Elvenkind loved nature, and nature bestowed kind gifts upon them. This was their way of survival—the source of their strength, wisdom, and even beauty. Melissara realized this soon after entering the Elven Forest.
"What are you doing?"
Melissara asked, watching Loran kneeling on one knee, his face slightly sorrowful.
Hearing the Elven King’s inquiry, Loran swiftly rose, bowed to her, and replied, "Your Highness, I mourn this dead flower."
At Loran’s feet, a small flower lay shattered in the dirt, likely trampled by a passing animal or monster. Loran had gathered its petals together; stained and broken, they looked withered.
Melissara gazed at the flower for a long moment. "What is it to you?"
Loran held her gaze just as long. "Life."
"And—a very beautiful life."
The passing of a beautiful life before your eyes—how would you feel? Melissara simply nodded calmly and turned away.
—Watching dust swirl before her, Melissara suddenly recalled this nearly forgotten moment from the past.
A beautiful life, passing, right there...
This time, she didn’t turn away. But she froze, rigid, letting wind and sand scrape her cheeks.
Meanwhile, another figure charged into the dust cloud. A dull thud and a man’s grunt sounded together. Maelon, fierce as a beast moments before, flew out clumsily. He landed on the ground but didn’t rise. Instead, he lifted his head, staring blankly at where he’d attacked, a trace of bewilderment on his face.
Melissara’s gaze caught the man’s strange expression. She turned back as the dust cleared, revealing two figures locked in a tight embrace. Seeing them, her eyes softened slightly—then turned icy.
It was a tragically beautiful scene against the ruined backdrop. Beside a pitch-black pillar embedded deep in the earth, a pale-faced girl was held by a woman whose joyful expression seemed born of survival. Both were strikingly beautiful. The girl’s sickly pallor and dazed eyes made her delicate as a narcissus. The woman’s neat ponytail and form-fitting battle attire radiated heroism. Together, they created an almost poetic beauty.
This beauty would enchant painters, madden poets, and infuriate the Elven King. The black-clad man, however, saw none of it. His gaze stayed fixed on the frail girl. His crimson eyes, no longer frenzied, instead... glowed faintly?
None of this mattered to Mushiyu, the protagonist. Her mind was still dazed, reeling from the visual and auditory shock. It felt like childhood—running into the street for a ball, then looking up to see a truck roaring toward her. The pillar had slammed into the ground beside her ear; its grinding clash with rock echoed like a truck’s angry horn and screeching brakes. Afterward, dust filled the air. Only the perpetrator’s face loomed clear before her.
Seeing clearly and remembering were different things. She vaguely recalled a handsome impression—but the details vanished, her mind blank. Then the nearby man disappeared. A warm embrace replaced him, and an anxious cry:
"Mushiyu!"
It was Grace.
Realizing this, Mushiyu’s vision went black. She fainted.
Grace frantically checked Mushiyu’s body. Only pebble scratches marked her cheeks—no fatal wounds. Her breathing was steady; her erratic heartbeat calmed with unconsciousness.
The breath trapped in Grace’s chest finally released in a long sigh. She looked up into Melissara’s stern eyes. Grace’s gaze flickered. Her sword thrust forward like a striking snake!
Melissara leaped back, barely escaping the blade’s reach. Puzzled by the lack of sword aura, she saw Grace cradle Mushiyu and leap leftward.
Melissara narrowed her slender eyes, ready to pursue. A furious roar erupted behind her. She turned to see the black-clad man surge upright—not toward her, but chasing Grace.
Running full speed, Grace sensed the Dark Aura closing in. She mentally cursed, "Madman!" Inspiration struck. She shouted, "They’ll take Mushiyu back to remake her!"
Maelon moved abnormally fast. He leaped, catching Grace despite her burden. His hand reached for her shoulder—then a stone pillar erupted, slamming his jaw and launching him skyward. Vines burst from the earth, coiling like snakes around him. They tightened, binding him immobile. He howled, glaring at Melissara, her hands locked in a seal-forming pose.
Hearing the commotion, Grace knew her plan worked—close enough. No pause. She dashed at top speed, Mushiyu cradled in her arms. Maelon and Melissara’s fight would buy time. Pre-marked paths would guide her out of the forest easily. For elves, navigating this dead forest meant wandering like humans—trapped but not doomed. Catching her? Nearly impossible.
She glanced down at the sleeping girl, head resting on her shoulder. A hint of warmth bloomed in Grace’s chest...
"Halt!"
A sharp shout accompanied a magic-charged blade crashing down. Startled, Grace shifted Mushiyu to one arm and barely parried with her sword. Tearing pain ripped through her right arm. She sucked in a breath, stumbled back, and steadied herself, glaring at the unfriendly elf before her.
"Captain Loran," Grace said coldly.
