Prepared to Say Goodbye

The night in Fenlareth was not yet truly cold when those words hung in the air: "It seems this is only the beginning." Ayato gazed north, towards the unsettling dark line on the horizon. The wind rustled the leaves—not fiercely, but heavily, as if carrying news that chose to remain silent.

In Lunareth, the promise once whispered by the Vampire Elder had taken form: "Lunareth will be peaceful. No more screams, no more hunger." That peace arrived without a sound. The majority of the citizens, undead, marched in orderly lines without turning their heads; some imperfect ghouls, bodies intact but minds gone, moved mechanically like clockwork that had lost its numbers; and only two remained clear—perfect ghouls: Selphira and Kaelyn—walking like humans, yet their eyes did not reflect the sky.

The city was eternal—bodies kept moving—while unheard screams were locked within each of their souls.

Then the night shattered—not by sound, but by a ripple. From the center of Lunareth, something pulsed: once... twice... then exploded in silence, like black ink falling into water and spreading into a ring that swallowed the light.

The torches in the alleyways extinguished simultaneously, the tower bell did not ring, but the wave was felt from afar—touching the forests of Fenlareth.

The runes on Lys's bracelet flickered dimly. Irea's ears perked up. The black orb, whose coldness still lingered in Ayato's palm, suddenly grew cold again, as if touched from hundreds of miles away.

"A dark rhythm... has erupted," Lys murmured, her irises narrowing, gauging the direction.

"Direction?" Irea asked shortly.

Lys merely pointed—north. Beyond the treetops, the skyline was pale—not because of dawn; because something was swallowing the light.

Ayato didn't need more than a single breath. Lunareth was not an unfamiliar place to him. It was the home he had once left behind.

"Irea. Rest for now, your wounds aren't fully healed."

Irea was about to protest; Lys shook her head once. "Understand. I will look for Cielle—the markers in Fenlareth have also been sabotaged; if we misstep, I fear something worse will happen."

Irea clenched her fists—restraining herself. "Don't die, kid," she said to his retreating back.

Ayato glanced back. Once. It was enough. His legs were running before his mind had a chance to grant permission.

"Vin-chan—!" Lys didn't shout a prohibition. She merely raised her palm, anchoring two small sigils in the air. "Take this," she said when she caught up a few steps later, slipping an oval bottle into Ayato's grasp. An elixir—warm like embers in his palm. "A charm. Don't push your body too hard... if you can." Her smile was thin.

"Yes, thank you!"

...

Lunareth did not welcome. The city swallowed. The stone streets usually filled with bakers and cloth merchants were now as empty as a hall after a party. Ayato cut through an alley—passing a small post he once used—and found Alex standing with his back to the lane, shoulders stiff, hand clutching a small slate board.

"Alex..." Ayato approached—then stopped. The boy's eyes were clear, too clear; the movement of his neck held no intent. An imperfect ghoul. His hair, usually messy, was unnaturally neat, as if combed by a hand that didn't know how to comb.

"K-neesan... is she home?" Alex asked in a flat tone that wasn't his own.

Ayato held his breath. His sword appeared with a cold that didn't hurt the ears; he pressed the blade—ice blessed with silence—against Alex's chest. "Rest."

Alex's gaze didn't have time to change as Ayato's magic put him to sleep—Vin's way. The body slumped slowly, like someone finally permitted to sleep.

The lane behind Alex opened to a view of the square. Undead walked past: straight steps, empty eyes, not turning. Imperfect ghouls moved mechanically, turning only at a sound—without any "who" behind it.

...

The alley was narrow—a cold that wasn't cold crept from the stones into his bones. A woman's silhouette stood three steps ahead, her uniform still neat though stained: a short coat with silver buttons, a small emblem on the left shoulder. Her posture... too familiar. Ayato held his breath; his heart beat once—hard.

He shifted the sole of his foot. SRET.

The guard turned. Click. Red eyes.

Ayato froze for a fraction of a second. "---Kae—"

CLANG! The spur on her glove lashed out swiftly. Ayato raised his arm; an ice casing bloomed instantly, fine cracks forming as it received the impact. The opponent moved precisely: one—two—pause—counter. Too familiar to the bone.

THWACK! THWACK! A low-high combination.

