folded envelope. Setsuna unfolded it and turned it over. An address was written on it. Not Setsuna's name. A name Setsuna did not know. On the back of the letter that had been in Setsuna's breast pocket for three months. Her friend had written an envelope to someone Setsuna did not know, and affixed it there. In the orange light of the mana lamp against the storage room wall, Setsuna stared at that envelope for a long time. Should she open it? To whom should she deliver it? Who was this name? Questions were quietly born there. Her friend's voice remained. One more voice. An early autumn wind swept across Tempest's sky.