"Ah, sorry... I’m fine. I’m just not used to it." Aphelia gave a small smile, killing intent folding back like a blade sheathed under silk, impulse cooling like tea left to breathe.

She reminded herself she was no longer in that world of thorns. As for Sigdrifa, there was no proof—only a pebble of obsession rippling her heart’s lake.

"It’s alright. They’re just awed by you," Violet said, voice soft as rain on eaves, stepping in front of her to shield her from the ring of soldiers like a willow breaks the wind. "We’ll head to the Elders’ ruins in the American Theater soon. The Elder posted there is waiting. Seeing her might bring more of your memories back."

In this era, Aphelia, who bore Brynhildr’s soul, had been a shy girl—fragile as new bamboo after frost. Otherwise the Enforcers wouldn’t have cut her first. The people in the lounge had kept silent only because they thought she was easy prey, like crows lurking on a quiet field.

But inside this body called “Aphelia,” another Aphelia had moved in—new moon hung in an old shell, cold and bright.

Hearing Hrok’s name, Aphelia nodded without hesitation, flowing with the current like a leaf taking the river’s bend. Leaving this place was good. Faces important to this age needed meeting, the sooner the better, so she could learn why fate had ferried her here.

This world was gentler than her own like a breeze after storm, and yet—it wasn’t home. The scent of its soil wasn’t hers.

Shilwen finished rallying the soldiers and came bouncing to Aphelia’s side, eyes bright like morning stars barely fading. "Aphelia, the front-line troops agreed to escort us to the Elders’ ruins in the American Theater. We can move out any minute."

"That’s great. Please, lead the way." Aphelia nodded with a quiet smile, a lantern steady in the wind.

They left the smoking front line, lifted by helicopter blades that chopped the air like carp leaping a gate, escorted by a chain of gunships toward the Elders’ ruins. Far in the East, the United Army War Tribunal opened its jaws like a granite cliff-face to try Simmons.

Here, no matter how deep the power behind him, it broke on authority like a wave on rock. Because the case was too vile, the trial was broadcast without a veil to the entire world; in the helicopter, Aphelia and the others watched on their tactical screens, blue light like cold water on their faces.

From judges to jury, every seat held a soldier, their expressions iron-hard. They turned pages of the dossier Shilwen’s team had compiled, papers thick as bricks, eyes cutting toward Simmons on the stand like blades glancing off armor. The presiding middle-aged officer’s brow furrowed deeper with each charge, turning into a single drawn line like ink soaking into paper.

No one could ignore that dossier—especially not here, where the air smelled of gun oil and oath. It had been submitted by the Elders and detailed the crimes of the Supreme General who had only lately taken the American Theater. Even the Tribunal felt their scalps prickle like ants swarming at the dense list.

The Tribunal had been accused before, but those cases had dissolved like mist. Witnesses were assassinated or forced to recant; by the time the court reached out, there were only shadows and footprints washed by rain.

Most soldiers knew Simmons stank of rot, but they lacked proof and had to gnash their teeth in silence. The Tribunal sat far in the East, the American Theater was an ocean away, and Daemon Beasts struck everywhere like storms at sea; monsters nested in the deep, so evidence-gathering cost blood and ships.

This time, the Elders laid the proof on the table themselves, intact as a sealed jade box. That finally gave the Tribunal soldiers a blade to grip. The Execution Squad had even escorted him in chains; attention sharpened like a whetstone.

They could have shot him in a ditch, but they delivered him to the Tribunal, asking for justice as clear as mountain spring.

"Defendant Simmons, regarding Elder Violet’s charges—crimes against humanity and sabotage of the United War—do you contest?" the presiding officer asked, face dark as a storm front. Those names weighed like millstones; he had to ask first.

Simmons looked around at the ring of unfamiliar uniforms, felt cold seep into his bones like night tide, sighed, and nodded. "No objection."

The courtroom erupted, a wave of derision slamming the walls like wind through bamboo. In wartime, crimes against humanity were unforgivable; sabotage of the United War was worse. Humanity wasn’t feuding in a village alley; it was facing something from beyond the map. We either tied the rope tight together, or we fell into the ravine.

"Order, order!" The gavel cracked like ice, and the echoes cooled the room. The officer lifted the dossier again, voice steady as a metronome.

"On the charge that you embezzled over a hundred million in war funds—any objection?"

"No."

"On the charge that you assaulted and attempted to kill an Elder—any objection?"

"...No."

"On the charge that you and your backers gravely damaged the American Theater—any objection?"

"No."

One by one, the charges were named and nailed, and the count rose like a grim abacus. Hundreds of crimes stained the ledger; more than a dozen would poison human society and the United War. Any single one could see him marched to a wall again and again.

The officer’s face went iron-black. After confirming the list, he sent a vote to every theater commander and the United coalition, arrows of light firing across the globe. The trial was live; every faction wanted to wash its hands clean, showing they had no ties to Simmons, as if scrubbing blood from a sleeve.

No surprise—Simmons received the death sentence.

Aphelia let out a long breath, mist from a winter mouth. The men behind the worm weren’t all dragged into daylight, but their agent had been executed beneath the sun. If they wanted to try such filth again soon, they’d better be ready to face the world’s wildfire.

Without the Elders, humanity lacked a killing stroke against the Daemon Beasts. We walked a tightrope over a storm. Maybe today we’d push them back; tomorrow their resistance to hot weapons might surge, and armies would turn into parades.

That was a knife at every leader’s throat, even with ancient tech the Elders had taught. Because the strongest weapon of that civilization had been the Elders themselves—the Valkyries. The modern academies and their human “Valkyries” were only moonlight copied on water.

Luckily, the Elders hadn’t shown an appetite for ruling this world. They asked little of the United Government, humbler than a common citizen, save for their still-unawakened leader.

With Aphelia’s arrival, that distance had shifted like a compass needle under a new star.

"Violet, I want to ask you something. Did you already plan to have Simmons..." She didn’t finish, but the shadow of the blade was clear on the floor.

Watching the screens, Aphelia weighed it all. The so-called Aether Dissolution Plan looked like the Elders’ design, and it shouldn’t have launched this early. Brynhildr of this era hadn’t awakened yet. Her own unexpected step into this time had likely rolled the dice sooner.

If so, was toppling Simmons ever the simple end of it?

"Yes, we’d planned it," Violet said, nodding, voice calm as still water. "To be precise, we intend to suppress anti-United forces in America. Simmons was the face they pushed onto the stage."

"At first it was Hrok, the Elder of the American Theater. She sensed an undertow beneath the war’s waves. It began with an assassination attempt on a high-ranking officer. Without that spark, we wouldn’t have caught the scent."

"Political struggle… that’s normal enough," Aphelia said after a beat, thoughts circling like swallows. "For an assassination, how did you decide they were anti-United?"

Assassinations in politics weren’t rare; rival claws left scratches in the dark. If you judged them anti-United on that alone, the footing felt loose. Not that she’d oppose their move even without iron proof—everyone guards their own hearth. Still, to name them anti-United, there had to be a root.

"Digging deeper, we found the faction had spread across America before the Eldritch Gods descended," Violet explained, laying evidence like stones on a river path. "They’d long indulged in inhuman madness—live sacrifices, hybrid breeding. After the descent, they hardened into Eldritch worship. That much is on their side alone. If the Eldritch Gods had begun infecting humans, the battle would tilt into nightmare. That’s one of the futures we fear."

"In fact, they’d already started poisoning food prepared for the Elders," Shilwen cut in, voice tight as a bowstring. Violet could only give a helpless smile, as if tasting bitter herb. "That’s how it is."