Ayato countered with a short riposte—TING!—just to create distance. His breath was regulated—three tight—two loose.

FWOOM! Wind exploded from Kaelyn's palm—body reinforcement ignited her calves; her shoes scraped the stone. She sliced the air: a thin vacuum slash.

Ayato lowered his shoulder—ZZZIP!—the wind blade passed a hair's breadth away, cutting the edge of his cloak.

CRACK! Ayato anchored the floor with ice nails; his footing locked. He pressed forward, one-two—pause—thrust.

Kaelyn twisted her wrist. CLANG-CLANG! Sparks. Her left arm—the spurred gauntlet—clawed the air. ZSHH! The air turned into a micro vortex, slapping Ayato's cheek.

A faint metallic scent rose as a small cut opened on Ayato's arm. His blood dripped—

SRET-SRET. The drops were pulled by Kaelyn; threads of blood formed into needles.

Ayato pressed two fingers together. SNAP! A spark of fire ignited from his fingernail; POF! a short flame bloomed in the air. The blood needles evaporated into mist; his small wound was cauterized.

Hot steam filled the alley.

Ayato scraped his foot—ZHAP!—a thin blanket of ice spread across the floor; the steam turned into white mist.

Kaelyn charged through, FWOOSH!, breaking the mist with a fan of wind from her arm. Ayato lowered his blade—CLANG!—blocked, then twisted his wrist—KREK!—locking the opponent's guard for a fraction of a second.

BAM! Kaelyn's knee slammed into his thigh—Ayato slipped a step on his own artificial snow.

He threw an earth magic stone in front of Kaelyn's feet—TOK!—the floor bulged, creating a step. Kaelyn jumped—the wind aided her over the obstacle.

TRING! TRANG! Blades crossed, swift and short.

Ayato tethered a line of ice to the wall, pulling his body into a narrow swing; his diagonal slash forced Kaelyn back.

Kaelyn responded with a curved wind sweep; the edge of Ayato's coat was peeled away. She didn't pursue—instead pressed two fingers to an old wound on the back of her hand: SRET—blood-manipulation formed a red blade thin as a leaf.

CLANG! The blood blade stuck to Ayato's sword, trying to crawl up the ice blade.

Ayato ignited fire within the blade—FSSST—hissing steam rose from the surface, canceling the adhesion. Ice and fire met; the blade breathed, fine cracks healing again.

The rhythm shifted, faster.

One—two—pause—COUNTER!

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

SWOOSH! ZSHH! FWOOM!

Ayato snatched back a remaining fire stone—snap!—exploding a short flare into Kaelyn's eyes. Not to injure—to steal a single blink.

In the same second, he unraveled a thread of ice from his palm—almost invisible—TING!—binding Kaelyn's sword guard to an ice nail in the wall.

Pull.

KREK! Kaelyn's guard jerked; her elbow was forced open.

Ayato slid a step inside—SRET—crossing the opponent's sword outside the line, shoulder touching, hip pressing. BLOK! The spurred gauntlet hit Ayato's half-guard; he countered with a head-fake, then dropped his level to her side—THUD! his heel pressed a nerve point.

Kaelyn did not complain. She chose to blow wind under her soles—wanting to bounce back.

Ayato was already waiting. ZHAP! He froze half of that wind into flakes—not blocking, but altering its vector. Kaelyn slipped a fraction of a degree from her escape intent—enough.

Disarm.

Silence fell like a cold blanket.

Ayato still held Kaelyn's left arm in a safe lock; Kaelyn's sword spun away—TING...—then stopped on the stone floor. Thin steam rose from their skin—the remnants of ice and wind fading against each other.

Ayato loosened the lock, slowly lowering Kaelyn—letting her lean on her own knees. His breath was counted: three tight—two loose. His throat was sore.

"Elyn..."

Kaelyn's eyelids blinked slowly. Those red eyes were sharp, but an old thread still flickered there—shyly, like during spars on the training grounds; wood against wood, tight rhythm, traps and counter-traps ending with a THWACK and suppressed laughter.

"Sorry." Kaelyn's lips moved a fraction. Flat, like all her reports from the past. "I... failed to be a good partner. Even my own... heart and body... I failed to protect."

