With that woman’s power wrapped around her like a cloak, Fenrir stopped being bothered by anything. She turned transparent to the world, yet fused into it like rain soaking earth, and formed a wordless thread to Aphelia sleeping on the bed.

The bond resisted language, a knot of soul and flesh braided in shadow and light. No common sense could map it, and Valkyries never played by common sense anyway. After the golden‑haired Aphelia blessed her, Fenrir felt the whole world tilt like a door opening.

Power stopped being fog and became form, like mountains stepping out of mist. Through the golden‑haired Aphelia’s blessing, power took shape in Fenrir’s eyes. Not only her own Aether, but two storms crashed inside Aphelia’s body.

“So, what did the golden‑haired me actually give you?” Aphelia’s voice rippled within the Earth Vein, curious as moonlight on stone. Fenrir no longer wore a child’s shape; she stood like a poised spring blade, carrying Aphelia’s grace, or Brynhildr’s edge.

In that moment, she looked exactly like the Brynhildr she had described, a statue come alive under dawn.

“If I have to put it plainly… Sis Aphelia, you know video games, right?” Fenrir’s tone was half playful, half steady, like wind on grass. “Your era didn’t have them, but when you crossed timelines, Brynhildr’s power should’ve uploaded those memories to your brain.”

“I see.” Aphelia nodded, thoughts flowing like a river finding its bed. “Every time I enter a new world, matching memories stream in. So that’s Brynhildr’s work. I do recall those audiovisual things. How do they tie to your power?”

Fenrir smiled and brushed her bangs aside, sunlight skating over her brow. A golden cross‑like sigil gleamed there, not a strict cross, more a cross‑based glyph. Its shifting lines felt like rules of power etched in gold.

Aphelia didn’t dissect the mark, though temptation rose like a spark in dry grass. If it came from another world’s her, decoding it would hand her that world’s apex strength. It was a shortcut, and this world would allow it.

In the end, her power is still hers. The golden‑haired Aphelia is one branch grown from this Aphelia’s trunk. On the road to tomorrow, the name Aphelia spreads like a spiderweb, and at each fork, different flowers open.

“But Sis Aphelia, aside from the first line she asked me to pass on, there’s another, never spoken.” Fenrir’s smile held a soft weight, like snow landing without sound. “I understand it now.”

“Think it through. Take this step, and there’s no road to the future.”

Take this step, and there’s no road to the future.

I feel seen and unsettled, like a mirror reading my mind. Of course it’s me; of course she saw this coming. Being read by myself isn’t pleasant at all.

“I get it. Keep telling me what you saw.” Aphelia drew back the hand she’d almost reached out, a tide pulling off the shore, and sighed.

In Fenrir’s memory, the first black silhouette was Uroboros, a night‑shape sharpened like a blade. Not the Uroboros by Aphelia’s side now; this one borrowed power from the mindsea and wore her old strength. A legion sculpted from shadows birthed itself in endless dark.

On the white side stood a noble woman in Silvery Armor, a lance in hand like winter lightning. A mask hid her face, yet her aura didn’t dim; she felt born to stand above the crowd.

Countless soldiers in Silvery Armor gathered at her flanks, blades like odd stars. They looked like Mana Crystal or enchanted edges, yet hinted at exquisite machinery. Their armor matched that craft. Faint light‑wings beat behind them, soft as feathers, strong as steel.

Uroboros’s eyes were hollow and slack, like a puppet’s glass marbles tugged by unseen strings. In her arms lay a sleeping maiden. Black hair veiled her face, yet the resemblance to Uroboros showed through like moon behind cloud.

Though the shadow legion outnumbered the silver host by a tide, Uroboros’s face held no victor’s smile. Worry creased her beauty like frost on a bloom.

Seeing no response from the maiden, Uroboros sighed, wind leaving a sail. Whether it was the present Uroboros’s will or not, she flicked her hand and sealed the girl inside a pitch‑black ward. Then she floated high, a raven against the sky, and met the silvery woman’s gaze.

The Obsidian Scepter grew from her palm again, night condensed to a rod. Under her, monsters roared like volcanoes waking, eager to rip the silvery woman apart.

Uroboros hovered, eyes fixed, and the gaze beneath the silver mask stayed flat as winter water. Uroboros breathed out and murmured to the wind:

“How many fights now, Uroboros? We’re down to pitiful remnants, clawing over control of this body. Don’t you feel tired…”

Her words fell, and the Obsidian Scepter slammed down like thunder. A ringing crack spread. The shadow legion surged like a black tide, aiming to drown the Silvery Armor host.

Uroboros didn’t intend to talk. Her hollow eyes sharpened into knives, as if the silvery woman’s voice pricked her pride. She turned manic, dangerous, a storm breaking its banks.

The silvery woman descended and stood before her troops, a quiet pillar amid dust. She sang a nameless hymn, airy and sacred, a bell that rang inside hearts and rippled across the field.

The black army roared in front of her, yet the eyes under the silver mask stayed still as ice. She kept chanting, as if alone on an empty plain.

Her song rose, and soldiers in Silvery Armor lifted blades, metal catching light like dawn on waves. Shields flared radiant. Whispered invocations fell again around them. With her at the helm, their momentum spiked like a cresting tide.

They moved up without a word and let her stand behind them, a queen behind a wall of steel. Their steps cut forward like a single iron blade. Even if a mountain collapsed ahead, they didn’t blink. They met the howling legion head‑on. Silver and shadow clashed, merciless as gears grinding. They fought until bodies fell silent.

In that heartbeat, the world froze. Only black and white remained, like ink on rice paper. Black beasts charged the silvery host. The reply was quiet steel. No flourish, only clean, simple cuts.

Her song climbed higher, a clear flame. Even without emotion, power and beauty pulsed inside it. She raised her silvery lance. Radiance pierced the sky and lit the world like a second sun.

In that instant, the silvery woman seemed to be the world’s center, a star pinning the heavens.

“What a dull trick,” Uroboros sneered, frost on her tongue. “You stole Brynhildr’s power for years, yet only use this Saint’s Canticle. Someone like you… do you even feel shame?”

As lives fell like rain on the field, Uroboros’s hollow eyes filled, color returning like paint to a face. It was an unfinished portrait given its eyes; the beauty inside the frame almost stepped out.

She slowly regained emotion and human heat, a thaw after long winter. Her scepter struck again, this time aimed at the singing woman. The air dimpled, visible as a warped glass, and shrieked straight toward her.

The silvery woman didn’t hesitate. She lifted soldiers with raw force and hurled them into the incoming strike. Warriors who had fought for her became her cold, unblinking shields.

Her ruthlessness toward her own wasn’t Uroboros’s concern. It was just another storm passing over stone.

“Hmph. Then come again!” Uroboros laughed, wild as a broken wave. The Obsidian Scepter smashed the ground. Twisted roots erupted like a forest in a flood, racing for the silvery woman.

Each root wasn’t illusion but matter, power hammered into shape by Uroboros’s will, night growing teeth.