Aphelia spoke with her chin lifted, her voice a blade that cut off any bargaining. The people before her were only couriers, flags in borrowed wind. She didn’t know this era’s system, but from the ripples she’d seen, it wasn’t a one-man throne.

That meant these envoys couldn’t speak with their leaders’ full will. They’d carry back tidings like ants with grains, then the powers-that-be would sift the sand and cast their verdict.

Years of fencing with nobles had taught her their scent. Give them a glimmer of victory, they start counting spoils before the blood dries, wolves circling a yet-living stag. They won’t weigh the cost of war, not even against a mountain of bones.

Back in her days as a Hero, she’d had enough; the memory still cut like winter wind on old scars.

“Lady Brynhildr, we can’t decide over these legacies,” Bilan said, brows taut like a bowstring. “I don’t think the leaders will agree to this proposal…”

She’d held a similar post since before the United Government formed. She knew the bottom lines like riverbanks. Aphelia’s terms, she feared, would hit a wall of stone.

Yes, Aphelia had shown overwhelming power, a storm breaking clear sky. But could she truly subdue the remaining Daemon Beasts? In this climate, Violet had only acted once, a single thunderclap that faded. Most leaders now saw the Elders as a one-use talisman, a spent arrow.

Aphelia had just ripped a Daemon Beast apart, parchment torn by two hands. She’d outdone Violet. But who could guarantee she’d have that same thunder for the other war zones? If not, handing over the ancient legacies would be like dropping the only rifle in their trench.

Even if Aphelia did achieve that feat, would the United Government accept her terms? The answer was no. If she showed such power again, their wariness would rise to match the Eldritch Gods, a shadow set against a shadow. Asking them to surrender the weapons that check the Elders would be like asking a sailor to toss his last lantern into the sea.

Without checks, the United Government couldn’t stomach such power, especially power that wasn’t human, a tide that answered no shore.

Lady Brynhildr’s condition struck the nerve, a needle finding the vein.

Bilan sighed, a leaf rustling before rain. In her place, she’d do the same. Humans fear the unknown with a soul-deep shiver, a child staring at the dark under the bed.

“I want you envoys to carry this message back,” Aphelia said, voice calm as a still pond with ice under it. “If your leaders want to cooperate, send new envoys the day after tomorrow. But then, we won’t sit in a circle with open palms. It’ll be one-on-one, a closed door and a single chair.”

Her mouth curled in a cold smile. Crimson Aether bled into the air like dusk. The pressure pressed down like a low sky; every envoy’s breath hitched, and sweat slid down their temples in thin rivers.

At a time like this, they still fretted over both ends of the rope. Was profit worth more than their breath?

She tossed another log on the fire. “You can leave now. Time’s precious. If anyone still wants to test me the day after tomorrow, don’t blame me for a heavy hand. My temper isn’t as gentle as it looks.”

Crimson Fire swept out like a broom of flame. It pushed the representatives out the door, smashed several tiny listening bugs like gnats, and sealed the room tight as a lacquered box.

“Aphelia… no—have you fully recovered Brynhildr’s memories?” Violet stepped forward, hope flashing like a lantern in the mist. Only a fully restored Brynhildr would speak so surely. The task wasn’t just breaking Daemon Beasts; it was beating them and caging them, mountains chained to a single stake.

That power above all else, like a peak above the clouds, belonged to Brynhildr alone.

Aphelia nodded, then shook her head, a wave crossing itself. She gave a bitter smile. “More or less. I’ve recovered most of it, not all. But I’ve found a way to meet this crisis. For the next two days, we wrestle wills with human leaders, like iron on a cold anvil.”

Hope had just risen in Violet’s chest, and now it fell like a kite in windless air. More than anyone here, she longed for Brynhildr’s return. But the one in this body wasn’t the one her heart had painted.

