“Aphelia!”

Heron had meant to stop her, right as Aphelia finished drawing in that power. But when Aphelia stepped out from the rivers of light, fear knifed through Heron. She flinched away on instinct, like a sparrow under a hawk’s shadow.

She hadn’t felt that terror in ages. It was the naked link between apex and prey, written into marrow and mist. Even without intent, the pressure rolling off Aphelia made Heron back off three steps in her heart.

If she still had a body, Heron could’ve met that crushing aura. Flesh shields the soul like armor against wind. She’d brushed the Origin before; her old body was no mortal shell. Now she’d been a soul alone for epochs. She’d traded skin for sight—and gained a sense so sharp it hurt.

That sense made breathing near Aphelia feel like drowning under ice.

People say some folks carry an aura. What they mean is the soul’s grain catching your senses. You bow to power. You fear the predator. It’s the soul tugging your flesh and mind, a warning bell. Right now, Aphelia rang that bell like thunder.

“The choice you just made may not be the right one.”

The collective consciousness spoke at last, watching Aphelia spear into space. Its voice was a braid of tones—high and low, male and female, old and young. The mix was a storm in the ear.

Heron was used to it. Truth is, staying sane while managing that choir for so long was a small miracle. She sighed, soft as ash. After shepherding this crowd of souls through ages, how could she not know what they wanted?

She snorted, cold as frost, eyes fixed on Aphelia’s streaking figure. “You think giving you the body makes it right? You’re the dead. You want to pilot a titan and call it grace? Hundreds of millions of wraiths won’t master that frame.”

The collective flared, a wave of soul-force humming the air. It couldn’t scuff Heron at all. Time had almost made them forget they’d once been one. Even as a massed mind of countless spirits, Heron remained the helm.

“It’s been almost… an epoch. If we don’t find a human body, I’ll forget I was human!”

The cries rose from most of them, a surf of longing. Heron answered with winter in her voice. “You think Aphelia’s body is simple? Forget the other powers. The Primordial Flame alone—born with the world, peer to the Origin—touch it and you’ll burn yourselves out. This isn’t a numbers game. Against the Primordial Flame, your soul-strength is suicide.”

She was right. The Primordial Flame still guarded Aphelia. Any invading soul needed to stand at least where Aphelia stood. As for Aphelia’s soul-strength—no amount of headcount bridges that gulf. Possession would be a torch to dry grass, and the collective would collapse like dust.

What Heron didn’t know: Uroboros also slept in Aphelia’s depths, a hidden blade. Slip past the Crimson Fire by luck, and that serpent waited with jaws wide. In this universe, to contest Uroboros, you’d need to start at Violet’s average.

The survivors had fused into a collective to endure. Together, they were a mountain; alone, a handful of sand. When the Aether Civilization fell, they saved a spark, not their prime. Only an outlier like Heron kept her strength whole.

“Not to mention the Swarmheart. You’d seize Aphelia’s body and dare to drink that power? You want to wrestle the Origin’s will? If we could, we would’ve done it. We wouldn’t be exiles for ages. We wouldn’t be here bickering.”

Her barbs silenced part of the will. They knew the truth. In the age of Aether and now, Aphelia’s strength stood peerless. As for the power that forges Root Executors—if they could absorb it, they would’ve, and spared themselves this long cold passage.

To fear the mind’s unraveling. To fear the Origin’s hunters at every step. Who would choose the life of a fugitive? And for the Aether Civilization, it had been epochs of night.

Some still yammered in Heron’s ear, not ready to let go. She cut them off with a thought, turned her sight to Aphelia, who shot toward the Origin like a comet.

Crimson Flame and pitch-black Aether wreathed her. Aphelia fell like a meteor and slammed into the Origin. The goddess carved on her Bracer Gauntlets unfurled. Gold-red wings coiled around her arms, shaping into slender, unyielding bracers.

“Uroboros, can we hit the Origin now?”

Rage hadn’t wiped her reason. The Origin loomed ahead. If she dragged Earth into it, the world would break. Power surged in her body, a tide that kept rising. Every cell was cheering like drums at dawn.

The shadow coiled near her was Uroboros. Swarmheart’s flood had fed it too; something in it had turned over. It shrank and perched on her shoulder, scarlet eyes on the Origin, a mad grin peeling back like a crescent blade.

“Hit it. Hit it hard.”

Down on Earth, almost everyone saw the sky ignite. Crimson streams fell to every corner without choosing. Thunder rolled without air or law, and the sound rang from ocean to cloud.

“That’s… Aphelia!!”

Through Aether, Violet saw who struck the Origin’s back. Joy burst from her like a bell.

“Aphelia… she finally finished taking in that power! As expected of the former Brynhildr. That’s a rival worthy of me!”

Sigdrifa felt the change in orbit and laughed, even as pain tried to tear her into a thousand scraps. Aphelia’s arrival hit her like a shot to the heart. She roared and drove the Aether, and with Aphelia, she turned and struck back at the Origin.

In space, Aphelia’s fists blurred. Martial memories spilled from her mind like a river finding its bed. Backed by raw force, her chain of strikes left the Origin no room to counter. The black ring finally wavered. Under her combinations, a thin crack opened along its back.

“Uroboros!”

Her hands flew, but her eyes caught the flaw. She shouted without fear. Uroboros slid into shadow, swelled into a sky-devouring serpent, and rammed the crack head-on.

Another thunderclap. As Aphelia raised her arm, Uroboros slammed into the ring’s backside, then snapped its tail. The whip landed dead on the fracture. Two perfect blows to the same bruise. The black ring shuddered like a struck gong. Inky breaths slipped through the opening.

“Aphelia, aim your new power at that crack!”

Uroboros vaulted clear, black Aether spilling from her hands, sketching a path for Aphelia like ink on silk.

New power.

Aphelia drew a deep breath. Unlike before, it felt like a missing shard of her soul slid into place. Crimson and dusk-dark carapace sheathed her ten fingers. The crimson gauntlets folded back and became wings of sharpened blades.

Memories surged up from the deep. Words like engravings rose to her lips. No language needed. No voice needed. She could still hymn the Way-to-Come.

“This day, daylight stands bright. I hymn the Way of Tomorrow.”

In the wide black of the cosmos, a single point of light was born.

The black ring thrashed. At the light’s first spark, it quailed like prey before a god. It tried to flee Earth’s sky, too rattled to mind the black mire below. But how could Uroboros and Aphelia let it go? Crimson Flame and black mist wrapped the ring, a net pulled tight.

“Origin, today you taste human strength.”

Aphelia reached out and caught the shining point. She roared at the Origin now close enough to touch. Crimson Flame, black Aether, and that newborn light gathered in her grasp. She didn’t hesitate. She drove them all into the Origin.