Ayato swallowed. "If one side falls, the other will protect," he repeated softly. "So let me—the one who remains—protect what's left."

Kaelyn shook her head faintly. There was a bitter smile. "You were always good at closing gaps... even when you were... annoying."

Ayato almost laughed, but what came out was a shaky exhale.

"Thank you." He bowed his head closer, his voice growing smaller. "For 'K'. For the little kids in the slums. You saved them, didn't you?"

He closed his eyes for a moment. "If not for 'K', they might have had a hard time surviving."

Kaelyn's eyes trembled—as if something behind the red mist turned to look one more time. She didn't admit, didn't deny. Just a wisp of breath: "Good... that they're safe."

Ayato gripped her fingers—cold, but not with cold. "Elyn," he called. "There's one more thing I want to hear. May I? Your farewell... may I hear it?"

Kaelyn was silent for a long time. In the narrow alley, the distant sounds—wind dragging dust—were the only witness.

Finally, she spoke. "Goodbye, V."

The same address, as intimate as the night she scolded him for practicing until his back was bruised, then secretly applied salve and pretended not to care as the bruises healed.

"I... am sorry. For staring at your back for too long... but never being fast enough to stand right beside you."

The corner of her lips rose thin as a blade. "And thank you... for staying alive, until this moment..."

Ayato failed to suppress the tremor in his chest. "You—" his voice cracked—"you were the best partner I ever had."

"Hehe... glad to hear that..." There was a remnant of the banter they once saved just for each other. Then Kaelyn shifted her head, seeking a more comfortable position—and without being asked, Ayato offered his thigh as a pillow.

He stared at the alley ceiling; those red eyes faded slowly, no longer as sharp as before. "If there is a next time... I hope...," she whispered. "I can be your partner again."

Ayato let out a laugh that was half a sob. "Yes."

"One last thing..." Kaelyn turned slightly, looking up at him from below. "Don't regret... more than you need to."

"I won't," Ayato answered, almost defiantly. "You've already closed half of it for me."

Silence returned. Only short intakes of breath—then shorter—then...

Ayato pressed his thumb against the pulse point on the side of her neck. A gentle coldness spread, soothing. "Rest, Elyn."

Kaelyn closed her eyes. "Yes..."

One soft exhalation, like a small wing brushing away from the world.

Then—sssh—a painless crack. Fine gray lines glowed from the edges of her lips, from her eyelashes, from the hair she always tied neatly before sparring. The body crumbled slowly, lightly. The perfect ghoul returned instantly—glittering ash fell on Ayato's thigh, clinging to his gloves and the lines of his clothes, like snow that had run out of season.

Ayato bent over, catching the ash with both palms, as if it could still be held. His shoulders shook; he counted his breath again—three tight—two loose—yet his vision blurred anyway.

"Farewell," he uttered hoarsely. "Thank you... for everything. For 'K'. For Elyn."

The ash thinned. The alley fell silent again, leaving a faint metallic smell that was soon swallowed by the cold.

Ayato stood up slowly, touched the stone floor—freezing it as thin as glass, a small invisible marker where Kaelyn "slept." Only he knew that code.

Then he turned towards the mansion.

There was still one more promise he had to keep...

...

The front hall was silent. Dusty carpets, cracked vases, curtains hanging half-torn. Selphira stood in the center—house dress wrinkled, hair disheveled. Those red eyes were like glass that failed to reflect anyone.

"You," she said flatly. "The last time I saw you, you left without saying goodbye."

"I... have returned," Ayato uttered. His own voice sounded foreign.

"Too late."

ZZZT! Shadow ropes burst from under the sofa, from behind the curtains, from the gaps in the floor. Ayato raised his arm—ice bloomed thinly on his skin; TING! TING! the bindings snapped one by one. He did not advance. He accepted.

Selphira moved clearly but unsteadily—a perfect ghoul still in its early stages. A ward she tried to build in the air shattered on its own; shards of painted glass flew CRISH!, spinning uncontrollably, slicing the pillars. The shadows meant to bind instead slashed arbitrarily, leaving scorch marks on the dining table.

"All of this is ruined because of you," she said—flat, because her anger was too full.

Ayato blocked another lash—CLANG!—his ice blade deflecting the black rope. A faint metallic scent rose from a cut on his waist. He did not advance. He accepted.

