The morning air should have been fresh. Instead, Henry inhaled the bitter smell of ash and dried blood. The nauseating smell of death lingered in his throat. He squeezed Sophia's hand tighter, as if the warmth from her hand was the only thing that could stop the chill of the surrounding death from seeping into his marrow.

East Aerion, where they once walked at sunset, was now a city marked by tragedy. The smooth marble-paved streets, once echoing with the clatter of horse-drawn carriages and cheerful chatter, were now littered with rubble, fragments of daily life, a fallen embroidered slipper, a broken wooden toy, a scorched page from a book fluttering in the wind.

The pungent smell of smoke from still-smoldering fires, not yet extinguished, mingled with the metallic scent of blood that had begun to dry, turning dark on the stone, the faint smell of death in the early morning breeze, and the stinging scent of mortar dust. All blended together, creating a suffocating atmosphere that strangled the last vestiges of hope.

Henry and Sophia walked silently along the familiar path leading to their small apartment, each step as heavy as lead. This path, just yesterday, was where they had walked hand in hand in the gentle sunset, where Sophia had smiled happily at the vibrant flower stalls along the road, where Henry had felt the simple, warm peace of a home, a place to return to. Now, every step on that path was like rubbing salt into a wound that had not yet closed.

Sophia's eyes were red and swollen, but she seemed to have run out of tears. Her pain was so deep she couldn't cry. It felt like a cold block of ice weighing down her chest, making it hard to breathe. She looked at the collapsed houses, the blackened walls, the dazed, soulless faces of the people. She was a light mage, someone who possessed the power to heal, to protect, but before the profound suffering of her fellow people, she felt too small, too helpless, like a grain of sand in a raging storm.

Henry held Sophia's hand tightly, trying to offer her some warmth and strength, even though he was suffering immensely himself. The image of Captain Jacobs, his elder brother, his respected teacher, dying tragically before his eyes; the image of his close comrades in Unit 18 falling one by one, mutating into mindless monsters and then being finished off by their own commander in tears, kept haunting his mind relentlessly, like a horrifying film on repeat. The guilt was a heavy burden that tormented him constantly, both when he was awake and in his sleep.

He looked at his own whole, unharmed hands, feeling a silent scream echo in his soul. Why me? Why not Daniel, who always supported me? Why not Torsan, so young? Jacobs had once told him that surviving is often the heaviest burden.

Only now, in the cold ashes of their memory, did Henry truly understand the crushing weight of that truth. It was heavier than any armor he had ever worn and colder than any sword ever held to his throat.

Somewhere, amidst the eerie silence of the once bustling, prosperous streets, a choked sob, a faint call, suddenly rang out: "Mommy...". Henry turned. A boy, perhaps only five years old, sat amidst a pile of rubble, his clothes torn, his face smeared with ash and tears. He wasn't crying loudly, just calling his mother's name hopelessly into the void. That sound, more painful than a thousand screams, was like a needle piercing straight into Sophia's heart.

On the ruined street, they saw a young mother sitting amidst the debris, her clothes tattered, her face grimy with ash. She held her small, cold, bruised child tightly in her arms, her soulless eyes staring into the empty space, murmuring familiar lullabies, broken and out of tune amidst the deathly silence. Nearby, a frail old man with a stooped back was using his trembling, skinny hands to dig through the rubble, hoping against hope to find the wife who had journeyed with him through nearly a century of life's ups and downs. Every one of these tragic scenes was like an invisible sledgehammer striking the souls of Henry and Sophia, making them feel more clearly than ever the cruelty of war, the fragility of human life, and the helplessness of the survivors.

Amidst this sea of sorrow, the first efforts of the government to restore order and bring a glimmer of hope to the people began to emerge. Alfie, one of the legendary Four Divine Monarchs, the embodiment of hope and the ultimate power of Zephyros, appeared in the sky above Estath Square, where thousands of people were huddled in fear, seeking some shelter.

The pure, warm, and holy light from his Demigod power enveloped the entire square, dispelling some of the gloom of the morning and the remorse that gripped people's hearts. His compassionate voice echoed across the vast space, reassuring the panicked souls, calling for unity, for everyone to stand together, promising the government's help and a future of rebuilding, a new beginning from the ashes.

His image, his words, were like a brilliant lighthouse in a raging storm, bringing a faint glimmer of faith, a little hope to those drowning in the darkness of despair. He was not merely a Demigod; he was a living symbol of Zephyros's unbroken will.

Meanwhile, at the churches that remained after the attack, though many were heavily damaged, their domes collapsed, their stone walls stained with the tragic color of smoke and fire, Vincent, the young but resilient Pope of the Radiant Angels, was also working tirelessly to bring comfort and faith to the believers.

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He presided over solemn memorial services for the deceased; his devout prayers, and those of thousands of believers, were like a cool, fresh stream, soothing the festering wounds of the heart, the tormenting pain of loss.

