From the day she was confined, she dismissed most of the maids like leaves swept from a quiet courtyard.

Only Andrea, the girl she dragged from the war against the Eldritch Gods, stayed like a steadfast lantern in night wind.

She shadowed Brynhildr, unbothered by strangers’ stares, calm as moonlight skimming still water.

Brynhildr seized the chance to send Andrea away, even if fear had to be the broom.

At heart, Brynhildr loved humans like spring rain loves the soil.

This split self was her gentler half, and she wouldn’t spill blood for a petty pretext.

Yet Andrea, pale as frost, didn’t budge; she stood like a rooted pine and held her breath still.

“No, Lady Brynhildr, you would never do that,” she said, her voice a lamp in fog.

Brynhildr couldn’t help a soft laugh; she sighed and drew Andrea’s hand, gathering her like a sparrow into her arms.

“Of course not. I love humans so deeply—how could I begin a massacre?”

“The love I took from her is a well that never runs dry.

If not for her, with my own strength, I could’ve led the Valkyries into the stars.

We’d seek a home among distant civilizations like sailors chasing bright coasts.

Maybe I wouldn’t have saved you at all, Andrea.”

Hearing that, Andrea steadied like a lake in wind; she leaned into Brynhildr’s embrace and whispered.

“Lady Brynhildr, you still saved this world.”

“Yes… I still saved this world,” Brynhildr said, her gaze drifting like a lone cloud toward the window.

Years ago, this sky lay under the shadow of Eldritch Gods like a storm-torn sea.

The earth knew only howls and lament, and peace was as rare as a blue moon.

“If this world has reincarnation, I’ll steal her back like a hawk from the dusk.

But when she died, I wasn’t strong enough; all I kept was a faded soul-mark, like ash after fire.

Reviving her was beyond reach, mist slipping through my fingers.

Ridiculous, right? The human apex today, still pinning hopes on a far horizon.”

“But from another angle, doesn’t this mean I should let go of humanity?”

She said it with a smile like a loosened knot, as if sunlight broke through clouds.

Andrea heard a note out of tune, like a chill behind warm wind.

“Eh… Lady Brynhildr?”

“If I, an old antique, keep guiding humans, they’ll push back like tides against a pier.

Even without revolt, under my hand they’d hit a bronze ceiling—advanced ancient splendor, not their true future.”

“Humans should be restless and unknown, like travelers chasing dawn across fogged roads.

It isn’t a lesson poured in; it’s what I’ve watched over long years like rings in a tree.

Even the Plague of Beasts, even man-made ruin, never erase their line.

They rise again; one spark in dry grass births a sweeping prairie fire.”

“I love humans most,” she said, eyes soft as winter sun on snow.

That tenderness made it hard to imagine a goddess freshly betrayed by the life she adored.

“Therefore I’ll sleep again through long years, seeds buried for spring, and give this world back.

That’s the right path.”

Andrea’s calm shattered like glass; she rose, then knelt on one knee, heart pounding like a drum.

“Lady Brynhildr, please take that back. This world still needs you!”

“No, this world doesn’t need me anymore,” she said, voice still as a deep well.

“When they began resisting me, I understood.

With Sigdrifa as the more human-facing half, the more god-facing me should let go.

Children grow only after scrapes; that’s the lesson written in rain.”

She shook her head, as if she had expected Andrea’s storm, and spoke in level waves.

“What I can do, the Star Remnants and Sigdrifa can do, and better.

My mission has ended.

Let me lie with her until the future, to a dawn where we shed divinity and live as mortals.”

After that midnight talk, Andrea finally yielded like ice under spring.

With Brynhildr’s blessing, she became her most trusted and mighty Guardian of the Coffin, a shield at a silent tomb.

Humans welcomed the “future” they’d longed for, like sunrise flooding gray streets.

Under Sigdrifa’s lead, free of Brynhildr’s restraint, their revival raced like wildfire on dry plains.

With the Star Remnants aiding in full, everything seemed to blaze toward brighter heights.

Brynhildr, the savior, turned to a symbol in memory within mere decades, like a statue faded by rain.