Selphira took a short breath; her voice was flat, because her anger was past its limit. "You chose to save yourself, V. That night you turned your back and left. My city's future crumbled. My father ended his life in his study. My people shivered and starved with your name branded on our backs."

She raised her palm; ZZZT! shadows coagulated into a spear, missed, CRAAK! breaking the staircase's newel post. "And now—when we finally chose eternal happiness to stop the pain—you come again to destroy that too!"

Ayato bowed his head slightly. "I do not ask for forgiveness," he said softly. "Vent it all until it's gone—I will accept all of it!"

At least with that I can...

Selphira clicked her tongue soundlessly. "I hate you twice: when you came, and when you came again."

Ayato drew a breath—three tight—two loose. "True." He still did not advance.

FWOOSH! Selphira screamed without sound; shadows from under the carpet exploded into small vortexes that dragged chairs. ZZHAP! Ayato covered them with a thin blanket of ice, deflecting the vector so it wouldn't consume her own feet. Selphira forced it—her pupils tightened; the red light in her eyes deepened.

"If only you had never existed... IF ONLY YOU HAD NEVER EXISTED!!!"

Ayato did not speak. He remembered the evening light on the balcony—Selphira insisting he call her just "Selphira" without "-sama", laughing softly when the tea was too bitter. Sharing secrets while riding in a carriage. It all felt distant.

ZZZT! Another shadow rope emerged from under the piano—missed by a line, NGRK! grazing Ayato's stomach. His knees buckled. The world reddened at the edges. He did not fight back; he endured, patched—ice coiled around Selphira's arm krek—merely cutting the magic flow to prevent wild rebounds.

Selphira gasped for air. There was an impasse in her eyes—between hatred and something older than hate. "You are too... selfish," she said.

Ayato bowed his head. "I'm sorry."

He saw a gap: every time Selphira forced two shadows at once, a backlash bit her left wrist for an instant—a small twitch in the vein. Ayato waited for it once more.

Selphira raised both hands. BUUM! Two shadow spears were born far apart—their paths chaotic, the air crackling. Now. Ayato took one step: SRET!

His right palm enveloped Selphira's left wrist with a gentle cold—a cold-veil that soothed, not completely froze.

His left arm wrapped around Selphira's elbow, turning it safely inward—a lock that didn't injure.

His shoulder pressed against Selphira's shoulder, closing the distance so the remaining shadows lost their vector.

Selphira struggled once more—ZZT! a shadow rope screamed and died before it could become a weapon. She still tried; Ayato accepted, shrouding every attempt with layers of ice thin as dew.

"Don't—" Selphira bit the word; she didn't know what she was asking for.

"I am here," Ayato said, his voice hoarse. "This is all I can do."

They descended together. Ayato seated Selphira on the floor, her back leaning against Ayato's chest like someone who had run out of dreams. A faint heat from Ayato's palm vaporized the ice fragments around Selphira's hands so they wouldn't hurt; heat and cold met and neutralized.

Selphira stared ahead—those red eyes were wet without understanding. "I hate you," she said softly. Flat. Honest. "Because you... entered, then vanished. Because after you left, everything sweet... felt like a trap."

Ayato closed his eyes for a moment. "I know."

"If you had stayed here from the start..." Selphira stopped, swallowing the non-existent words. "There is no 'if'," she corrected herself. "Too late is still too late."

She turned her face away, refusing to look at him. "Hold me until I'm gone, then leave again. That's what you're good at." A small, humorless laugh. "And never return to my dreams."

Ayato did not argue. Only his thumb touched the pulse on the side of her neck—a gentle cold crept in, soothing the remnants of misdirected magic tremors.

"Selphira ojou-sama," he called one last time, softly. "I'm sorry."

"Quiet," she said—this time without anger. "Let me hate you in peace."

Silence fell. The pulse beneath his finger slowed. Selphira's face was calm—not peaceful, just... finished.

Then—sssh—a painless crack. Fine gray lines glowed from the edges of her eyelashes, from the lips that used to slip up while teasing the kitchen maid to add more sugar to her tea. The perfect ghoul returned instantly. Light ash rose once, then fell slowly on Ayato's arms and chest—like snow that had run out of season.

