[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Heart Kingdom Outskirts]

[Virelheim Mountain Village]

The forest was a blur of gray. The sound of boots and sabatons striking the ground sounded between the trunks.

"What's the point of all this running, huh!?" Mikoto's voice cut through the wind, sharp with irritation. His slender form darted between barren trees, his coat tails snapping behind him.

A few paces away, the Mortifer known as Lindworm ran parallel, his cloak thrashing behind him as he moved with surprising agility. A faint smirk pulled at his lips, though his eyes betrayed some unease.

"You don't actually expect me to fight you head-on, right?" he called out, his tone half-laughing, half-taunting. "I only need to keep you preoccupied."

"How very brave of you," Mikoto mocked dryly, then, without warning, he accelerated.

The forest floor shattered beneath his heel as he twisted, shifting his weight in one sharp, fluid motion. His sabaton connected with the base of a tree—the sound of metal on wood exploded. The impact tore the tree free from the soil, roots and rabble launching skyward as the trunk rocketed sideways with terrifying force.

The massive tree arced through the air, aimed squarely for Lindworm.

The Mortifer halted for only an instant—and then, nothing.

The tree didn't crash. It didn't splinter or fall.

It simply ceased.

The air shimmered faintly where it had been, then settled back into eerie absence.

Mikoto narrowed his eyes, his expression unreadable.

("Ah… stripping off the layers of the tree. Peeling back what defines it until all that's left is its essence. In this case—mana too.") He internally mused ("That makes sense. Most natural things are connected to the leylines, steeped in mana to some degree. Even if only partially. Yet there was no mana left in that tree, or in this soil..") A pause. It truly was a power that defied logic. ("So then… was that passive? Or did he react to me?")

A faint smile ghosted across Mikoto's lips—more curious than impressed.

Lindworm's voice echoed lightly through the trees.

"Launching trees now? That's not very ladylike, you know." His smirk widened as he darted around another trunk, cloak fluttering in his wake. "You're quite pretty but so brutish. Though I suppose I should have expected that after you cleaved me in half earlier."

Mikoto's head turned sharply, the faintest twitch in his eye. "I'm a guy, dipshit."

Lindworm raised a brow, slowing his pace briefly to glance back at the petite figure chasing him through the trees. He didn't comment, but his expression—somewhere between amusement and disbelief—spoke volumes.

Mikoto clicked his tongue, internally debating whether to aim for the man's head next. He was getting tired of the games.

But Lindworm kept talking, voice steady despite his movements. "Still, I can't help but wonder…" he began, tone lighter. "What's an Angel doing meddling so deeply in mortal affairs?"

Mikoto didn't answer at first. His red eyes flickered, tracing every step the Mortifer took.

"What's it to you?" he finally spat.

"It's just—" Lindworm's voice carried a strange lilt of curiosity. "I've heard stories. That higher-ranking Angels stand on par with the Gods themselves—in both power and influence." He ducked under a low branch, his cloak catching dust. "So why?" he pressed on. "Why lower yourself to this? All of this running about with mortals, chasing me, throwing trees? It feels… beneath you, doesn't it?" He sounded almost sincere now. "Seems to me," he continued, "as a 'mere mortal,' I can't quite wrap my head around it."

Mikoto exhaled, a faint, humorless chuckle escaping him as he maneuvered around another trunk. "Looks to me," he replied, "you're just buying time to not get your ass kicked."

"Maybe," Lindworm admitted with a grin. "Wouldn't you, if you were me?"

Mikoto's smile faded, expression turning solemn. "To answer your question," he said quietly, "I don't care nearly as much as you seem to think I do." His eyes narrowed. "I'm just doing what I want. Nothing more. Nothing less."

Something in his tone struck Lindworm.

He opened his mouth to say something, but he never got the chance.

Because in the next instant—Mikoto vanished. Just a violent displacement of air.

Lindworm barely registered the sound before the world shifted. The wind seemed to fracture—one deafening burst echoing through the forest as Mikoto reappeared in front of him, body wreathed in dark mana. His armor shimmered under the intense light, enhancement magic pulsing through him.

A single motion. A gauntleted hand outstretched, reaching directly for Lindworm's face.

The Mortifer barely had time to react. He twisted on his heel, his instincts screaming. His boots skidded across the ground as he dove sideways, narrowly avoiding the blow. The gust that followed sent debris and dust spiraling violently, the ground cracking beneath the momentum.

When the wind settled, Mikoto stood still, his right arm extended.

The gauntlet—gone.

The entire sleeve of his armor had vanished too. Only his bare, pale arm remained—slender and unblemished, almost fragile in appearance. The sight was strangely disarming.

He flexed his fingers experimentally. Nothing was wrong. It still worked.

"I see," he murmured, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "So that's how your Schema functions…"

Lindworm tilted his head slightly, watching.

"It's passive," Mikoto continued. "But you set conditions, don't you? That's why only my armor was stripped and not me." His gaze turned up, meeting Lindworm's. "Clever. I'll give you that."

Lindworm gave a light hum of amusement. "Hm. Still quite the risk, no? What if you misjudge it? Lose something that matters?"

