At the outer edge of the Seventh Relic, a line of black steel vehicles came to a halt. The early morning sun cast its white light across the scorched earth. Caravane Noire — a mobile fortress of twelve armored vehicles linked together — had finally reached its destination after the long desert crossing. The view from the window was hell itself. The city where a hundred and twenty thousand people once lived was now nothing but a plain of glass. Fused sand had hardened, giving off a distorted luster. The colossal wreckage of a Plant lay sprawled across the earth like a fallen giant. Iron frameworks, a hundred and twenty meters high, rusted and twisted, yet still pointed toward the sky. This was the Seventh Cradle — the place where Knives had burned humanity to ash. Galen Vollhardt stood at the window of the command vehicle, staring at the scene. His silver-gray hair was immaculately groomed, not a single strand out of place, and the deep indigo of his right eye gleamed quietly. Beneath the black eyepatch covering his left eye, the golden prosthetic — implanted with Plant cells — tingled faintly. It was sensing residual energy. The brand carved into the back of his left hand, the mark of one who served Knives directly, rose into relief under the morning sun. His right index finger twitched, ever so slightly. "[cold] This is my brother's holy ground." His voice was frozen through. Yet, just barely, something like heat seeped from deep within it. Galen himself had chosen this place. The full activation of Absolute Zero required the Plant's massive wreckage. But more than that — this was where Knives had shone brightest. On that day when he erased a hundred and twenty thousand lives, what had his brother thought? What had he seen? By standing in that very place, Galen intended to show the world that he, and he alone, was the rightful inheritor of his brother's will. Behind him, Kestra Vael looked up from adjusting the control panel. Her deep crimson hair was tied high, and her sharp, narrow amber eyes watched Galen's back. The thin blade scar on her right cheek shifted faintly in the dim interior lighting of the vehicle. "[serious] Connection preparations are complete. The control circuits in the Plant wreckage are still live. However —" She worked the terminal, bringing numbers up on the screen. "[serious] As a condition for stable system operation, maximum connection time is twelve minutes. If exceeded, the runaway risk falls outside all calculations." Kestra's voice was as calm as if she were reading aloud from a report. But her amber eyes never left Galen's profile. She knew this man would ignore the warning. Galen did not turn around. "[cold] Set the time limit to fifteen minutes." His right index finger moved again. After a beat of silence, Kestra entered the number into the terminal. Fifteen — a figure that exceeded the system's safety threshold by three full minutes. She offered no objection. Years of association had taught her that arguing with this man was pointless. But she did record the specified time on her log sheet. The only sound in the room was the nib of her fountain pen racing across the paper. (*This number will mean something later.*) Her amber eyes narrowed for just an instant. At the rear of the armored vehicle, the iron door of the detention cell swung open. Two Grief soldiers escorted Arisa in. Heavy iron shackles bound both her wrists, and with every step, the metallic scrape of chains echoed down the corridor. Her silver-white hair, long enough to reach her waist, was matted with sweat and dust, and her pale aquamarine eyes were deeply sunken. But the light within them had not gone out. Arisa was led into the control terminal room of the Plant wreckage. Exposed pipes and antiquated instruments covered the walls. At the center stood a chair, just large enough for a single person to sit in. From its backrest extended countless thin tubes and cords, their tips fitted with small needles designed to pierce skin. Arisa's body went rigid. — Two days ago. In the laboratory of the Caravane Noire, she had been hooked up to a similar device. Her bio-energy had been drained, her blood spilled, and she had tasted agony severe enough to make her consciousness recede. That memory now locked every muscle in her body tight. She pressed her lips firmly together. No complaints. That was the one shred of pride she still stubbornly maintained against Galen. The soldiers began attaching the thin tubes to both her arms and her back. The sharp pain of needles piercing skin. Arisa bit her lip and choked back her voice. Galen stood at the entrance to the control room. He watched Arisa being secured to the device with a face utterly unreadable. Only his right index finger moved, faintly. "[cold] This is the final stage." Galen's voice was neither explanation nor comfort. It was mere confirmation — words spoken as a function check on a tool. "[cold] Absolute Zero will activate. My brother's legacy will be completed. Your name will remain in history." Arisa lifted her head. In her pallid face, only her aquamarine eyes burned fiercely. "[gentle] ...What you'll leave behind isn't history." Her voice trembling, Arisa spoke nonetheless. "[gentle] It's just... a corpse." Silence. Galen did not reply. Once, he would have immediately intimidated her. He would have drawn Vesper, pressed its muzzle against her, and sealed her words with violence. But this time was different. He simply fell silent. A change he himself did not notice. This girl's words somehow disrupted his calculations. Something that could not be processed as mere tool had begun to stir within him. His right index finger moved more violently than usual. "[cold] Begin." Galen gave the order to Kestra and took his place before the monitor. Kestra entered the activation sequence. The ancient machinery roared to life, and the control terminals began to emit a pale, bluish