Ayato brought his palms together, cupping them—as if something could still be held. His shoulders shook once. He did not apologize again; Selphira had already chosen her last word.

As the ash thinned, the hall fell silent again. The faint metallic smell in the air faded, swallowed by the cold.

Ayato stood up slowly. He froze the floor as thin as glass—a small, invisible marker. Only he knew.

In his pocket, the communication stone vibrated. Lys's voice slipped in—quick, dense, like a rope thrown from afar. "Vin-chan? Follow the densest shadow flow, west side—the clock tower. I can't get there, there's something more urgent! Cielle-chan is in that place, I'm entrusting her to you!"

Ayato looked back once more at the spot where Selphira had just "slept". "Understood," he said.

Battle after battle... but, there is no other choice.

Ayato let out a long sigh before heading to the next battle.

...

Ayato followed the coordinates Lys sent. The pavilion was like the earth's belly—dark, damp, the stench of decay mixed with the thickening scent of metal. At the foot of the tower, a ritual circle was spread: black lines like veins, red candles burning low.

Above it stood a girl in a dark robe—Cielle—cold, a sickle hanging down touching the floor; a thin mist embraced her blue eyes until they seemed empty.

From the darkness, the Vampire Elder emerged. A wide hood, pale skin reflecting the candle flames, glowing red eyes lazy.

"You've caused me trouble," he greeted with false friendliness. "Two perfect ghouls I just formed... turned to ash before I could use them. And now, you come to disrupt the ritual of the True Mother." He tilted his head, fingers raised, blood dripping from his nails flowing into the air becoming threads. "Are you a guest, or a pest?"

Ayato stared at Cielle—his breath counted three tight—two loose—then returned to the Elder. "Enough."

"Not yet." The smile under the hood widened. "You know, this city is peaceful. Its people stopped crying when I whispered the promise of eternity—"

WUMMM! Ayato stomped the floor; lines of ice climbed from the stone, blocking half the ritual circle. FWOOM! Fire followed from his palm, swallowing the red candles until they extinguished. TOK! He threw an earth magic stone—the floor bulged and cracked, breaking a third of the symbols.

The Elder tsked. "Know your place, human."

ZSSSH! The blood threads in the air thickened, merging into a whip.

CLANG! Ayato blocked with his ice blade; fine cracks spread then healed again.

SWOOSH! The blood whip swept a pillar; Ayato slipped between the pillars and countered with a fire slash that vaporized blood sparks in the air. The smell of burnt iron sliced through his nose.

Cielle did not move. Those empty blue eyes didn't blink as sparks passed before her cheeks.

Ayato pushed again: CRACK! An ice pillar grew from the floor, striking the hood—the Elder staggered a step, the blood whip cutting the pillar's peak. Ayato struck low; CLANG-CLANG! a short exchange—compact, efficient. The edge of the hood caught fire before being extinguished by a pool of blood that rose on its own.

"Not bad," the Elder murmured. "But 'not bad' is a dead end."

He flicked the air. TAP. A small drop of blood that had just stained the floor leaped back, as if remembering its home.

Ayato pressed on: ice patched the circle's lines; fire swept the remaining symbols; earth pushed the ritual stones up, breaking them. Almost... done.

"Know why you will lose?" The Elder approached leisurely; the air around him hardened like glass gel. "Because you were late twice. Late in saving yourself, and late in coming back."

Ayato lunged forward. SRET!—TING! His blade slit the Elder's sleeve; a strand of blood splattered—but did not fall to the floor. It expanded. Became a needle.

"A gift for making me lose two new creations," he whispered.

KRIP! The blood needle pierced Ayato's side from an angle—a cold-hot pain ignited inside. He endured; fire from his palm flared, burning the needle's trace from the outside.

The Elder smiled. "Not from the outside."

Ayato froze for a fraction. He felt: something crawling from another, older wound—fine threads searching, crawling, then stabbing. Right into his heart.

THUD. Its beat faltered.

"There," the Elder whispered contentedly. "Be at peace."

Even with his heart pierced, Ayato did not immediately die. He could still draw breath, and slowly his mana began to drastically increase—death could not reach him so easily—

---but---

GGRRROOOM.

