The world was red.
The sky was a bruised, weeping purple, but the ground, the black volcanic rock of the cursed shore, was slick with a crimson sheen that reflected the unnatural twilight. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the cold, empty silence that follows a massacre. Kenjiro knelt in that silence, a lone, slender figure in a field of death, the last note of Lyrielle's heartbroken whisper, "I can't heal the dead," echoing in the hollow space where his own heart used to be.
He looked down at the two figures before him, the two pillars of his new life, now reduced to tragic monuments of a failed war. DragonSlayer lay still, his proud, arrogant face peaceful in death, a faint, bloody smile still gracing his lips. And beside him, Gluteus Maximus, his loyal, unwavering protector, was a perfect, heartbreaking statue of cold, grey stone, his final, encouraging thumbs-up an eternal testament to his belief in his Lily.
