Even with a rough brush of Aether, Hrok’s insides read like a collapsed scaffold—splintered bones, muscles twisted like knotted ropes—a sight that stabbed at her eyes.
“That’s fine. Hrok’s been through this many times. His body’s grown tolerant. A whisper of Aether heals him fast. You’ll get used to it.”
Violet shrugged, a ripple of wind across still water. At first, it shocked her—mending near-mortal wounds with a trickle of Aether in this thin era. Now, knowing he’s forged himself a thousand times and survived a thousand injuries, surprise gives way to respect, like frost melting into clear spring.
“She’ll need some time to recover. Half a day, give or take. Aphelia, anything you want to see?”
“Mm… if I had to pick, probably a Daemon Beast.”
Aphelia pondered, a quiet lake catching cloud shadows, then answered Violet.
In this world, her first curiosity was the Eldritch God hanging high in orbit, a cold moon over the void. In tales—and from Mist Bloom’s own words—humanity’s great enemy, aside from Sigdrifa, was that civilization-killing presence.
Aphelia now stood at that level, a mountain against storm. She wanted to try, to face the so‑called Reaper head‑on, like a blade meeting thunder.
But the Daemon Beast shifted her thought, a fracture in common sense. It had traits from creatures of her own age; that “big lizard” she tore apart was, from her eye, a dragon coiled beneath cloud.
Yet in the fight, it didn’t feel like a dragon at all. Buried inside the lizard’s flesh was another thing—a will twisted like thorn-vine, no longer truly alive. She had no time to dwell; Crimson Fire turned it to charcoal, ash rising like dusk.
Thinking back, that core was likely the Daemon Beast’s true face.
“Ah… speaking of that, it’s doable, just a hassle.”
Violet hesitated, then led Aphelia toward the helicopter, boots tapping like light rain.
“A hassle? Why?” Doubt pricked her first, then the words came like a drawn bow.
“Because of Simmons, the Daemon Beast’s corpse is under Union Government control. With Elder clearance we can access it. Come on, we’ll need a chopper…”
“No need. Just point me the way.”
“Eh?”
Aphelia caught Violet’s sleeve; the height difference tilted her balance, surprise fluttering like a sparrow from a branch.
Crimson Fire unfurled, a warm tide wrapping them both. Violet realized Aphelia meant to fly them with sheer Aether, a comet leap across sky. In this thin-Aether age, Elders never planned long hauls like that.
“Just take us back to the battlefield. Top labs sit near the supply lines. They should’ve started slicing samples…”
“Then please hold tight.”
The words barely fell. Wrapped in Crimson Fire, they shot out like a red comet, whooshing hard enough to paint a crimson trail across the clouds.
“Shilwen, what is that?”
Yi, busy with camp chores, felt the anomaly first—a heat ripple even a normal man could sense. He looked up, a reed in wind.
The sight jolted him—lightning on open sea.
“Is that… Lady Brynhildr, and Violet? What kind of new play is that?”
Watching their figures vanish into the horizon, Shilwen patted her chest, heartbeat easing like a drum after war. Other Valkyries would go green at that Aether volume—an overflowing spring under a red sky.
“Lady Brynhildr? That speed’s faster than a fighter jet.”
Yi gaped, the words halting like hoofbeats. He knew Aphelia was strong; the recent fight with a Daemon Beast had proved it. But this—this was speed the eye struggled to catch; only a crimson streak and a trembling Aether wake told the tale.
“A fighter jet? You’re underselling Lady Brynhildr.”
Shilwen curled her lip, fingers flying over her laptop like rain on keys. Work stacked like mountains. She’d dodged half a range to witness Brynhildr stirring from legend. Even with split-second busyness, she felt content, a lantern lit in fog.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—get back to work. You’re human. You won’t reach our tier.”
Yi exhaled, a long gust across grass. He smiled, shook his head, then hauled supplies back into camp.
After a stretch of flight that left Violet pale, they dropped into the frontline base of the Americas. On landing, Violet clung to Aphelia, a vine to a tree. It wasn’t just time away from flying—Aphelia kept pushing, acceleration stacking like waves, and Violet’s body had to weather the storm.
“Violet, soldiers incoming.”
“W‑wait, let me catch my breath…”
Seeing troops tightening around them, Aphelia jostled the woman hugging her, then offered a wry smile, a moon behind thin cloud.
With that much commotion, the base couldn’t miss them. Radar caught the rush, but every guided weapon turned blind, failing to lock as if staring at lightning. Manual aim was a joke—a fisherman grabbing at rain.
When Aphelia touched down, ground teams closed in, boots thumping like drums. Some were fresh off the front. They set down their rifles and saluted, hands crisp as blades.
A warrior who could tear a Daemon Beast—hard to forget a thunderclap like that.
“L‑Lady Brynhildr, do you have business here we should assist with?”
A young officer was pushed forward by the crowd, nerves fluttering like a banner in wind.
Beyond her face, the one-woman victory over a long-haunting Daemon Beast was legend inked in fresh blood.
“I’d like to see the Daemon Beast’s corpse. Is that possible?”
Aphelia glanced at still-woozy Violet, then spoke, a tired smile like winter sunlight.
“Ah, oh… huh? The corpse? W‑wait, I’ll need to check with my superiors…”
“Please do.”
In this era, Aphelia’s body carried the beauty of a faint blossom—a sickly grace. Fragile to the eye, iron within. That contrast drew eyes like moths to flame.
Soldiers crowded, tongues tangling with praise, reverence rising like incense. Violet, breath steadied, began shielding Aphelia from the tide, a fan cutting heat.
Then, someone without sense of the room shoved through.
“Miss Brynhildr, the Union Government drafts you to the European Theater to eliminate a Daemon Beast. Execute immediately.”
A high‑bridged‑nose youth in camouflage forced past the crowd. He flung a folder at Aphelia, voice cold as iron, eyes like frost over mud. His disdain wasn’t just for her; he looked at the soldiers as if the air itself gave him hives.
What trash?
Aphelia never expected universal kindness. But this was over the line, a rusty knife in silk. Or was this the Union’s true stance toward the strong, written in cheap ink?
She’d heard of the Union’s petty cruelties. Seeing it now, they really did spend their strength fighting their own, moths gnawing their cloak.
Violet’s face darkened, storm rolling in. She opened her mouth, but Aphelia stilled her with a look, calm as a lake before lightning. Aphelia stepped on the folder, paper crumpling like dead leaves, and walked up to the youth.
“Sir, your name?”
“Tools don’t deserve my name.”
He kept his eyes averted, as if staring at the sky. Aphelia laughed, a chime with a blade behind it.
“Tell me—between you and a Daemon Beast, who’s stronger?”
“Tool, do you lack common sense? Humans can’t compare to Daemon Beasts.”
His smirk was pity carved in ice.
“Right. If humans aren’t stronger, why do you dare speak to me like this?”
“You—”
Before his sneer finished, a chill ran his spine like ice water. Crimson Fire drew a red line in the air, a calligrapher’s stroke across silence. His proud, fearful mask was still on his face when his head parted from his body, falling like a severed blossom.
