“…You have done something ridiculous, my other-half.”
In the middle of a magnificent banquet hall, one couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe.
The only word that came to mind was “huge.”
Nirhil, standing before a long table that seemed to have been carved from a massive, ancient tree—one that had preserved the silent years of countless creatures—forced back the sigh threatening to escape.
Cecil Lionelta.
A pitiful woman who longed for love with a mania bordering on obsession.
She had become one with the Nightmare and had grown increasingly desperate to achieve eternal love with Julius. She was now driving herself to death, clinging to him with everything she had.
“…Or is all of this also a destiny?”
The woman’s dark eyes, which had once sparkled but were now dimmed by her own brilliance, blinked a couple of times. She gracefully raised her hand and briefly covered her mouth as a yawn slipped out. Then, she slowly rose from her seat and began walking toward her bedroom.
It was a strange space, surrounded by doors on all sides.
The Nightmare’s abode within the dream world, seemingly modeled after a grand castle, had an eerily bizarre appearance.
All that could be seen were doors.
There was a door where there should have been a window, and the hallway floor—where a red carpet should have been—was instead lined with door panels, each lacking any patterns.
Ttogak.
Ttogak.
The soft sound of footsteps echoed through the eerie devil’s abode, void of any warmth.
Nirhil, who had been wandering aimlessly for some time, stopped silently in front of a particular door.
[Nightmare]
A deep black door, the word ‘Nightmare’ engraved on it in elegant, old-fashioned script—as if this were her room.
She tilted her head slightly and looked down the empty corridor of the palace.
A woman in eternal sleep.
Her Cecile persona had not yet arrived here.
It was clear that if her noisy, wicked other-half were to visit, even the brief gift of sweet rest would vanish in an instant.
Resolving to enjoy what little peace she had, Nirhil quietly turned the doorknob and stepped forward with her small feet into her bedroom.
All that lay within was a black bed at the center of a dark void, and a cute doll with puffed-up cheeks resting atop it.
A doll she had made to pass the time while trapped in the dream world.
She loved her husband.
She picked up the doll—crafted in Julius’s likeness—and hugged it close. Then, as if her breath had been cut off, she collapsed onto her soft bed and closed her eyes, a faint smile resting on her lips.
She left it to him.
Tonight, she hoped to have a happy dream.
***
“Now, everything will return to nothing… Julius.”
The brown-haired saint looked at the man holding the sword with a gentle smile and the expression of a benevolent sage.
Erman turned his gaze away from Julius Tapnel—the short, blond-haired inquisitor who held aloft a holy sword gleaming with five-colored light—and looked out at the darkened skies above Lyriam.
Divinity and magic swirled through the heavens and earth created by Rom—a truly terrifying vision that returned all within it to nothingness.
Proudly surveying the destruction he had wrought, Erman slowly lowered his head and cast a fleeting glance over the edge of the castle wall.
Priestess Emily Ridina had lost her immortal powers. Her body was torn apart, her upper torso exploding as she met her end.
Brukin, a hero who fought bravely to the last, ultimately chose to sacrifice himself to save a man who had been like a son to him.
A gray-haired heretic inquisitor lay on the ground, his left arm severed.
Krail, and Raynell—the angel of punishment—had died beside him.
Tapnel, the angel of faith, had died with her stomach pierced by hers own light spear.
Ziffnel, the angel of love, had lost her infinite divinity and been beheaded.
The angels and priests of the Church of Telmere, who had joined forces to stop the saint, all met their end.
Erman had destroyed the truth of Rom, whose meticulous plans had all come to fruition.
He shattered the flow of time.
Before everything vanished, he asked Julius the one question he had kept in his heart until the very end.
“Everything has already returned to nothingness. I would like to ask you one last question.”
“……”
“You. Do you believe in destiny?”
It was a phrase that contained the secrets of the world, spoken from the lips of a saint.
Julius, upon hearing those words, silently raised the holy sword in his hand and whispered softly,
“Even if everything is destined… there is only one thing for me to do.”
He had a heart that would not waver, no matter what trials he faced. He would carry out his beliefs.
“My beloved wife… keeping my oath to Cecil.”
Even if his very existence were to be shattered and countless ages passed—He would love her again.
After those words, the heretic inquisitor never spoke again.
Nerondir, glowing with five colors of light, pierced the heart of the fallen saint from his hand.
Soon after, everything faded away like dust, leaving the world filled with only emptiness.
***
“Priest Brukin! Now!”
The voice of a gray-haired man rang out from afar.
Hearing the cry of Krail, the disciple who was like a son to him, the elderly priest rushed toward the fallen saint Erman. He wielded a power as red as fresh blood and as blue as the ocean.
“Huh, it’s you after all. No matter how much time passes, that power is always hard to face.”
Erman, the saint steeped in evil, drew corrupted magic from his heart.
He casually turned the flying fragments of a massive castle wall into dust and laughed loudly, twisting the corners of his mouth.
“But it’s already too late. My belief lies in the Heavenly Great Father. The truth of Rom has been fulfilled, and everything will return to nothingness.”
A slightly cold wind blew.
The heartbreakingly blue and wide autumn sky was gone.
In its place, the sky of Lyriam swirled with strange, black whirlpools.
Brukin, who had fought until the bitter end but ultimately failed to stop the destruction, let out a heavy breath and struck out with his fist.
“Why! Why did you do something like this? Do you really believe this is for Cecil’s benefit?”
“Ah, Brukin, my dear friend. Of course, all of this is for that child.”
Hahaha───.
A dry, desolate laugh escaped from the saint’s mouth.
Soon, everything began returning to nothing, and Erman asked Brukin the one question he had held in his heart until the end.
“Do you believe in destiny?”
“Where’s that crap supposed to be? You damned b*stard.”
The war hero answered the saint without hesitation.
But his reply merely echoed into the void.
In the end, everything returned to nothingness.
***
“Julius! Julius! Erman, you son of a b*tch, how dare you touch my son!”
A man with long blond hair collapsed after a dagger hidden in the fallen saint’s arm pierced his heart.
Rom’s adopted daughter, her beautiful silver hair streaked with blood and tears, cradled the cold body of Julius.
In front of her, the old saint exhaled his last breath slowly.
She screamed with a torn voice, cursing Erman.
“Your plan will never succeed. You, who killed my close friend, my resurrected daughter-in-law, and now my son Julius—you are no saint!”