The glare of thunder left lightning still twitching in the air, and every creature felt a pins-and-needles tingle crawl over their skin like silver ants.

To cast a spell so fierce under Chaos’s crushing deconstruction was like lighting a beacon in a storm; name or not, everyone knew it was a First Generation Elf on par with Silan.

Shock ebbed like fog at dawn; more than a few Elves recognized her on the spot.

She stabbed back into the enemy the next heartbeat, a needle through cloth, carving clustered Chaos Spawn into shreds and erasing them at speed, yet in that blink when she paused, nearby Elves caught the sun-bright gold of her hair and their eyes flew wide.

“Wait—her… that ‘mystery Elf’ who follows this year’s Flower Dancer?!”

“It’s her?! Eh? N-no, her ears look wrong… she’s human?!”

“Come on, I’m spinning! Where did that tank and this lady even pop out from?!”

Mira’s arrival broke the wordless awe the Type-59 and its crushing firepower had hammered into them; chatter rose like sparrows from a tree, confusion tangled with the giddy rush of survivors’ joy.

After all, they now had the legendary Moonforged Miracle on their side, and a fighter at least at Silan’s level; saying their combat power just jumped by half didn’t feel like bragging.

For Elven soldiers who’d braced their hearts for death a breath ago, nothing could taste sweeter; thanks to the gods—then fate showed even more mercy than they’d dared hope.

“Make way! Move it! Clear the road for us!”

Another racket rolled up from the rear like a cart rattling stones; haulers stacked with heavy-weapon parts pushed onto the road, and the loudmouths shoving them were, of course, the weapons’ owners: the Nacha Tribe.

“Told you long-ears not to block the way—ew! You reek! Get back, will you? Don’t stand here and mess up our assembly!”

Crude words scattered like thrown gravel, yet no Elf flared at being called “stink” or “long-ears.” They glanced at one another and stepped aside, letting the sudden Nacha arrivals set heavy weapons on the front line.

Some pieces were standard Nacha kit, but many matched the Type-59’s make—ancient Nacha tech Silan herself had once flagged as a threat.

“Hmph. Watch from the back and take notes. See how our brothers and sisters teach these beasts.”

The speaker was that human who’d barged into the Trial of “Truth”—Kabos. He cradled a multi-barrel autocannon like a trophy, chin high as if he were Nacha too, and then he squeezed the trigger.

In the next instant, hundreds of heavy steel slugs poured out like a hail squall; the locust-like Chaos Spawn that had dodged the Moonforged Miracle’s carpet bombardment and were bounding for the line were shredded to pulp.

Fine. With a reaper like that in his hands, he’d earned a swollen ego—Elven soldiers swallowed their quips and let it pass.

Their eyes had been locked on fighting the Chaos Spawn; no one had spared a thought for the rear. They weren’t ready, in head or plan, for the Nacha to arrive.

To suddenly fight shoulder to shoulder with the “neighbors” who’d quarreled with them for years left burrs in their hearts. But no one scorned extra hands now.

The Nacha talked rough, yet after decades under lockdown and curfew, they’d still chosen to come forward. That was grace.

The Elven soldiers knew it. Pride loosened like a lifted helm. They moved to help the Nacha around Kabos assemble the heavy guns.

The same scene unfolded all along the front. As more heavy weapons locked in, the unstoppable tide of Chaos Spawn took a hammer-blow and broke like surf.

Nacha tech proved better than Elven magic against this enemy; under the sudden blanket of heavy fire, even lucky strays near the line were wiped out. Any that lunged for the Type-59 were cut down by lightning in a blink.

Freed from fear of melee, the Elven army shifted all focus to long-range casting. Paired with the Miracle’s carpet-sweep, the Chaos assault ebbed like a retreating tide, step after step, never once matching the joint Elf–Nacha fire.

The dream-turn came so fast that every fighter burned hot, like henbane to the heart; days of losses vented in a roaring counterattack. They shoved the line back to the first improvised defenses and took the lost ground in one breath.

Even then, they weren’t sated. When the order to halt came after retaking the first line, more than a few legions grumbled like thunder held back.

