Soldiers poured into the command room like a steel tide. Their muzzles slid past Aphelia and locked on Simmons, sprawled in the dust like a toppled idol.

“What are you doing! I’m a general of the American Theater! Do you all have a death wish!?”

He barked like a cornered dog, but dread rose first, cold as river silt. The response was too swift, too “timely,” like a trap built for this exact heartbeat. When he saw the skull patch on their shoulders, despair fell over him like nightfall.

They ignored his snarling. Black ballistic visors hid their faces, their eyes dull as dead water. They strode in, snapped a few photos like hammer blows, then hauled up his ruined arm and cuffed him, unmoved by his strangled screams.

A young man in matching gear walked in, night-cold on his face. He slid a USB from his vest, fed it to the tactical console, and spoke while the screen flickered like winter lightning.

“Simmons, you’re under arrest for crimes against humanity and crimes against the Union. The United Forces will handle you directly. Any objections?”

It sounded like a question, but it fell like a verdict. When a squad with a skull on its patch showed up, high officials were already corpses in waiting.

“Crimes against humanity” and “against the Union” hit, and his face went ash-grey. As a wartime general, he knew the weight; that first charge alone meant death, and the kind done on the spot.

Why would the Union’s purging blade show up now, of all times?

“Don’t pretend your little tricks were invisible.”

The young man shut the console with a click like a coffin lid, walked straight up, and let the ice in his voice bite.

“You’re the captain of the Execution Unit, right? I clearly—”

He choked mid-sentence. Through those black eyes, he saw killing intent, dense as a winter forest of knives. For a “general” who’d never touched the front, nothing tames faster than a blade laid bare.

He remembered the unit’s “record,” whispered through the ranks like a draft through a tomb. Half the missing brass? Their work, people said. In the early chaos, when fools tripped over their own shadows, every other day some blind idiot died.

Power didn’t save them. Begging didn’t save them. Bribes didn’t save them. If any of that worked, this young man wouldn’t be standing here.

“Looks like you know the score. Take him. Direct transfer to the port.”

The order fell like a stone into still water. The soldiers moved, smooth as gears. They dragged Simmons toward the hall, a man already walking backward into his grave. At the threshold, he thrashed and shouted, voice cracking.

“The American Theater! If I die, the Elders will be satisfied, right? They’ll finally support the American Theater! I won’t ask for anything else—”

“You think the other theaters’ Elders really withdrew?”

Shilwen smiled and shook her head, like a breeze brushing ash from a brazier. She waved, and they hauled the stunned, despairing Simmons away. Words were wasted; let him taste despair at the end. As for why the American Elders pulled back, Shilwen didn’t mind painting that tale in bright colors for the world.

Silence fell; four remained in the war room, heavy as snow before dawn. The young man crossed the floor in long strides, then dropped to one knee before Aphelia like a knight before a shrine.

“Lady Valkyrie, forgive my late arrival. As one blessed by you, I’m ashamed to face you.”

“Eh—hey, what’s with this? Please, get up first.”

Aphelia glanced at the other two, flustered as a bird in sudden wind. They bit back their laughter, eyes sparkling like stars behind clouds.

The young man still knelt, head lowered, as if her gaze were sunlight he dared not meet. At last, Shilwen couldn’t hold it; she laughed, patted his shoulder, and pulled him up, her grip like iron in silk.

“Lady Brynhildr’s memories haven’t fully returned. Don’t make things hard for her. As for Bryn—Aphelia, this is Yi. When the Daemon Beasts first descended, you raised a worldwide ward. Many survived by a hair. Yi was one of them—his sister too.”

Aphelia exhaled, a sigh like dew on stone. So this was Brynhildr’s favor echoing forward; a past Shilwen and Hrok hadn’t told her was unfolding, thread by thread.

Yi. The name rang like a bell. She studied his face—if you shaved Uncle Yi’s wild beard and cut that ridiculous ponytail, then wound the years backward, you’d get this very man.

Great. Half the cast has already assembled.

She smiled wryly. Fate’s web wasn’t spun in a day; even in this era, this little circle had knotted tight. When would she finally run into Hrok again?

“This isn’t the place to talk,” Yi said, voice steady as a drawn bow. “Please, the helicopter. We need a strategy for the American Daemon Beast. I sincerely hope you’ll—”

“Don’t talk nonsense! Lady Aphelia should be resting!”

Shilwen’s slap landed on his back like a thunderclap. Elder strength wasn’t a tale; even with Brynhildr’s boon, Yi staggered, fumbling two steps, before snapping upright short of bumping Aphelia.

What was that, attempted spouse-slaying? No wonder Yi fled east to west—he really did live under Shilwen’s shadow.

“It’s fine. I want to see those Daemon Beasts. There shouldn’t be any… inconvenience, right, Violet?”

Caution first, then motion; her voice was soft, but her eyes were clear as frost. She knew the reverence was for Brynhildr’s name, not her; in wartime, she had to walk these lines like a ridge in high wind.

Violet laughed behind her hand, a bell behind silk. Joy flashed in Shilwen’s and Yi’s eyes like sunrise on steel, and a faint heat crept into Aphelia’s cheeks.

“Aphelia, all the Elders have waited a long time for you to say that.”

Scarlet Aether flared around Violet, braided into spear and armor like flame woven into lacquer. She offered her hand, palm warm as a hearth.

“Please, my lady. Everything’s ready. The army will escort you.”

Shilwen and Yi had already bent the military into shape; all was set, only the east wind missing.

“Of course. Let’s go. I’ve been itching to trade blows with something strong.”

Hours later, the helicopter knifed toward the front, rotors chopping the night like a black river. They briefed Aphelia on the American lines, every known quirk of the Daemon Beast laid out like pieces on a board.

“This thing’s basically a dragon, isn’t it?”

A flying lizard, breathing elemental fire, clad in hard scales; with something unknown caged inside its flesh. It matched the dragons of her era like a shadow with a twist.

“It does look like the ones in stories,” Violet said, voice bright as flint. “Ask the American Theater’s Elder. She’s a bona fide Weapons Master. Without her, we’d have far less intel.”

A huge shadow lunged at the helicopter, a storm thrown in the shape of a beast. That feral silhouette could only be a Daemon Beast.

“Evasive!”

Crimson Flame erupted without reserve, a sunrise torn open in the dark. Bracer Gauntlets locked onto Aphelia’s forearms, and the thin Aether of this world heaved like a sea in gale.

For a heartbeat, the world felt filled to the brim with Crimson Fire.

The Daemon Beast dove; Aphelia’s right fist met its skull like a falling star. Crimson Flame raced over its hide; its “iron” scales curled like sodden paper before a kiln.

A gaping hole blew through its head.

“What!?”

Shilwen’s shout snapped like a flag in wind. Yi just stared, thunderstruck; the Daemon Beast that had defied them wouldn’t even take one of Aphelia’s punches. Violet’s face tightened; she knew Aphelia had recovered, but not like this.

It wasn’t over. Something else stirred inside the carcass like a thorn under skin.

A fetid gust slammed into Aphelia’s face. Under the scorch of the Scarlet Inferno, that hidden thing finally broke, bursting from the Daemon Beast’s body in a spray of shadow, and lunged.

“Is that all? Don’t you dare underestimate me!”

A sea of crimson fire unfolded, dyeing the night like a spilled sunset. Countless blades screamed from the blaze and lanced toward the black shape, a storm of knives under a blood-red sky.