Foreword: I thought I was strong enough, a master of fate, a demon, a devil. I was wrong.

I live as a human for one life, and forever as human; hate blinds like soot in the eyes and breeds a chain of tragedy like creeping ivy.

Only after this did I finally know why It led me to seek the Divine Stone and climb the vault of the sky—only that way can all this end...

A long, keening wail—ding—oo-oo-oo—rolled across the heavens, and the blood moon hung like a cruel coin.

A colossal mushroom cloud blossomed, pale and terrible, painting the sky a wash of crimson.

Crowds gaped like fish frozen under ice, then dropped to their knees, praying with shaking hands.

Such a sign, they whispered, could only be a miracle wrought by gods.

[Eastern Nation]

“Your Majesty, look.” A guard in black-and-white armor stared, fearful, at the vast and dreadful blood moon.

The horizon ran red like a spilled river, and panic spread through the people like wind through dry grass.

Even the royal citadel faltered and swayed, though Elyu rallied the royal authority and steadied the city like a stone set in a torrent.

“At a time like this, Paris just happens to be away...” Elyu sighed. Paris had claimed he’d hunt rebel leads in the Ruined City, taking Manto and a hundred elite blades.

If the Royal Capital shook, the outlands were worse—wails rose like smoke, and cults crawled out to seize hearts in the storm.

They wept and preached that mankind’s self-slaughter had called retribution; the blood moon loomed, day and night reversed, the world on the edge of ruin.

Only the Salvation Church could save them, they cried, raising hands like talons.

They picked the wrong land; as long as Ostos and Elyu do not fall, the Eastern Nation has but one god.

Guards moved swift as hawks; heads fell in public like rotten fruit, and fleeing zealots were skewered on iron spears like meat on a spit.

Even so, they stirred a few embers among the crowd, seeds burrowing into shadow, ready to sprout unrest.

[Northern Kingdom]

Haidra wiped fine sweat from his brow; the border lay less than thirty kilometers ahead, close as a ridge under rising sun.

Then every step failed; every head lifted to the blood moon, stunned as deer before lightning, and motion left them for a long, hollow moment.

In the Northern Kingdom’s royal city, a handsome, golden-haired woman—wearing Eastern Nation Royal Capital battle armor—floated hair like sunlight in wind.

She watched the blood-stained sky, and cold, stern beauty cracked with shock and puzzlement like frost splintering on stone.

[Southern Kingdom]

“Your Majesty! It’s bad, the sky... the sky—”

“What? The sky fell?” A duke in brocade swirled his wine, cheeks flushed, voice a smirk in silk.

Laughter swelled in the hall like a warm tide among lords and vassals.

The Emperor wore radiant gold robes, and a blazing red crown burned on his brow like a coal.

Two violet-clad enchantresses trailed his steps as he wandered from the grand hall, unhurried as a cat in sun.

At the threshold, a bar of red light struck his face, twisting it into something fierce, almost monstrous.

Clink—

The cup slipped from a broad, mighty hand, shattered like thin ice, and the clear wine bloomed scarlet under the blood moon’s glare.

“Majesty... what is this?!”

In the Emperor’s golden eyes—eyes that looked down on all like a god among ants—there flickered a rare, fine strand of surprise.

[Hyacinths sway, Wind Sprites tremble; then the earth keens, the sky tears, day and night invert, stars wheel like thrown stones.

The blood moon climbs, washing your face in red, and your clear wine turns to the color of wounds.

And then, the Sprites raise black flags, step by step pushing you toward the abyss of death.

The purple-haired will die first; the legions of flame will shiver in the gale, and at last be swept clean like ash in a storm.

And you—the last thing you will see is...]

He looked at the wine fallen in shock, then up at the sky’s omen; dignity twisted like a mask in heat.

“Ha—ha-ha-ha—old seer, that’s your prophecy?

Let it come. I, without fear.”

Power surged from him like a spear through clouds, and the Southern Kingdom’s crimson sky scattered.

Blue returned like a lake after rain, white clouds drifted, sunlight poured—a scene bright and wrong as a smile on a corpse.

[Western Kingdom]

“She has finally reached this step.”

“There’s a slight deviation, but our work wasn’t in vain.”

“Heavenly Edge has sensed him now.”

“Then let the game begin.”

“We shall witness the dawn.”

“In the land of endings, with Nofu.”

“Our will endures forever; may the world know no slaughter.”

Four aged elders in white ancient robes sat in a pitch-black courtyard like snow on a coal, and quietly let breath go.

The earth across the continent thrum-thrum-thrummed, as if it felt Medith’s towering grief and could not bear it, shuddering like a dying drum.

After a long moment, the earth’s keening stilled.

Medith stood rooted, eyes rimmed red; the blood-red blast zone held at the first thousand meters like a painted ring.

This time, Lina and the others were untouched; buildings stood whole, as if nothing had ever happened, like dream-mist burned off by dawn.

The Blood Drinking Sword in Medith’s grip, once silver lines over red, turned wholly blood-red, a blade breathing ill omen like a winter grave.

“Me...dith?” Lina collapsed to the ground, looking at her like a stranger glimpsed in a mirror of smoke.

Medith’s eyes and hair were still green, and it all felt like a mirage—only her aura had gone distant, unfamiliar as a wind from another sea.

“Lina, Rita, guard Peggy.” Emotion tightened first; then she spoke, voice trembling like a bowstring.

“Unknown boy—since you’ve chosen to help us, I ask you to see it through. Protect Lina and the others.

For that, I thank you.”

The boy nodded, steady as a tree trunk; Lina flicked her hair like a whip. “And you? Don’t tell me you’re—”

Medith’s nod was cool; the Bloodsword felt its master’s fury and began to hum like thunder caged in steel.

“I want every soul in that guild to be buried. That’s all.”

She rose, the blood-red blade drawing arcs of light that hung like comets, then fell and swept forward, and she ripped toward the Kuso Guild’s headquarters like a hawk.

“Three kilometers around,” her voice cracked like a storm, “cross the line and die.

No one can shield you—not even a king on campaign. He dies.”

The city sucked in cold breath, not at her swagger, but because no one dared test the line drawn like a scythe.

Many reached that border of death and found their legs growing roots, unable to move, as if the earth itself held them fast.