Grumble or not, a breather was needed. The ad hoc alliance hadn’t been integrated and needed new formations now. The front steadied at the first line. The Type-59 finally eased its rate of fire, keeping a minimum screen while running self-checks and repairs.

[Low-power mode engaged. Cockpit self-cleaning and sterilization sequence beginning. All personnel, vacate the cabin.]

“Whew, I was suffocating in there!”

With the machine’s announcement, Hos flipped the hatch and squeezed through the too-small opening for his bulk. Tela followed with a grunt, slid down the ladder welded to the tank’s five pairs of hydraulic legs, and dropped off.

“Good work, good work! You two really made our brothers and sisters look good!”

They stepped down into Barni—and Kabos, who came up with a few mugs of malt beer like a herald.

Hos’s eyes lit, then his brow jumped. “Hold up. We didn’t bring booze. Where’d you get these?”

“Didn’t expect this, huh? The Elves gave ’em to us, smiling ear to ear, not a sour face in sight,” Kabos laughed, big and bright. “We made one hell of an entrance. If we hadn’t arrived on time, they’d be in deep trouble.”

“…Don’t get too full of yourself. Show respect to your comrades, Kabos.”

The voice was flat as a hammer on iron. Magan’s broad-shouldered frame stepped out from a tent’s shadow, face stern.

“This isn’t a joke. If the recovered ancient weapons hadn’t just been shipped to a border this close, the Elven line might’ve broken before we got here. And our tribe alone couldn’t have suppressed this many Chaos Spawn. This battle needed every piece.”

“Uh… why so serious all of a sudden…” Called out, Kabos flushed and scratched his head. “Fine, fine. I’ll lay off the Elf talk… Let’s say this toast is to Isylia, Lady of Moonlight. Thanks for tugging the threads of fate, putting us by the Moonforged Miracle when the mess hit—come on, cheers, brothers and sisters!”

He raised his mug. Hos followed with, “To Isylia,” then cocked a brow.

“Speaking of… this feels familiar. Before we fought that damned lizard last time, didn’t we do this too, an early—mmph!”

Tela clapped a hand over his jinxing mouth, stole his mug back onto the table, then rapped his head with a knuckle. Her lesson was fierce as rain on tin: don’t drink and drive.

Hos’s protests were muffled and useless. Kabos watched their old routine bloom like a spark and slapped the table, laughing. His thunderous cackle rolled outward and drew in Elves and Nacha, known and unknown, lifting the mood like a bonfire.

Only Magan held on to her severity. She dipped her chin, and a chill slid through her chest.

Was this really just a gift of fate?

The thorn of doubt rose again, but the world around her shifted and broke the thought.

The easy warmth paused like someone hit a switch. Silence rippled out. Elven soldiers opened a path.

Magan looked up and saw the source at the far end of the road.

Silan.

With her secretary’s support, she stood there pale as paper. Her eyes fixed on the Type-59, pupils glazing with distance, like a lake gone still.

“It’s her…! Shouldn’t she be in prison?”

Kabos shouted first. He’d faced her in the Trial of “Truth,” and hostility tightened his face like a drawn bow.

She didn’t answer his bite. Instead, Silan looked at Kabos and the others and slowly… bowed.

“Thank you, outlanders, for setting aside old grievances and coming to our aid in a peril that threatens every living thing. Allow me, on behalf of all the Children of the Gods, to offer you our highest respect.”

Her voice was hoarse from casting, a rasp that clashed with the effortless poise she usually wore, almost breaking character. Kabos’s eyes narrowed with distrust.

“Hah. Now you know how to fake gratitude? Weren’t you iron-hard before?”

“Kabos…” Magan gave him a look, but he went on.

“Don’t stop me. You lot are thin-skinned and soft-hearted, so let me be the outsider who says the ugly truth.” The Nacha’s place on the line gave him spine. He jabbed a finger at Silan’s nose. “When you laid down the lockdown and curfew, did you hesitate? Did you count the pain you dumped on my Nacha brothers and sisters? Decades! You didn’t just choke their lives—you ground their honor into the dirt. You think one ‘I had my reasons’ sweeps that all away? Ptoo! In your dreams!”

“…I understand. For that very reason, I won’t run. Once this temporary command ends, the investigation into me will reopen. Then—whether for me or for you—the kingdom’s law will judge and decide.”

