The vast sarcophagus unclasped with a slow sigh; a black-haired woman in plain cloth burst her iron chains, blade in hand, blocking Merlin.

She wore white, unadorned; midnight hair and straight hawk-brows, from crown to heel, all breathed a valiant, steel-bright air.

Lilo stared, stunned; Aether around her split like a river cut by a sword, sheared to either side, refusing to gather.

Such a presence is a storm; Lilo’s reflex lit crimson Aether, a hearth-flame to guard the Valkyrie before her.

That small spark drew the woman’s gaze like a moth to a candle.

“Don’t worry. I came for the Valkyrie.” Her voice rang clear, a bell with hidden caverns; its edge pricked Lilo, and her Aether stuttered.

Fear first, then instinct—Lilo stepped back; gold flared in her eyes, beast-blood roused; dragon’s might surged like a mountain wind.

The woman sighed, wind over frost, used to such tempests; she didn’t strike, let that might roll, and turned to face Merlin.

“Careful!—huh?” Lilo knew her dragon’s might could raze a city, a wildfire; even a True God would blanch at that birthright.

Yet the black-haired woman turned her back to the wave without a blink, as if the sea obeyed her.

One meter before her, an unseen force cleaved the surge, root to tip, a silent guillotine that erased it from air.

Had it not eased at the end, that edge would have run the river back and cut Lilo herself.

“Hrok!!! Why meddle now?!” Merlin’s roar tore out; his eyes went blood-red, a ghoul’s lanterns; his arms withered like dead branches.

“Meddle? I came to kill you.” Hrok’s words were blade-short; her stare looked down like sky over an ant.

“Kill me? I’m reviving her! Why kill me?! Do you want her dead?” He raved like thunder, “I’m right—Mist Bloom, that body, you!”

Behind him, the Eye of Stars bloomed again, no longer silver-white but blood-stained and fouled, chaos’s herald.

His body warped; hard bone spurs thrust out like spears; withered arms flowered needles, yet no blood flowed.

A black firmament poured across the space, not star-sown but crowded with grotesque pupils, a field of night-blooms glaring.

Those malice-wet gazes fell on Lilo; her spine iced; she lit crimson Aether, a sunrise to beat back that chill.

Black power not of Aether surged in like swamp water, coiling around Merlin; twisted forms crawled over him.

In a blink, Master Merlin was no man, only a knot of spite, a thicket of teeth and tendrils.

“Are your preparations done?” Hrok spoke calm as rain on eaves, as if asking after tea.

The thing answered with a roar heavy as tar, pure rancor.

Tentacles bristling, under a thousand venomous stares, the abomination charged Hrok like a boar through brush.

“Domain of Flame—” Lilo’s face set; crimson Aether pooled, a lava field ready to spill.

“No need.” Hrok’s breath cut the weave; Lilo’s forming domain snapped like a thread, and panic bit.

She knew those gazes were iron shackles, Merlin’s true domain; to fight a field, you pit storms; she hates leaning on others.

Hrok’s soft line halted her like a hand on the hilt; the stranger stood still, stone amid tide; Lilo raised power again—

An incoming edge canceled the thought; she staggered back, crossed her arms as a shield, and dared not meet Hrok’s gaze.

“Watch closely. This is—” The monster loomed like a cliff; Hrok lifted her blade, echoing Aphelia’s stance, yet wholly her own.

Her aura folded like silk; the blade’s frost-light sharpened, a shard of winter, too bright to breathe.

Sword leaves; body passes.

“—Heaven and Earth, One Instant.” Her red lips barely moved; sound lagged the strike; Lilo saw the world crack like glass.

In that breath, Hrok wielded not steel but a strip of condensed white noon; Lilo glanced, then shielded her eyes.

That white was pure edge; mortal or True God, under a light that cut the air itself, you know one word.

Cut.

Silence crushed in, then the world thundered apart.

The white cleave split the monster, sliced the mountain chain, slit the black sky; then reached farther, hungry for horizons.

That single stroke felt ready to carve the Demon World end to end; under it, guts iced and courage shrank.

A colossal trench speared the Abyss Range and kept crawling across the land like a pale river.

Watching that light, Lilo felt phantom sweat soak Aether-woven cloth; a question rose like smoke: could she survive it?

Whether she could, unknown; the abomination that met it lay in two; its tendrils vanished, leaving a brittle, bone-white frame.

Across that frame ran a wound, shoulder to waist, diagonal, clean as a carpenter’s chalk-line.

“Kuh—ah…” The broken thing rasped, a bellows without air.

Hrok slid her blade back into the black giant coffin, walked to Merlin, and looked down, eyes flat as still water.

“Merlin—well? Another taste of Heaven and Earth, One Instant.”

“You… you think you can still stop her?” His bones fought to rise, a last, brittle effort.

“If I can’t stop her, I’ll kill her.” Hrok smiled light, shook her head; two fingers became a blade aimed at his brow.

Then, inside the pure white Aether barrier, a ripple sounded, catching every eye like wind in prayer flags.

“Well then, Aphelia—still holding on?” Beneath the snow-pale Aether, Brynhildr wiped blood from her knife and smiled at the figure.

Aphelia, bound in the white, breathed like a guttering lamp; wounds bled across her soul-body, but no life spilled.

She could only endure Brynhildr’s calm cruelty, a winter that never ends.

“Of… course…” Her voice was thread-thin.

Shnk—the blade slid in again; Aphelia had no scream left; pain nailed heart and lung; she coughed a red flower.

“What a pity. I hoped you’d be freed sooner.” Brynhildr’s gentle smile painted new wounds, deep and shallow, like rain cuts.

The torment was method: weaken the soul’s tether to flesh, so she could claim the vessel and evict the native.

So she chose the most ruthless craft—death by a thousand cuts, snow falling until a mountain sinks.

A soul-body born under pure white Aether, and a blade woven of Aether—opening Aphelia was a small gesture.

Yet she still clung to the toughest, most vapor-thin link to flesh; annoyance like grit scratched Brynhildr’s smile.

“That’s… not certain…” Aphelia whispered, a reed in wind.

“Of course. You’re right. Then let’s continue, my child.” Brynhildr’s pale fingers pressed to her eye-socket, a snowfall’s weight.

Under that touch, the half-dead girl screamed, like a cuckoo crying blood, a sound that froze the marrow.

“See? Your eyes truly resemble mine—pretty as gems.” She rolled the gleaming orb in her palm and lifted Aphelia’s face.