The Dark Zone closed in one breath. Black walls shut like giant petals; the air was extinguished, sound swallowed. The fire in Ayato's hand died instantly, his ice cracked and stilled like glass frozen under the sea.

This... is just like Fenrir...

"No time for your clever ideas," the Elder's voice came from everywhere. "You won't have the chance."

One of Ayato's knees hit the ground. His vision narrowed—the edges of the world red, then black. Between two distant heartbeats, he saw Cielle turn her face away from the circle, the mist around her thickening by a wisp—and falling silent again.

"Sleep," the Elder said softly, falsely. "This city needs peace."

Darkness closed completely.

...

Darkness.

First, warmth—flashes of the modern world: neon reflecting on wet glass, rain slanting on train windows, cheap soda tingling the tongue, breath feeling light as feet hit the pavement and ran without being chased, simply because his chest was full of something hard to name.

The images slowed. Click. The sequence broke—changing into a parade of regrets.

Lunareth. The night of decision. The study door never opened again. Faces lining up, hands trembling holding bread. The city flag lowered to half-mast. Names once called now silent.

Ayato did not close his eyes.

Behind him, someone appeared without a mask: a gothic lolita girl, bluish-black hair sweeping her shoulders, clear blue eyes—Cielle. She lifted two figures as if weighing fragile items: Kaelyn and Selphira—intact, warm, as if they had just laughed yesterday.

"Is this what you wanted to keep?"—not a voice, but an intent that was felt.

The scene shifted just like that.

Ayato's days as Selphira's personal guard: neat mornings, quiet duties, bitter tea finished anyway while suppressing a smile—days without regrets rolling on sunlit carpets. Beautiful... but too neat. Beautiful... but not growing. A beauty forced to be eternal.

Ayato shook his head. "This... is an insult," he thought—not to them, but to the life being concocted into still images.

Rip. Those days tore—red swallowed the edges. The ground turned into a sea of blood. Selphira, Kaelyn, and the people of Lunareth crawled from below—not to injure, but to demand accountability. Their teeth and fingers gnawed at his arms, shoulders, chest—not pain, but the burden he had carried alone all this time.

Ayato did not look away. He accepted it all: anger, disgust, fear, emptiness—letting it pass until the names were exhausted. Then he decided: advance.

"Goodbye," he uttered—not to the people, but to the past trying to bind him.

The projector died. Darkness returned fully.

A point of red light glowed in the distance—small, then growing like an ember fanned. Ayato turned; his eyelids opened wider as a familiar heat crept from his fingertips to his shoulder blades.

A silhouette leaped through the dark. BOOOM!

The punch split the darkness like slapping a wet curtain; the Elder's blood whip that followed—ZSHH!—was deflected with one twist, broken cleanly.

The figure stood leaning—a slanted smile, eyes burning like fire ready for a fight.

"Yo," he greeted thinly—enough to pull Ayato's breath out of the dark. "Wake up, Vin."

He deflected the next attack from the right—concise, economical, right at the whip's joint—then shifted his shoulder, creating an opening.

Ayato drew a breath—warm--cold--empty—his head cleared. "Why can you—"

"That flirty witch called me," Ragna cut in casually. "Soon as I heard your name, I ran. Coincidentally, I like bloody-smelling parties like this."

The Vampire Elder snarled under his hood. "Another pest."

But unlike when facing Ayato, the Elder now seemed slightly panicked―confronting the figure before him.

Ragna shrugged. "A pest that uses fire."

Ayato bit the stopper—the ELIXIR Lys gave him flowed warmly, mending him from within; the strained heartbeat found its rhythm again. "Thank you," he murmured—to two people at once.

On the Elder's side, a mature figure stood: red eyes, white hair, a vampire's dress with fangs glinting in the candlelight. The air around her was silent like an empty room.

"True Mother," the Elder said sweetly, "witness—"

The figure didn't even turn. She turned slowly, stepping away past a pillar—the shadows around her wrinkled softly, opening a path. Not a single word did she leave behind.

Ayato reflexively lunged forward, wanting to pursue—

ZSHHH! The Elder's blood whip blocked, descending from the ceiling like a dragon's tail.

