The hand that broke Lian’s spell was Edmund’s, his palm slicing through her magic like a blade through morning mist. Her chest tightened like a drawn bow; confusion crowded her ribs like storm clouds. Before she could loose a question, he spoke first, his voice thin as wind over cold stone.

“Don’t try to heal me again,” he said, every word a dying ember. “That wound can’t be healed. It’s a power that burns the soul, not a cut you can stitch.”

“B-but—” The protest fluttered up like a frightened sparrow, fragile and warm.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he cut in, a tired tide lapping at an old shore. “You used to tell us the same thing. We’ve heard it till the ears wear thin. Spare me, while I’m this close to the dark.”

He even managed a bitter smile, a wilted flower under frost, as if he truly remembered being drowned in her chatter.

“Have we… met before?” Lian’s doubt pooled like ink, and her heart tugged toward him like a reed in wind.

At the word “before,” nostalgia flooded his eyes like dusk light on an old path. In his withering body, there was the stillness of a pine that’s weathered a hundred snows.

“Yes. We’ve met. Many times,” he breathed, the past drifting like fallen leaves. “Each time you might not be the same. But… this time you’re the closest.”

The words were simple, yet they knotted like vines around a gate; even Lian, sharp as a needle, couldn’t find the latch.

“What do you mean?” Her impatience flickered like a candle, then steadied.

“My time’s short,” he said, every beat a fading drum. “I won’t waste it on what you’ll learn later anyway. I only hope you’ll trust the book in your hands, alright? It will never harm you.”

“Trust the book? Aer told me the same,” Lian said, her breath a quick gust. “What exactly do you two know?”

At Aer’s name, a softer light rose in Edmund’s face, like sunrise warming frost.

“I knew it. That one is always that vain,” he said, a chuckle like gravel. “But this time, her vanity is right.”

The fog of answers made Lian’s temper prickle like nettles. How many riddles do I have to carry into the night?

“Hey. Don’t do this,” she snapped, a spark in dry grass. “Give me the points and skip the fluff.”

“Rare,” he smiled, a thin crescent like the last moon. “You finally used a command. But I really don’t have time to tell you much. I’m afraid if I talk too long, I’ll ruin her plan. So… please wait with a quiet heart… that’ll be enough. Alright…?”

He forced out the last sentence like lifting a boulder up a hill. When he finished, his chest stilled like a pond at dawn; his closed eyes held no regret, only a shoreless night.

Looking at Edmund, now “asleep,” Lian felt her anger ebb like tide leaving a clean beach. What remained was a blessing, a lantern in fog. May he find a kinder wheel of rebirth.

She rose and lifted his body, light as a bundle of dry reeds. Mana gathered in her heels like sap rising in spring. She struck the floor with her heel, three heavy beats like thunder under stone. The ground shuddered, then yawned open, shaping a rough rectangle like a door cut in earth. She laid Edmund gently within, a leaf settling on still water.

Nature’s magic danced at her fingertips, green light hopping like fireflies. At its touch, soil breathed. Flowers opened like small suns. Blades of grass shouldered up through brown earth like newborn deer.

She plucked a white blossom, a snowflake that wouldn’t melt, and set it upon his chest. Something still felt off, a string untuned. She added a blue flower by his side, a splash of sky upon riverbank, and her mouth curved with quiet relief.

She knelt beside him, both knees in the cool hush of earth. Her hands folded before her heart, a cup holding rain. She closed her eyes and bowed her head, a willow tending its shadow. The room was sealed, a cave without an exit for light, yet a sunbeam slipped in like a blessing through a secret crack, unwilling to miss the rite.

“Dust returns to dust,” she murmured, her voice clear as a mountain spring. “May kindness and joy walk with you. Be happy, in the next life…”

Unlike her usual sweet loli lilt, her tone felt airy and young, like a girl on the first breeze of spring.

The ground trembled softly, a cat purring in sleep. Edmund’s body, companioned by green and petal, sank like dusk into soil. When the earth sealed, two flowers remained—one white, one blue—swaying in the stray sunlight like dancers at the end of a song.

When it was done, Lian stood and crossed to the two greatswords. She lifted them, their weight dense as rain-laden clouds. A tide of resentment surged through the steel and struck her mind like cold surf, but her spirit was ironwood; it didn’t leave a scratch.

“Mister Sword,” she asked, voice low as moss, “why are you here?”

Talking to a sword looked like madness, a lone crane calling to stone. Yet the blade answered.

Black light ran over the steel in brief pulses, like ink ripples in a moonlit bowl, passing meaning without words.

— Only because I made a contract with him, and so I kept vigil here.

“I see. Where will you go next?” Her question floated like a leaf downriver.

— I am a sword. Where my master dwells is home. Now that my master has left, I have nowhere to go.

“I understand.” Her breath fell like a quiet snowfall.

— Since you’ve defeated my lord, will you forge a contract with me?

“No. I don’t like taking another’s sword,” she said, firm as a stone step.

— I see… Then place me on that rack over there. I would be grateful.

“Mm.” She nodded, a reed in a small breeze.

She set both blades upon an ornate rack, carved like vines around old wood. They seemed to be waiting for the next “hero” to claim them, a stage bare but expectant. That wasn’t her concern. It was time to move on; she’d been out too long, and the map of this place needed finishing.

She turned without a flicker of doubt, a swallow darting for open sky. The sword “watched” her go; then its glow faded completely, night swallowing a spent star.

— As you said, master, she’s… a good Yokai.

——————

Lian stepped through the door and continued her search, her footsteps quiet as falling ash. The halls held no more life, just dust and echoes like dry reeds in wind. It felt like Edmund had lived here alone, a lone lamp in a wide house, and sympathy rose in her like warm tea on a cold night.

She walked for who knew how long, corridors unrolling like a gray river. At a turn, she found a sealed door, its surface drowned in ornaments like a peacock fanning its tail. It was gaudy, a thunderstorm of gold. But that wasn’t what called her. A pull rose in her chest, a tide tugging the shore, urging her to open it.

Experience spoke like an old bell: when the current pulls this hard, something weighty waits beyond.

So Lian didn’t hesitate. She pushed the door, a palm through fog, and stepped in.