“If you aren’t fully restored, should we delay? And the United Government… Aphelia, have you really weighed the fallout?” Her worry showed first, like thunder before lightning. The future of humans gnawed at her, but it was ash beside Brynhildr. The Valkyries didn’t live by human grain. If Brynhildr stood, they stood. Even in death, they had a road back, a dawn after ash.

This sudden plan to meet national leaders set a thorn in Violet’s heart. War loomed like a black tide. Yes, this could cow the elites, but the backlash might split the United Government, a crack down a frozen lake.

Unwilling as she was, she admitted the truth. Without the United Government, with nations splintered like driftwood, humans wouldn’t last even before Daemon Beasts, let alone Eldritch Gods. The Union didn’t just erase borders; it fed the front line, a spine for the whole body.

If the United Government fractured, the loss would be a wound to the bone. Daemon Beasts were a claw, but the greatest threat was the vast shadow hanging over the world, a shroud across the sky. Without ending the Eldritch Gods, humanity would only march toward dusk.

“It’s fine. I’ve weighed it,” Aphelia said, shaking her head like a bell that wouldn’t ring. “This United Government needs to be taken apart. Twisted unity has lasted too long; people are losing the will to think. I don’t mind cultivating a single hegemony. At least then the human world will have a voice clear as a bell.”

She sighed softly, a reed stirred by an unseen current. She dared this because of a tremor from the depths of her soul, a drum she couldn’t show Violet. To say it aloud would be to tear the mask, to admit the ‘imposter’ beneath her skin.

Violet watched her, words breaking like foam before they reached shore. Then she stepped in and hugged her tight, an anchor around a stormed mast.

No matter the road ahead, she would stand by Aphelia’s side. As for humans… if they were fated for ruin, then ruin it was. Valkyries weren’t mankind’s nurses or tools—at best, reluctant partners brought to the same raft by the same flood.

Outside the conference room, the envoys buzzed with complaints, sparrows scolding a hawk. Some even boasted of what they’d do. But it stayed as wind in their mouths. They knew they couldn’t touch the Elders; the United Government wouldn’t pick a fight with the Elders for their sakes.

Only Bilan frowned, a quiet crease in calm water. She left the cluster of envoys and walked toward the exit of the cutting-edge lab. She’d caught the undertone in Aphelia’s words.

No deals with everyone. Tests refused. In a way, the Elders were choosing a side, planting their flag on one ridge. If Aphelia wasn’t bluffing, their next moves would tilt the axis of the world.

Worst case, the United Government vanished like fog under sun?

The thought hit her. She covered her red lips to trap a cry, a bird startled in the cage. If so, one power would tower alone, and the rest would become tributaries, rivers running to one sea.

This meeting might be the Elders’ olive branch to sift that future hegemon. Whoever grabbed it first would hold tomorrow like a torch.

With that, Bilan dared not dawdle. Behind her, envoys were already calling their patrons to lay snares for Aphelia, weaving spiderwebs in bright daylight. She couldn’t help a cold smile.

She rushed out of the lab. Within her clearance, she pulled the fastest helicopter, rotors glittering like dragonfly wings, and sped toward the United Government’s headquarters in Asia.

Bilan believed, from the root out, that the Elders weren’t bluffing. What they said they could do was iron, not paper. She set her jaw. She’d win this chance for her country, even if it meant walking on blades.

When Violet finally left the conference room, Aphelia at last had a pocket of solitude. She sank into the sofa like a string cut loose. A wisp of white and a thread of black drifted from her fingertips, circling her like moths around a lantern.

“Brynhildr. Uroboros. Your awakening is a bit too convenient, isn’t it?” Her voice was soft, yet it rang like a pebble in a still pool. “Uroboros aside—but Brynhildr, you should’ve scattered as ash on the wind. Now you’re on me. How do you explain that?”

Two voices answered with a light laugh, summer rain on leaves. The white wisp floated to her ear and whispered.

“I don’t know why either,” it said, a reflection speaking from the water. “If I had to name a reason, I’d call it the accident of time. Besides, this ‘revival’ of mine isn’t a true resurrection, just a shadow under the moon.”