Ragna pressed his left foot; the air tightened. KRAAK! The blood whip broke in three places, floating limply like a wet ribbon. "You deal with your little girl," he said to Ayato without turning. "This one—has business with me."

The Elder roared and pounced; Ragna let out a short laugh. "Bring it."

WHUUM! A wave of heat pressure exploded; stones on the floor swelled like bread. In a fraction of a second, Ragna froze the Elder's movements—not with ice, but by locking the vectors of his blood: fire pressed from eight directions, burying every flow of hemomancy in place. The Elder convulsed—his minor joints jammed.

"Go." Ragna jerked his chin towards the northern corridor. "Your Cielle went up."

Ayato looked at him for one second—enough to seal a promise in silence. "I leave him to you!"

"Ou! Leave it to me! Okay―time to get fired up!" He clapped his fist into his palm—thump—then cracked his knuckles. KRETEK! KRETEK!—each sound accompanied by a spark of fire.

Ayato passed through; the remnants of the ritual's shadows tried to bind his ankles—ZHAP! He laid down a thin blanket of ice, deflecting the current; the corridor cleared. He disappeared up the spiral stairs leading to the balcony.

Behind him, the party began.

The Elder broke the invisible lock with an eruption of blood from his pores; his whip hatched into hundreds of needles—KRIIIP!—chasing from all directions. Ragna twisted his wrist, the fire in his hand sharpening into thin lines; needles that touched it evaporated before reaching his skin.

"Not from the outside," the Elder hissed. His blood became mist, entering through the nose and ears—an internal attack.

"In that case," Ragna raised two fingers, "let's play inside too."

FWOOM! The temperature rose instantly. The blood mist was baked into air-charcoal; the heat wave bent the pillars of candlelight. Ragna stepped lightly, not igniting full power—his movements playful, but each smile held intent to finish. "You tried to hurt someone I care about. That's a bad hobby."

The Elder cackled, then wrapped himself in a cloth of night. "Very well," he said, his voice coming from all sides. "Lunareth, give to me—"

GROOOWWWWL. From afar, from every alley filled with undead and imperfect ghouls, dark energy like mist was drawn: sliding into the pavilion, swirling above the Elder's head, thickening into a crown of shadows. The walls creaked. The floor cracked. The candles extinguished.

Ragna looked up, his smile thin. "Finally getting serious."

Ragna twisted his wrist—click. A layer of his glove peeled back, revealing a red crystal on the back of his hand. From that crystal, a handle grew, a blade bloomed—in one breath, a halberd was born in his grasp. He swung it once—VOOM!—the space around seemed to contract following the swing.

"Round one: warm-up," he said flatly. "Round two: finish."

The Elder struck first—BRAM! The ground overturned, pillars leaped up as spears; the dark crown above sagged down as a suffocating blanket. Ragna moved three steps: left—right—in. CLANG! The tip of his halberd sliced the blood path without touching it, and all flow there died like a severed cable.

"Don't—" The Elder was cut off by a strike of the halberd's hilt to his sternum—THUD!—the floor bounced.

The fire was still not full. But his intent no longer held back.

"For trying to steal the neighbor's kid just now," Ragna whispered. "This is a warning!"

The halberd came down once—BOOOOM!—nearly obliterating the Elder; half the pavilion was dragged back like a roughly pulled cloth. The dark crown above the Elder's head shattered into a rain of fragments.

Desperate, the Elder sucked the remaining dark energy of Lunareth—more, deeper. The shadows in every alley thinned.

"I am a child of the True Mother!" he roared.

Ragna snorted. "Hah—a parent like you is no longer fit for nursing!"

He lowered the halberd to a position level with his waist. One intake of breath. Click. "Graduate from being a mama's boy!"

Fire layered at the halberd's tip; its heat was clean, without smoke. Ragna stepped—once. ZRAAAK! A red line was drawn in the space between them—short, quiet, certain.

The shockwave followed belatedly.

...

On the other side, Ayato had reached the balcony at the tower's summit.

The sky, daytime just moments ago, had turned to night; a red moon glowed like a giant iris. Cielle stood by the railing—calm, her robe long. Every drop of blood in the air hatched into small vampires screaming without sound.

SRET—TING—PAF!