“Sounds pretty.”

Kabos spat again, eyes still slitted at her. Then his brow knit like a storm cloud. “Hold on. You’re overall commander now? Where are the other First Generation? You kicked up this much trouble. Shouldn’t Lady Bingxia be in charge?”

At that name, a visible ripple crossed Silan’s eyes. She bit her lip, waited a few breaths, closed her eyes, and spoke, voice trembling.

“They… were swallowed by the Void Rift the instant the Savia Rose was plucked.”

“…?”

I’m afraid I’m among the last known First Generation left. Silan’s words fell heavy as winter snow. Kabos stared at her grief, mouth open, ready to speak yet with nothing to say.

After a long beat, he scratched his head, adrift like a leaf in a whirlpool. He uhh-ed forever, face clenched like a clogged drain, and finally squeezed out a line.

“Hey… look, don’t be that bleak; storm clouds don’t last. They’re so strong—maybe the embers under the ash are still alive.”

He turned, a weather vane in a crosswind, and looked to his companions. He seemed to forget he’d been swinging at them a heartbeat ago, and he begged for backup with puppy eyes. “You guys, right?”

Silence fell like fresh snow. At last, Hos rolled his eyes, a pebble skipping once across a pond.

“And you’ve got the nerve to call us soft. You, man…”

“What!”

Hos shrugged, loose as a cloak in wind. “It’s obvious. If you get swallowed by Chaos Spawn with no guard up, even Varie, that muscle beast, would be in for a world of hurt. How would the scrawny long-ears stand it? I hate to say it, but dangling impossible hope is the cruelest blade.”

[—Negative: Mr. Hos, your conclusion is incorrect.]

“…Huh?”

The mechanical voice cut him off like a cleaver through ice. Hos lifted a brow, thorn-sharp, and glared at the Type-59 battle tank. “If you’ve got a personal gripe, just say it. Don’t woodpecker me with ‘negative, negative’ every time I talk!”

[Negative: I am not a tin can. Negative: This is not a personal attack. It is a rational conclusion after condition analysis, clear as glass.]

“Oh? Then lay out your tracks.”

[Evidence: Scan shows a high-concentration Blood Magic signal two kilometers from our position, a pattern unlike typical Chaos Spawn behavior. Inference: survivors persist there. Given signal strength and duration, the subject is most likely an Elf First Generation with extreme magical affinity.]

“…Ah?”

The news hit like a drumbeat in a canyon. Hos’s jaw snapped shut like a clam. Everyone froze, stunned, as the tank’s broadcast rang like a bell, even Silan. Her bloodless cheeks flushed, dawn on snow, and she flung off her secretary’s supporting hand. She half-ran to the Type-59, steps quick as sparrows.

“R-really?! You mean Bingxia… they might still…!”

[Affirmative: my old friend. Computation indicates a ninety-three percent chance that an Elf First Generation survivor remains.]

At those two words—my old friend—Silan’s knees gave, a pillar sinking into soft earth. The head of the Carne Family, who didn’t shed a tear even when unmasked before a whole nation, now cried like a girl, pearls spilling from a broken string.

“Good—then hurry, faster. We go rescue them now! There’s still time—”

Her words cut off, clean as a knife. Her secretary stepped forward and bowed, a willow bending in wind.

“Silan, every branch of the military is still reorganizing. Changing strategy and launching a hasty strike now… would be ill-suited.”

Silan bit her lip, red as a bitten plum. She knew it: a sudden order in the churn would invite needless deaths, like sending lambs into a hailstorm. But knowing Bingxia might be alive, waiting, turned each second into oil boiling in a pan.

Mercifully, the knot didn’t hold long.

A bolt of thunder speared the ground before her, light splitting the air like a white blade. When the glare faded, the figure before her was the “mysterious Elf” she’d met at that victory banquet.

“It’s you…?”

Adelaide had promised, face to face, that this mysterious Nuhaman survivor would step into the light and bring the truth. Silan never thought she’d see her in the flesh, let alone feel that cold hand reach down and pull her up, a winter stream carrying the same fierce urgency blazing in her own chest.

“Follow me. We go now to save them.”