Coming from Uroboros of the Ouroboros clan, those words rang a little ironic, like a snake laughing at its own shadow in moonlit water.
Uroboros, born of the Ouroboros, carried knowledge like a tide that reached every shore since the universe’s first dawn; every system, every civilization, the whole starry archive cupped within a single coil.
Even Earth’s alchemists once drew that circle: a serpent biting its own tail, body as proof of perfection, will as the seal of all things merging, existence as the boundary between life and death, a horizon drawn in firelight.
When Aphelia stepped into this era, that lore flowed to her as well, like an old river finding a new bed.
Thinking back, Brynhildr of that age hunted clues in the depths where the Ouroboros drift, searching the night-sea for a way to defeat the Origin, a fisherman chasing a lantern-lit shoal.
What she found, no one can say; but by the outcome, Uroboros likely failed—otherwise it would be Brynhildr standing here against the Origin, not Aphelia, like an old pillar holding the sky.
Compared to Aphelia, a “newborn” future still wet with dew, Brynhildr seemed the better blade—will near-equal to the Origin, strength like a mountain rooted in thunder.
Fuse her again with Sigdrifa, and she’d return to that near-invincible Valkyrie, a storm-banner stitched back to the wind.
“That writer proposed it in his time—against common ethics—and never got burned for it,” Uroboros mused, voice like a reed pipe in the dark.
“They had entered a civilized age; people still hurt people, but not to that pitch. His books didn’t sell, though. He died in poverty, like a lamp guttering in rain.”
Uroboros worked to recall the author’s name, fishing the night-water for a glint, speaking to Aphelia while fear of dropping a thread tugged at her.
Truth was, her memory felt odd here—not missing pieces, but too complete, like finding an unbroken shell on a wreck-strewn shore, and it was about a human writer, which felt stranger still.
Yet she couldn’t say how it was strange; good memory isn’t odd for their kind, whose power was gifted by the universe itself, heavy as a crown of stars.
Maybe this was just one more unique way they remembered—another spiral carved in deep stone.
She let it go and continued, voice smoothing like wind over sand. “His view fit some humans, too. They feared how fast tech raced, feared curiosity’s boundless sea.”
“That current runs through all history—call it conservative if you like. But that line ‘ignorance is bliss’ turned out prophetic, a seed that split the ground.”
Aphelia smiled at that, a crescent like a boat on still water, and power lit her palm—Crimson Fire, primal as a sunrise, and Insectoid Aether, alive as a hive’s dark heartbeat.
The two forces wheeled and braided like twin comets around her hand, as if trying to hatch something new from the shell of her skin.
Then they parted again, two rivers choosing different valleys; these were powers she’d wrested from stacked timelines, stone by stone.
She had walked through countless pains, bones ground like chalk under fate’s millstone; in the end, she bore it all, and every trial hammered into a blade she could grip.
That blade cut bramble and thorn from her road, a clear path shining like ice in morning light.
“Ignorance is bliss… is it?” Her voice warmed like embers. “Not to me, Uroboros. As a human, I’ve tasted the joy of knowing, sweet as spring water.”
She clenched; the Crimson Flame and the pitch-black Aether winked out, fireflies fading into night grass.
The keratin armor across her skin sank away, a tide pulling back so clean it seemed it had never been.
She was no longer the Aphelia who wavered at a few sharp words; now her road was a straight beam, and every enemy ahead was a boulder she would break.
She had a mission like a star to navigate by, cold and steady.
“Of course, whatever you say is the law, my Empress~” Uroboros tilted her tone playful, a cat batting sunlight.
She took Aphelia’s right hand and kissed its back like a knight swearing fealty, yet the smile tugging her eye betrayed her, a ripple she couldn’t still.
Aphelia sighed, wry as a bent reed, pulled free, and gave her a gentle shove. “Try acting proper for once.”
They kept their voices low, like rain speaking to moss, careful not to wake the girls asleep in the tents.
Aphelia looked over the Valkyries, a hush in her gaze, then sent a thin veil of Aether to smooth their wounds, soft as warm milk.
After that, she and Uroboros returned to the “room” Violet and the others had scraped together for them, a harbor built in a hurry.
“Charming place,” Uroboros said, smiling as if at a stubborn flower breaking through rubble. “Clearing a spot this fast took grit.”
Aphelia touched her arm, a small nudge to let the wind pass; she knew there was no malice, but Shilwen still flushed, cheeks pink as dawn on frost.
Standing before her was the legendary Lady Brynhildr—no, Lady Aphelia now—and she, as “secretary,” hadn’t even found a proper room, a seabird dropping its egg.
Shilwen opened her mouth to apologize, but Aphelia was already there, palm on her shoulder, voice gentle as a hearth. “Shilwen, you did great. Thank you.”
“Thinking of the sisters still sleeping in tents, this is already more than enough. I’m grateful, truly.”
“N-no, please, I—Lady Aphelia, you’re too kind—” Shilwen’s blush deepened, words tangling like grass in a stream.
She glanced up and met that gentle smile, and her mind stuttered, a sparrow hitting glass; her tongue tied itself in neat knots.
“All right, go rest, before Violet worries something’s wrong here,” Aphelia soothed, a hand waving like a leaf. “Don’t make her run another lap tonight.”
“Head back. And—sorry—tomorrow at first light, I’ll need a map. Go on, go on. It’s fine~”
At last, reassured again and again, Shilwen steadied, thanked Aphelia several times, and slipped out, pulling a door so thin it was barely a door at all.
Her cheeks were still bright as coals when she vanished down the corridor of broken air.
Uroboros picked a half-sound beam and perched there, a crow finding its branch, and peered through the roof’s ragged ribs.
She watched Shilwen hurry away, then glanced at Aphelia and laughed softly, a bell under cloth. “In your era, that girl wasn’t this adorable.”
“How did that iron-willed boss get forged? And that Hrok—she doesn’t look like a weapon master from your time.”
Seeing Uroboros settled, Aphelia flicked a military blanket up to her like tossing a cloud, then leaped to the beam herself, weight light as a cat.
“Not everyone’s like you Ouroboros,” she said, half a scold, half a smile. “You measure growth by epochs.”
“I don’t know how long this civilization took to reach my era, but after a war this brutal, growth is a river in flood.”
She unfolded half the blanket; it nearly covered her, a warm field under winter sun.
Tall now—about one-seventy-eight to one-eighty by human measure—she was all clean lines, nothing wasted, nothing lacking, a sculpture that breathed.
The blanket—true military make—wrapped her in steady warmth even without Aether, like a campfire that didn’t smoke.
In times like this, a single good blanket was wealth enough for someone easily satisfied.
Thinking back, from the age of Heroes onward, she’d barely had any taste for things, a tree that lived on light.
Hardship had become her weather. When they hunted the so-called Demon King, they ate wind and slept under stars; an inn was a myth, a branch a blessing.
As for food, say no more. Watching Hrok chew those compressed rations brought it back—those bricks tasted like dust and old iron.
If not for Lena’s occasional soups, rich as a night market’s steam, she might’ve forgotten what human taste even was before the Demon King fell.
“Ugh… Aphelia, what were you even doing back then?” Uroboros winced, threading their minds together in a quick link, nets cast into remembered seas.
“All I’m getting are awful flavors—bitter as bark, stale as ashes. I’m shutting the link if this keeps up. Pah, pah!”
Aphelia laughed at her face, a spark jumping to tinder. She rolled and leaned against a post, easy as a cat settling.
“I used to be a Hero~”