Ayato cut them down cleanly; one line, one extinguished. His breath regulated: three tight—two loose. "Cielle," he called—more to remind himself not to falter.

Cielle broke the silence. "Partings... should not exist. Those who are meant to meet should not be separated."

The soft voice coming from Cielle's lips made Ayato jolt. Different from her usual way of communicating, this time Cielle directly spoke her sentence.

"It is precisely because we meet," Ayato replied, "that in the end, we must bid farewell."

"There is no beauty in what ends quickly," Cielle retorted, her red eyes cold. "Eternity reveals the truest beauty."

Ayato opened his palm to the side, SNAP!—a spark of fire bloomed as large as a flower at his fingertips, then died as quickly as it was born. "Beauty is born because it is brief—like fireworks," he said softly. "If you want, someday I will show you directly—fireworks far bigger than the one just now."

Cielle stared at the fire that had just been born and died. "Beauty that passes only once... is cruel."

"What never passes," Ayato gazed at the moon, "eventually stops feeling beautiful."

Cielle's robe swayed—wind from below the balcony carried a faint metallic scent. "Then prove it," she said coldly. "Prove that letting go is no crueler than holding on."

Ayato reached out his hand. "With me."

Cielle's eyes narrowed. A thin shadow slash tested Ayato's wrist—ZZHAP!—but died upon touching his skin; a cold that wasn't cold seeped from Ayato and neutralized the edge of that magic. "Unexpected... you are quite stubborn," she murmured.

"So are you," Ayato suppressed a faint smile. "A sweet stubbornness."

Silence fell. Click.

Their fingers drew closer—touched—and the familiar sensation began to surface again―Ayato was resonating once more.

The world inverted.

Darkness.

Ayato did not see himself—he saw her.

A vampire woman stood at the mouth of a stone cave: pale skin, red eyes glowing calmly, fangs peeking behind her lips. Her white hair fell to her back, reflecting light like threads of ice; a laced dress swept the ground as if touching nothing.

She raised her palm. Blood lifted from the air, forming small figures—pale, beautiful, their eyes first empty then gleaming. One... two... three... many. They looked at her like a mirror learning to breathe. They called her mother.

Seasons changed. Humans came with eyes fearful of time. They knelt, begging for eternity like the creatures she had created. The woman nodded. She gave... in exchange for a piece of beauty.

Beauty came in many forms:

a fragment of dusk on a cliff, a lullaby sung only once, laughter that created wrinkles at the corners of eyes, tears of reunion after war, the smell of the first bread after a famine. She touched their foreheads—SRET—and that "beauty" was lifted, placed in a place without dust. The gallery grew. And grew. And grew.

Each time "beauty" was stored, those red eyes softened; there was a satisfied smile not truly warm, but full. The next person came; she gave again, asked for beauty again—without end.

Ayato felt the warm--cold flow return to the joints of his fingers. There was something beautiful there, and something that had lost its breath. Beauty that was collected... stopped living.

Consciousness pulled him back like a hook.

He awoke on the balcony. The hand he held was not the "True Mother's", but the Cielle he knew; not a gloomy robe—simple lolita. Eyes... blue.

Cielle's lips moved a wisp—without sound.

An intent touched Ayato's pulse, warm and clear: Vin.

Ayato gripped tighter. "I am here. This time, don't let go."

Cielle nodded once. Resonance answered softly in Ayato's head: I won't.

They stepped forward. Hands still clasped. The sky darkened completely; the red moon lowered its light, as if understanding: tonight, parting was chosen so that beauty could be born—and end—with propriety.

Ayato only realized how quiet his body felt when the adrenaline subsided.
The heat--cold--emptiness inside him was burnt out---leaving only void. His knees weakened; his vision spotted. It's over, he thought—the first time that day he allowed the word to live.

Thump.

He tilted; his grasp almost slipped—almost.

Cielle pulled him tightly, holding him from the side; one arm on his shoulder, one on his back. Her lips made no sound, but her intent touched his pulse—warm, clear: Rest.

Ayato nodded silently. The faint metallic scent faded, replaced by the cold that wasn't cold of the night. He closed his eyes; his breath fell into the rhythm of three tight—two loose, then relaxed.

sssh.

The world went dark—this time, peaceful—in Cielle's embrace. Their hands remained clasped.