Mikoto's lips curved into a small, confident smile. "There's no risk for me. Ever."

Before Lindworm could respond, the mana around Mikoto flared again. His armor reformed, piece by piece, flowing like liquid. The pauldron slid back into place, the gauntlet reassembling itself over his delicate hand, the faint glow of red light tracing its seams.

Mikoto lowered his arm, his tone calm. "Now I know everything I need to." He paused. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added softly, "You should've kept running."

--------------------

[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Heart Kingdom Outskirts]

[Virelheim Mountain Village]

Late.

Too late.

That word echoed through Gretel's mind hollow and accusatory.

Late to stop it.

Late to save them.

Late again.

The wind bit at her face as she sprinted up the sloped path leading toward the first platform of the village. Her breath came shallow and uneven, not from exhaustion, but from dread — the kind that pressed on her ribs and hollowed out her chest before she even saw what awaited her.

Then the smell hit her.

That thick, metallic tang that clawed up her throat.

Blood.

No matter how many years passed, no matter how far she ran from that scent, it always found her. Always reminded her of what she'd failed to prevent before. The scent of it was almost a language of its own.

But she didn't need the smell to tell her what she already knew.

The sight before her did that well enough.

The first platform was unrecognizable — torn apart in ways that defied restraint. Houses were reduced to splintered heaps, beams and walls jutting out at odd angles. Ladders and rope bridges that once linked to the upper tiers now hung limply, broken halfway through.

It was almost an erasure.

And amidst that devastation lay the truth of what she was too late to stop.

Bodies. Dozens of them. Men, women, even the young. The villagers she'd spoken to only that morning — their laughter, their chatter, their routines — all had ceased. Their blood pooled in dark stains across the ground, seeping into in.

But their wounds… they weren't wild or frantic. They were clean.

Too clean.

Precise cuts — one blow to end each life, no wasted movement, no hesitation. The kind of killing that didn't stem from rage. The work of someone terrifyingly calm.

Gretel's steps slowed to a stop.

Her breath hitched.

Her stomach turned in on itself. The silence was so complete that she could almost hear her own heartbeat stutter in her ears. It wasn't the first massacre she'd witnessed. Gods, it wasn't even the second. But every time it was like something sharp twisting in a wound that never closed.

And this time — this time — she couldn't even tell herself it was out of her control. Because she knew exactly why this had happened. And who was responsible.

Her lips trembled, but only a whisper escaped her.

"N-no…"

She couldn't even scream.

Maybe shock had stolen that from her. Or maybe she had simply forgotten how. The sight of so much death didn't make her cry anymore — it just hollowed her out, piece by piece, until she felt like little more than a ghost.

Still, her body moved. Instinct, duty, guilt — it didn't matter which.

Her boots crunched through bloodied ground as she stepped forward, each step felt heavier than the last.

And as she passed the corpses, it felt as though the dead were watching her. Those vacant eyes, glazed in the dim light, followed her.

Condemning her.

Accusing her.

She could almost hear them whisper: You knew this would happen. You let it happen.

Her chest tightened. She wanted to look away, but she couldn't.

"This is horrible…" she murmured under her breath. "All because…" Her voice broke off.

The words wouldn't come. They couldn't.

Her gloved hands clenched so tightly her knuckles ached beneath the leather. She wanted to tear something apart — herself, the world, anything that could take the blame. But she already knew who deserved it most. And voicing that truth now would help no one. Not her. Not the few who might still be alive.

She forced herself to move again, though her knees felt weak and her steps uneven. The air seemed to grow colder as she advanced deeper into the village, and the silence became unbearable.

The destruction only worsened. Whole structures had collapsed inward, leaving ruins in their place. What had once been the simple rhythm of village life was now a heap of splinters and debri. She wanted to stop, to turn away, but there was no time — there never was.

("Damn it… damn it, damn it, damn it!") she thought bitterly, biting back the sting of tears. Her jaw locked tight, and her breath came harsh through her teeth.

Knowing why this was happening didn't make it bearable.

Death was something she had grown accustomed to — but never numb to. There was a difference between endurance and apathy, and Gretel had never been good at the latter.

Her feet pounded against the dirt as she ran, desperate to outrun the sight, the smell, the memory of it all.

("It's just like that time…")

That thought broke her.

Images flashed behind her eyes — a field drenched in red, a burning house that smelled so sweet and sour, a face identical to hers but younger, hair shorter, expression softer.

She almost stumbled. Almost stopped. But she forced the memory back into the dark where it belonged.

Now wasn't the time to remember.

Gretel skidded to a halt near the heart of the first platform, the soles of her boots dragging through the blood. She steadied herself, hand instinctively going to the hilt at her side.

And then she saw her.

A lone figure stood in the open square, unmoving.

Long, dark hair framed her pale face, untouched by blood despite the carnage that surrounded her. Her blue uniform was pristine, not a single speck of dirt upon it. The faint wind stirred her hair as if hesitant to brush against her.

Gretel's stomach turned cold. Her breath caught in her throat.

Those eyes turned toward her. Cold blue eyes.

They didn't just look at her — they saw through her, dissecting her without a flicker of recognition or warmth.

The one responsible was her.

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