phosphorescence. The Plant wreckage's control circuits started reading Arisa's biological data. Patterns of pale activation code raced across the monitor. "[serious] Authentication rate, seventy percent. Rising." The numbers leaped upward. Seventy-three. Seventy-eight. Eighty-one — "[serious] It's passed eighty. At this rate —" That was the moment. The entire apparatus began to vibrate abnormally. The low roar shifted into an ear-splitting shriek. Arisa's body, chair and all, started shaking violently. A muffled groan escaped her lips. "[scared] What —" Kestra hammered at the terminal. The numbers on the monitor had begun spinning backward at an abnormal speed. — Bio-energy backflow. Arisa's psychological rejection response. Not fear or anger, but a fundamental biological resistance to forced synchronization with the Plant. It had flooded back into the device as feedback, reversing the energy flow. What was meant only to read biological data was now forcibly siphoning Arisa's very life energy. A soundless scream tore from Arisa's throat. Blood trickled down from her ears. Bright crimson droplets stained her silver-white hair and fell onto her shoulders. Then blood gushed from her nose as well. Her mouth opened, and a clot of blood surged up from the back of her throat. Her eyes began to cloud over, turning milky white. "— ah, a-ahh —" Her voice transformed into a shriek. Kestra entered the emergency stop command. But the system did not respond. The words "COMMAND REJECTED" flashed on the monitor. "[angry] It's running wild! It's not responding!" One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Arisa's body convulsed violently. Bloody foam spilled from her mouth. The blood flowing from her ears was forming a small pool on the floor. Four seconds. Five seconds. Six seconds. The sound of bones creaking. Convulsions as if muscles were being torn apart. Her fingers clawed at the iron armrests, nails peeling back, blood seeping out. Seven seconds. Eight seconds. Nine seconds. Her voice withered away. Her mouth was open, yet she could no longer even scream. Only the faint vibration of air leaking from the back of her throat served as proof that she was still alive. Ten seconds. Eleven seconds. Twelve seconds — For those twelve seconds, Galen could not move. He stood rooted before the monitor, unable to reach for the control panel, unable to turn his back. His deep indigo right eye stared fixedly at the scene before him. The calculating machine inside him tried to compute every possibility. Yet none of them permitted him to act. Why — why wouldn't his hand move? Why couldn't he tear his gaze away? It was outside all calculation. This girl's suffering, for some reason, violently disturbed something deep within him. "— Emergency stop, successful!" Kestra's voice rang out, and the device was forcibly halted. A buzzer blared, and the system fell silent. The vibrations ceased, and the high-pitched sound that had filled the room vanished. Silence. Arisa collapsed from the chair. The thin tubes were torn away, blood scattering. Her body tumbled to the floor, her silver-white hair spreading out across the pool of blood. Kestra rushed to her side immediately, pressing a hand to her neck. The motion of checking her vital signs was that of an engineer. Cold, precise — and yet her fingertips trembled faintly. "[serious] Heart rate, barely maintaining critical threshold. Respiration is shallow. The blood... I'll stop it." She tore a strip from the edge of her own clothing and pressed the cloth to Arisa's mouth. The fabric was dyed vivid crimson in an instant. From her ears, from her nose, the blood flowing from her small body would not stop. Arisa did not lose consciousness. From beneath trembling lashes, hollow eyes looked up at Galen. Her pale aquamarine eyes, within those clouded whites, still had not lost their light. Not anger, not pleading — just a silent gaze, utterly exhausted. That gaze met Galen's eyes for a single beat. In that instant, from the pit of Galen's stomach, a nameless nausea surged upward. Not fear. Not regret. The word "pangs of conscience" did not exist in his vocabulary. Just — the sensation that a void, something that had never been there before, had opened at the root of his own actions. His cause was supposed to be righteous. Inherit his brother's will, annihilate humanity, create a new world through the Plants. For that, any means were justified — so he had believed. And yet, why would this nausea not stop? As if to crush the foreign object within himself, Galen muttered lowly. "[cold] ...This is all for my brother." The words were like a prayer. Or perhaps, a reminder to himself. The next instant — he clenched his right hand into a fist and slammed it into the control panel. BANG!! The dull sound of metal being struck exploded through the room. The monitor shook, and the needles on the instruments jumped. The skin of his knuckles split, blood welling up. The pain of bones creaking shot up his arm. But that pain alone barely managed to suppress the nausea surging from the pit of his stomach. Kestra stared at the scene. Her amber eyes darted back and forth between Galen's bloodied fist and the collapsed Arisa. The calculating machine in her head was recording this moment as data. (*— This man is beginning to break.*) Kestra said nothing. She merely continued to staunch Arisa's bleeding, while etching this moment deep within herself. It was an hour later when the iron door of the detention cell closed again. After receiving rudimentary treatment, Arisa had been returned to her cage. The bleeding from her ears and nose had stopped, but her face was paper-white, her lips dry and cracked. Lying on the cot, she stared at the ceiling. The taste of blood still lingered in her mouth. A metallic, bitter taste. (*— Why did he punch it?*) The question repeated itself in Arisa's mind. The sound of the control panel being struck, hear