“Why are you doing something this foolish, brother…?”

The line, sharp as a knife yet gentle as rain, carried the power of The World; silence spread like frost over still water.

Every face went blank, breaths stalled, as if a glass bell slipped over the world and muffled all sound.

Ling didn’t want to accept it; her heart thrashed like a carp in a net before logic could land the blow.

She had just tossed a tiny jinx into fate, a little flag raised like a paper kite, and the wind tore it down.

But her mind rebelled, memories surged like tides; the more she tried to deny them, the clearer they shone like moonlight on black stone.

Think it through—when Amelia introduced herself, what did she say? “I’m Amelia Roland.” And that man was Ait Roland. Two leaves from the same branch.

Alright, Ling swallowed the truth like bitter tea; no words left, and this connection was too large to hide under any rug.

Given the Elvenfolk’s stance toward Beastfolk slaves, the river of politics ran cold; it was doubtful they’d do much to Ait now.

Regrets? None. Ling’s gut, tight as a bowstring, said if she killed Ait, cracks would spread like ice across the bond with the Elvenfolk.

Forget Ling’s careful chess; the siblings’ reunion still hung in the air like a storm cloud refusing to break.

“As your elder brother, am I obliged to explain myself to my little sister?” Ait lifted his chin like a rooster at dawn, confidence puffed up, forgetting the cage he stood in.

“It’s because you’re my brother that I hate you!” Amelia’s voice trembled like a plucked string snapping. “If you were a stranger, I’d have killed you ten years ago. I couldn’t do it then, so I gave you a second chance. Every year, I catch you once, and every year, I give you a chance. This is the tenth time. Do I need to set a holiday for you?”

A little bomb dropped without fanfare; once a year for ten years—enough to write a legend, ink thick as night.

And because of that, ten winters carved away her patience; Amelia’s voice carried heat and a wet shine, anger braided with tears like thunderclouds bearing rain.

“You… you all… you old, moldy fossils never understand!” Ait’s gaze burned like a fever. “The Elvenfolk must have a revolution. We stagnate because we lack technology!”

Pa!

This slap was real, bright as lightning; the strength of the Queen wasn’t a painted mask but a storm breaking over stone.

One furious palm, heavy as a falling beam, knocked Ait flat; his already wounded insides twisted like roots torn from earth.

“Cough! Cough! Cough!!” Warm iron flooded his throat; he hacked up dark red, like rust stirred from a long-forgotten blade.

Amelia felt no sympathy; she wasn’t that blue cat on TV endlessly toying with a brown mouse, and this ten-year cat-and-mouse had soured like milk in summer.

“Brother, this is your last chance.” Her tone was cold as winter water. “Come back with me. Stop chasing revolutions. Look at our Elvenfolk—ten years without technology, and we endured.”

Ait ignored her hand like a drowning man hugging a stone; worship of technology had eaten his reason like moths chewing silk.

“Hmph! That’s only the surface you see.” His words cut like sleet. “You, content with the status quo, can’t sense the storm. Those foolish commoners are blind, those old immortals are blind, and you, sister, are blind. None of you understand danger at rest. The Elvenfolk’s extinction will come like nightfall!”

—Yeah… peak chuunibyou, beyond saving, muttered everyone, like crows scattering at a shout.

On the ear it sounded neat, like a tidy scroll; think on it, and the flaws crawled out like ants from a crack.

It was like stirring salt into honey—neither sweet nor savory, a muddled mess that clung to the tongue.

The Elvenfolk stand on magic like trees on deep roots; cram in technology like metal into wood, and the grain warps, the trunk splits.

Power might swell like a spring flood, but the shape turns monstrous, a chimera that stalls growth; in the long run, it’s a bad bargain written in ash.

Everyone knew it like knowing the seasons, and the Queen, who starts from the Elvenfolk’s good, knew it best; Ait only fancied himself awake while the world slept.

A strange sympathy flickered, not for his fate, but for his wit—dim as a lantern with wet wicks.

“Enough.” Amelia’s words dropped like stones into a still pond. “Once, twice, thrice—now ten. ‘Thrice and no more’ went out the window. Today our new alliance witnesses this. Today is the Elvenfolk’s new dawn. We’ll scrape away this rat-dropping to make our stance clear.”

She passed sentence, and the nearest soldier stepped forward like a shadow, drew the blade from his hip, and knelt with one knee in the dust.

He offered the long sword with both hands, like a moon laid on a tray, the steel whispering for rain.

A sovereign must be decisive, a mountain that does not sway; it denied Amelia even a breath of doubt.

So she didn’t think, she moved; her fingers closed on the hilt like ice forming on a branch, and she raised the blade high.

One clean downward arc, like a swan’s wing cutting the river; Ait’s body was weak as wet paper and could not meet that final strike.

“Farewell, sinner of the Elvenfolk.” Her voice was soft as falling snow. “Don’t fear. The Elvenfolk, who cherish mercy, won’t let your passing taste of pain.”

Ait smiled, thin as moonlight on water; whether self-mockery or scorn, only he knew the meaning of that last curl of lip.

“You’re right… there’s nothing left to fear…”

The words dropped like a pebble, and the sword fell like rain; Ait’s head tumbled from his neck, a smoothed melon split clean on a summer step.