Some even dared to judge her loftily right before Sigdrifa, like crows cawing at thunder.

This new generation went farther in craft yet lost reverence, like ships swift but rudderless.

They inherited pride, not humility, and faced Sigdrifa, whose mercy ran colder than iron.

With narrow vision chasing grand deeds, the harvest turned warped like fruit twisted on a vine.

Civilization sprinted too fast, and people failed to adapt, so thought clashed like knives at a banquet.

Humans love to pass the blame like hot coals, and sparks flew where hands met.

Whenever that current surged, Sigdrifa cut it without hesitation, a blood-red line across sand.

She would guard humanity, but morals were not her leash; her blade was a winter river.

Even amid rebellions, Brynhildr mattered to her like a fixed star; that name she would never betray.

So the so-called anti-god wave never rose again; it was drowned like embers under rain.

Against absolute power, those “progressives” failed and showed their ugly faces like masks peeled at noon.

What Sigdrifa did was simple: harsh suppression, then lay bare their deeds like bones in sunlight.

Simple, yet it lifted her standing like a banner on a clean wind.

But without someone pushing, who would rush to topple a god?

The hidden hand was the Star Remnants, who lacked even that self-awareness until Sigdrifa knocked.

“I’m saying, don’t you think you’ve gone too far lately?”

Sigdrifa stood before a silver-white construct like a blade before frost, her face dark as a brewing storm.

She hid no disgust and spoke straight, like thunder finding its mark.

Under her pressure, the Star Remnants guarding the silver silhouette gasped like fish on shore.

In Sigdrifa’s presence, they had no strength to lift a hand.

The silver-white figure smiled, apologetic, a mask smooth as polished ice.

“Miss Sigdrifa, please don’t be angry just yet.

Your coming here means we can still talk, doesn’t it?”

“Heh.”

Sigdrifa closed in like a hawk stooping; Crystal Blossoms flared and covered two fallen Star Remnants like snow over stones.

Pure Aether flooded the room, a white tide, and swallowed the silver silhouette whole.

“Even if I destroy you here, your kind can’t save you,” she said, a cold smile like a knife’s glint.

She watched, testing if this stance held iron or the thin ice of desperation.

“Of course. But you’d lose a chance to climb higher, wouldn’t you?”

The silver-white figure kept smiling, unmoved, treating it as a negotiation for the helm of the ship.

“I can reach that tier alone.

Do you really think your tech has me by the throat?”

“Certainly not, honored goddess.

But time won’t let you feel your way up slowly, will it?

Since Lady Brynhildr’s sleep, you’ve felt that malice creeping toward this planet like a dark tide.”

Her lips curved like a plan unfolding; she stroked the silver capsule at her side with a light touch.

She drew out a strange cylinder and offered it, palm open like a dealer showing a card.

“With this, you can go further, my lady.”

That devil’s whisper didn’t tempt Sigdrifa; instead, she regarded her with a playful gleam like a cat watching a snake.

She didn’t take the silver cylinder, holding silence like a drawn bow.

Just as she meant to speak, she snapped her head around, eyes locking on Aphelia, who should not have been there.

The scene around them blew away like mist at sunrise.

“What’s happening?”

With that single glance, Aphelia staggered back as if a wave hit her chest.

Under that will like a mountain, she felt Sigdrifa notice them, sharp as an eagle’s cry.

She turned, and the woman in white behind her stood there gasping like a runner at the finish.

On her pale face, two lines of blood tears hung like red strings.

“Are you okay?”

Aphelia moved to help, but the woman lifted a hand and stopped her, palm steady as a quiet pond.

“Ahem… she was still that version from then.

Even peeking at her trace from the seam of time draws the true body’s eye,” the woman said.

She coughed lightly, wiped the blood from her eyes, and smiled with a touch of embarrassment, like moonlight behind clouds.

“What do you mean?

Weren’t we watching a recorded image?”

Aphelia asked, a helpless edge in her voice, the glance feeling like a bridge across ages.

“Of course not.

We went back into past time, standing in its seams to watch what was,” the woman in white said, words falling calm as snow.