Aphelia let out a long breath and lifted her gaze to the ocean of stars above. Dark-blue night draped over silent, ruined rubble; with factories lost to the war against Daemon Beasts, and no towers left, the sky flooded even the plains.
“Hey, Uroboros.”
Uroboros stood, dusted her hands, and was about to head for the Valkyries’ camp when Aphelia spoke from the ground. Uroboros turned and saw Aphelia, chin tilted to the constellations, eyes stubborn as a blade catching moonlight.
That look—haven’t I seen it somewhere before?
With that thought, Uroboros stopped and smiled.
“What is it, Aphelia?”
A strange hush moved between them, like wind over a lake. They had once walked the edge of enmity, blades almost kissing. Now they were life-bound partners—call it cloying if you want—kin tied by storm and blood. From the day Aphelia sealed Uroboros on the plains to now, only a handful of years had turned. Who would’ve thought their bond would bend like iron into gold?
Uroboros gave a helpless smile, heart pricked by the fickle dance of fate. She belonged to the Ouroboros bloodline, almost beyond fate’s net. Yet, by a crooked path, here she stood at Aphelia’s side; to deny fate felt like denying rain to clouds. Threads, fine as spider silk, bound the two; tug one, the other quivered. For a creature used to walking alone, that weave stirred her like spring after a long winter.
Fate is fickle.
“Tell me—how many civilizations are out there, in that wide-bellied cosmos?”
Aphelia reached toward the sky, fingers fishing for light; the stars were too far, her grasp took only emptiness. Still, her eyes hardened, like steel quenched in night water.
The boundless cosmos never blunted humanity; it stoked our curiosity like embers fed with dry pine. In the age of raw meat and stone, people stared up and fell silent. In the middle ages, debates about the heavens burned hot; pioneers were branded madmen and fed to the flames. Even so, some strode toward death with open chests, martyring themselves on the road skyward. It was that will that broke clouds, tore the firmament, and stepped into star-dark.
Only then did humanity taste its smallness—wanderers on a barren steppe, afraid to show the path home. Fear loomed like a mountain, and the small gathered like birds in a storm. Civilization surged forward; we probed the world’s marrow and the human core. Then Aether, once a rumor in old tomes, returned like a tide of light.
From Heron’s Aether Civilization to ultra-ancient humans, they wielded Aether and truly left our cradle of stars. They flew into the deep, and were both victors and failures. They proved countless civilizations existed, yet all fell on the road to the universe’s abyss.
Origin—the nightmare circling humanity’s head.
Whenever we neared the universe’s edge, Origin’s power erased us without mercy. The ultra-ancient era is a blur of ash; Heron’s Aether Civilization had its spine snapped. All they gained was Origin’s brief retreat and their own total ruin. Souls melted into a single consciousness and drifted through cold space for hundreds of millions of years.
Whatever the civilization, Origin lay across the road like a black river. Yesterday’s Aether Civilization, today’s world where Aphelia stands—it’s the same shadow. Step toward deep space again, and you board a one-way ferry to death.
“Who knows? If we can’t resist Origin, counting them hardly matters.”
Uroboros sighed, a sound like wind slipping through ruins. Aphelia had reached this point on the shoulders of many civilizations, sediment laid layer by layer. It felt like an invisible hand nudged every culture on this planet to help her. It rebuilt a ruined body into the warrior who stands here now.
The Core of Primordial Soil, the Primordial Flame, the Soul of Aether, the Ouroboros. Each was a miracle you could scour the world for and never find. Aphelia holds them all, fused cleanly into herself. The soul Sigdrifa once cracked with rough hands is fully mended. It’s stronger than before, like tempered steel after the hammer’s song.
“Uroboros, someday I’ll find those civilizations. I believe others still hide out there, beyond our reach. I want to see what flowers bloom beyond this planet haunted by Origin.”
Aphelia clenched her right fist and rose, as if she truly held a star-seed in her palm. Her voice was calm, iron under silk. As she looked up, she remembered the war-torn ruins where, as a Hero, she also reached for the sky. The person is the same; the world around her has overturned like earth after an earthquake.
She felt no gloom; a smile tugged at her lips. Things are better now, she thought. Back then she was nearly half-paralyzed and still carried hope. At first she only wanted to set foot in the firmament. Now she means to dive into the universe’s deep sea.
Maybe that’s the vow buried in every human heart.
“Come on, Uroboros. Let’s check the situation here first; you keep your feet on the ground before you step into the stars.”
She laughed and hooked an arm around Uroboros’s shoulder, as shameless as a street brawler. Uroboros was helpless and amused, and slung an arm back. Two women with faces that could stop traffic walked like rough men through the dark.
By the time they returned to camp, it was deep night, frost quiet on the tents. Most Valkyries slept heavy; even Hrok had turned in. Today exhausted everyone; the gap in strength was a canyon few had crossed. Still, they held the line, paying in the sacrifices of too many companions. It was a day of silence, a day that wouldn’t loosen its grip.
“Violet, Shilwen, let’s go over the camp’s situation. Let me see what I can do.”
In a corner of the camp, Aphelia and Uroboros found them. Small cuts mapped their skin; with medicine and Aether scarce, the wounds had only been wrapped. Unhealed, they kept working, teeth clenched through the night. Aphelia gently drew them aside and let a soft Aether glow flow for healing.
“Thank you, Lady Brynhildr…”
“No need—keep calling me Aphelia. I’m still me, not Brynhildr.”
She healed the cuts on Shilwen’s cheek and arm. The mild Aether folded back into her like tide receding. Violet’s injuries were never heavy; Sigdrifa shielded her at the start. Most of what she suffered came later, during rescue work.
“Aphelia, are you sure your Aether reserves are fine? Earth’s Aether is dwindling; don’t waste it on me. I’m not badly hurt…”
She could feel it—the thin ambient Aether wasn’t what Aphelia used. Gentle Aether poured from Aphelia herself, unmetered, like a spring. That’s why Violet worried.
“What are you worried about? My consumption can’t keep up with my recovery. Relax. I’m past needing the environment. Shilwen, tell me the Valkyries’ casualties.”
Aphelia brushed off Violet’s hand and turned to Shilwen. Hearing her name, Shilwen sprang up, nerves tight as bowstring. She held a battered notebook and reported.
“Y-Yes, Lady Br—Aphelia. We have 1,001 survivors in the Valkyrie camp. About 600 are wounded; two-thirds of those are severe. The remaining third can still handle simple tasks. As for the 400 severely wounded… to be honest, medicine is almost gone. Tomorrow’s allotment likely won’t suffice. If you can help, it’s fine. If not, we must quickly secure a new batch of supplies.”
