Aphelia had no strength left to feel any of it. As the Crimson Flame faded, her stamina bled away; the world blurred like rain on glass.

Her body, once cleaved, stitched itself together like mended silk.

In the haze, she saw a figure wading out of an endless sea of lightning, steps rippling through thunder-tide.

...

She seemed to be speaking, wreathed in lightning. Before Aphelia could see her face, the world dropped a black curtain, and she passed out.

Pain. Despair.

Anger. Terror.

It felt like her life had been steeped in those tones, Aphelia thought, drifting in darkness like a moonless ocean.

Is this the world after death?

She stared into the boundless dark, sighed, and sat down as if settling on cold stone.

She had just reclaimed her body and a shard of power, and here she was—throwing her life away in a nowhere place. Not the first time.

To die in a place with no name felt humiliating, like tripping in the dark.

Thinking that, Aphelia laughed, a dry sound in the hollow night.

At least she died to save someone, and didn’t let a tragedy like Violet’s unfold again... In truth, it was self-satisfaction, wasn’t it? How vile—to dress selfishness as grandeur.

She murmured her usual self-mockery, but in this boundless dark, who would listen? Her words fell like ash.

But... Wend should be alive now, right?

At that thought, her tangle of emotions melted clean away. She closed her eyes, calm as still water.

How... wonderful.

She didn’t know why. They’d met only once, hardly friends, yet relief warmed her like first light—relief that her weakness hadn’t killed another.

As she prepared to sink quietly into the dark, a figure drifted out of the shadows and came to her side like a lone lantern.

Hey... to die like this—don’t you feel regret?

At that, Aphelia laughed, wind across empty halls.

And you are?

Me? A ferryman of souls, that’s all. I’ve kept at it for long ages like moss on stone, and it’s my first time seeing a soul like yours.

Aphelia opened her eyes. Beside her sat a girl who looked strikingly like Wend. Her white dress shone like a moonflower in the pitch.

A ferryman of souls... was she some kind of Reaper?

An interesting soul? Ferryman—miss, tell me what’s interesting. I’d love to hear it.

If she was a ferryman and wasn’t dragging her away, but chatting about “interesting,” then maybe fate hadn’t shut its gate.

With that thought, Aphelia calmed. She shifted, trying to lie more comfortably, like settling into cool sand.

Your soul... is battered. It’s riddled with holes, yet seamless. It’s a motley tide—saints and monsters—yet its priorities are clear. It’s fragile as porcelain, yet unbreakable.

The girl took Aphelia’s hand, her touch cold as carved jade, hesitated, then spoke.

Most of all, it was born in the Primordial Flame. Nothing is tougher or stronger than that forge.

Wait—if you say that, why would I die?

Her mind snagged like silk on thorn. If her soul was truly unbreakable, then even if her body turned to ash, she shouldn’t die easily.

Who said you died?

The girl released her hand, frowned, and snapped like a twig underfoot.

So... I’m not dead? Then what is this place? Another world I imagined...?

This is the seam between the Underworld and the mortal world. Every soul near death—or skirting it—drifts here. Within my reach, the dead are guided back into the cycle of reincarnation.

Then... does your oversight here obey time?

As if prompted by ghosts, the question rose like mist.

Of course not. If time bound us, this place would be chaos, a storm with no shore.

Then I want to find someone. Can I?

Aphelia watched her with hope like a lantern, trembling despite herself.

Since this place sat outside clear time, it was still her world, just past or future. The ferryman’s work surpassed time, so—

She thought of that blood-red silhouette on the Abyss Range, a life cut short like a candle pinched out.

The girl didn’t answer. Her black eyes, polished onyx, held Aphelia’s. After a long silence, she spoke.

Of course. I never thought you’d ask me for help. Say it—who do you need to find?

Eh? R‑really? Do you need her name, or—

Hope flared like a spark in dry grass, and her words stumbled.

Hold my hand. Say her name, and recall her face.

The girl extended a pale small hand, speaking with a maturity beyond her years, while Aphelia felt like the unruly child in a temple.

Y‑yes!

Aphelia clasped that small hand—cold, like carved jade—and focused, dredging up the familiar silhouette.

The figure that haunted her soul like moonlight on water.

As Aphelia remembered, the girl seemed to receive it. Pale shapes flickered in her black eyes like moths, and a terrible pressure poured from that small body like a storm down a gorge.

Through that white hand, Aphelia felt vast power flow around them. The barren dark filled like a sky crowded with constellations.

Those presences were joy, grief, fury, fear—voices of weathered stone and wild flame. When they noticed Aphelia, hunger lit them like wolves. Yet before they could approach, the small girl erased them with a gesture.

It didn’t last. The girl frowned, slipped free of Aphelia’s grasp, and the strange feeling vanished like mist at dawn.

The person you seek... I can’t find her.

How—how can you not? Please, I beg you, try again!

Aphelia pleaded, her voice a frayed rope. How could a ferryman of souls fail to find Violet’s soul?

Unless she was a fake...

I suggest you put away that shallow ignorance.

She seemed to read Aphelia’s mind. With a flick of that cold hand, the drifting presences gathered behind her like a tide, and a dreadful aura flooded the air.

Sorry... I got carried away.

Seeing her change, Aphelia realized her lapse. She sighed, apologized, eyes heavy with loss like rain-soaked feathers.

She didn’t fear death, but she still wished to see that person once more, to say sorry with her own lips like tying a red thread.

The girl seemed used to souls like hers. She shook her head, dispersed the strange presences, and the cold pressure ebbed away like receding ice.

There are only two reasons I can’t find a soul. One, she’s still alive. Two, she’s become something stronger than me. Don’t despair. If she lives, you’ll have your chance.

At that, Aphelia let out a bitter laugh, iron and salt.

I’m dying. Aren’t you here to ferry me? And you speak of seeing her again...

Who said I came to ferry you?

The girl laughed, annoyed, as if she’d heard a grand joke, and Aphelia’s curiosity stirred like a leaf in wind.

Hope rose like smoke from kindling. Aphelia asked carefully.

You... didn’t come to ferry me? Then does that mean—

Yes. Stop probing. You’re not dead. You’re fine. So, did I scare you?

She tilted her head and smiled, eyes full of mischief, like a fox at dusk.

Ha... ha... I was scared, indeed. Please don’t make that joke again, Miss Ferryman.

With her answer, Aphelia exhaled and smiled awkwardly, tension slipping off like a loose cloak.

Don’t worry. A soul made wholly of the Primordial Flame—no one in this world can shake it but you.

She shook her head, brushed dust from her white dress like snow, and rose to leave.

Wait, what do you mean? What’s the Primordial Flame? What do you mean no one can shake my soul?

The girl didn’t stop. She only waved, delicate as a willow branch.

Next time, Goddess. Someone’s already calling you.

Someone’s calling me?

The thought barely formed when a sudden drop yawned behind her. Urgent voices rushed to her ears like a tide.

Aphelia...

Aphelia...

Aphelia... wake up!

Through a blur, someone kept slapping her cheek, calling her name like a bell.