He blessed the survivors, rekindling their faith and hope in the protection of the Radiant Angels, in a better future. The priests and believers, under his dedicated and brave guidance, spared no danger, feared no hardship, and threw themselves into the work of rescuing the afflicted.

They set up temporary tent camps amidst the rubble, distributed meager but precious food supplies, and cared for the injured with all their ability and compassion. In these most difficult times, the Church was not just a place to pray, to seek spiritual solace, but also became a solid material support, a safe haven for the miserable people who had lost everything after the disaster.

Amidst those tireless efforts, a special prayer service was held in what remained of the Estath Cathedral, a sacred place now bearing the scars of war. Here, though the dome had collapsed, the stone walls stained with the tragic color of smoke and fire, was still the home of faith, the place where thousands of hearts came to pray and hope.

Thousands of people, old and young, men and women, holding flickering, faint but meaningful candles, came here to pray together for Archbishop Ralph, the respected spiritual father of East Aerion, who had fought bravely to his last breath to protect the cathedral and its believers, and whose fate was now a big question mark, a constant worry in everyone's heart.

Henry and Sophia stood among the crowded stream of people, the pain of losing Captain Jacobs and their comrades in Unit 18 still sharp in their hearts, now compounded by anxiety and unease for Sophia's teacher, her spiritual father. For orphans like them, the elders, the teachers, the commanders were always strong spiritual pillars, lighthouses guiding them through a stormy life.

Their loss or peril left a vast emptiness, a feeling of being adrift, lost, that nothing could fill in this already uncertain life. Henry held Sophia's hand tightly, his eyes looking up at the space where the majestic dome of the cathedral once stood, his heart heavy with thoughts of fate, of the heavy responsibility of the living, those who must continue to carry the legacy and faith of those who have departed.

The following days passed in extreme tension and exhaustion, enveloping the entire city of Aerion as it tried to rise from the disaster. Henry tried to bury himself in work at the Investigation Bureau, like a temporary anesthetic, to help him forget the painful memories, the haunting images.

He accepted every assigned task without a word of refusal, from sitting for hours sorting through mountains of damage reports and victim files, to personally participating in special patrol teams, maintaining security in complex areas where remnants of dark forces still lurked, waiting for an opportunity to cause more chaos.

He worked almost non-stop, from early morning until late at night, pushing his body and mind to their absolute limits, hoping only that when night fell, physical exhaustion would grant him a deep sleep.

But even so, nightmares came almost every night, bringing images of blood and fire, of separation and death. He would often wake up in the middle of the silent night, cold sweat drenching his back, his heart pounding in his chest as if it would burst, feeling as if he were still in the midst of that life-and-death battle, still witnessing his comrades fall one by one.

Sophia also chose to face the pain and loss with practical actions, with her sharing and compassion. She volunteered to join the relief teams of the Estath Cathedral, even though the church where she had once found peace and faith was now in ruins after the attack. She went to the most heavily devastated neighborhoods in the city, places where the mournful cries seemed to never cease, where the smell of death, of suffering, still lingered, haunting every breeze.

She used her remaining strength and light magic to soothe the physical and spiritual wounds of the people who had lost everything in the disaster. She patiently listened to their tragic stories, their choked accounts of lost loved ones, of destroyed homes. She shared their tears, and with all her sincerity, tried to plant small seeds of hope in their hearts, faith in a better tomorrow.

During the day, amidst the bustle of relief work, amidst the pain of her fellow people, Sophia always appeared strong, becoming a solid spiritual support for those weaker than herself. She carefully tended to the injured, gently comforted families who had just lost loved ones, trying to bring a little warm light of humanity, of human compassion to the darkest places.

But when dusk fell, when the last tasks of a long, tiring day were done, when Henry and Sophia returned to their small, simple apartment, when the wooden door closed behind them, the strong wall they had tried to build throughout the day began to crack, then slowly crumble.

The silence in the small room was no longer the peaceful, warm silence of days past, but a space heavy with nameless sorrows, where the negative emotions suppressed all day had a chance to rise, tormenting their souls.

They would often sit in silence for hours, not needing words, their hands clasped together in a desperate anchor against the tide of grief. He could feel the silent tremors that wracked her shoulders with each suppressed sob she tried to hide from him.

All he could do was hold her tighter, his own hand trembling as he traced small, soothing circles on her back. They were two wounded animals, finding what little warmth they could in the ruin of their world, comforting each other with the raw, instinctive language of shared loss.

But it seemed that even that was not enough, still not enough to dispel the ghosts of the past, the relentless, lingering obsessions. The obsession with the blood-soaked faces of their comrades as they fell, with the final, furious roar of Captain Jacobs before he was turned into a mindless monster.

They felt utterly helpless watching those tragedies unfold without being able to do anything. They tormented their minds every time night fell, every time they tried to fall asleep. Their sleep was fitful, broken, full of harrowing nightmares. And then dawn would come again, bringing a new day with old burdens that had not lessened, a vicious cycle of pain and the struggle to move on in vain.

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