The young girl is leaning against the trunk of a massive tree, half-collapsed against the damp bark.
A low branch barely supports her trembling body.
Her breathing is ragged.
Irregular.
Each breath burns her chest.
Beads of sweat form on her face and slide down her chin.
Her teeth are clenched so tightly they can be heard grinding.
She slowly raises a hand to her shoulder.
Her fingers tremble.
Then, with a painful breath, she loosens her bandage.
The fabric falls away.
A shallow cut is visible…
But around the wound, something is wrong.
Greenish cracks spread beneath her skin, crawling along her arm like living fissures, pulsing faintly with every heartbeat.
She looks away, fully aware of the danger.
A voice suddenly echoes in her mind.
Calm.
Measured.
Devoid of emotion.
— Alert.
— Your condition will soon become critical if you do not treat yourself immediately, Princess Atela.
The voice resonates like a mechanical echo, almost unreal, blending with the distant sound of wind rustling through the leaves.
The young girl does not flinch.
Not even a blink of surprise.
She lets out a faint sigh, a tired grimace tugging at her lips.
— Maëlle…
She struggles to inhale.
— Ah… I forgot you were there. Sorry.
Her hand slowly tightens around her contaminated arm.
The forest remains silent.
Silence reclaims its dominion.
Only the whisper of the wind slipping through the foliage and the distant song of birds remain, indifferent to the chaos that has just ravaged the meadow.
Princess Atela slowly lifts her head.
Through the green canopy, rays of light pierce the leaves and gently brush her pale face, casting shifting shadows across her battered body
The voice echoes again in her mind.
Calm.
Clinical.
Unrelenting.
— The poison affecting you is called Daziatis.
A faint hum accompanies each word.
— It originates from an extremely rare plant native to the continent of Azure Snow.
— This poison feeds on the chaotic energy circulating within your body to accelerate its spread.
Atela clenches her teeth slightly.
— You have used your powers repeatedly.
— You even resorted to your true form to block enemy blades.
A heavier silence settles in.
— If you activate your abilities again…
— You risk immediate loss of consciousness.
The light flickers between the leaves.
The wind blows softly, making Atela's blue strands dance.
She brings a hand to her forehead, still short of breath, and closes her eyes.
Memories surge forth, like a film projected behind her closed eyelids.
A balcony of white stone, suspended above the clouds.
Floating kingdoms drift in the distance, bathed in a bluish, calm, motionless light.
Absolute silence reigns.
Only the wind murmurs between the columns, caressing the polished stone.
A young Atela, still a child, stands there.
Eyes closed, a gentle smile upon her lips.
Her light hair floats around her, carefree, and for a moment, the world seems to stand still.
A silhouette slowly approaches.
An elegant man with blue hair and red eyes, wearing a white and blue coat, walks toward the child.
His smile is gentle, yet filled with gravity.
He places his hand on Atela's head.
She does not move.
She does not speak.
She only feels the warmth.
And the presence.
The wind glides through her hair, the scent of clouds filling the air.
Then, slowly, she opens her eyes.
Her pupils meet the man's.
— My child… may I ask you a question?
His voice is calm, deep, reassuring, yet every word carries an unseen weight.
The child tilts her head slightly, hesitant.
— Yes… but… is something wrong, Dad?
The wind gently stirs Atela's dress.
The man turns his gaze toward the horizon, thoughtful, grave.
His hand remains on his daughter's head—a symbol of protection and trust.
— Atela… do you think this world deserves to exist?
Silence falls.
The child is surprised, frozen, searching for words.
The blue sky above them seems to hold its breath.
— Um… in my opinion… it truly deserves to exist and to be protected.
She hesitates for a moment, then continues with confidence.
— Yes, there are bad people… but there are also good ones. Like you, Dad.
— There are those who dream only of power, and those who dream of justice.
— A perfect world does not exist. What makes it beautiful are its imperfections.
— So yes… I believe this world truly deserves to exist.
A deeply moved smile appears on the father's face.
He lowers his head and gently pulls his daughter into his arms, holding her close.
— I agree with you… but soon, it will be up to you to protect this world.
He pauses, letting the silence linger between them.
— You will become the guardian of the Ava Corrector, a tremendously powerful weapon once wielded by the First Hero.
— That responsibility… will rest in your hands. The guardian of this ancient weapon… and of the world's balance.
He points to a bright star in the sky above them, its light reflected in his eyes.
— You will be a light of hope in a sky consumed by darkness.
— You must be strong… and my child, promise me you will never let ill-intentioned people get their hands on this relic.
The wind blows stronger, carrying the clouds and the memories away in a silent dance.
The father loosens his embrace but remains close, protective.
Young Atela closes her eyes, letting the weight of his words sink deep into her mind.
The young girl slowly opens her eyes.
A small tear slides down her pale cheek.
— Dad…
She whispers, her voice heavy with sorrow, barely audible.
In her mind, Maëlle's voice resonates once more, calm and composed:
— Princess… was it truly a wise decision to leave the Beastmen Kingdom without informing the twenty generals?
Atela wipes away her tear with a trembling but resolute gesture before replying inwardly, thinking deeply:
— Yes… and I don't know how to explain it, but I'm certain there's a mole among the twenty generals. Even if I can't yet say who.
Silence settles for a moment, heavy, disturbed only by the rustling of leaves around her.
Maëlle resumes, analytical:
— Do you believe the mole could be Hiro Kazao?
She pauses, each word echoing in Atela's mind.
— I have calculated the probabilities. They are extremely high.
The princess gently scratches her head, thoughtful, her eyes following the branches trembling in the wind.
— I can't say for sure… but it's not impossible.
— That guy is far too unpredictable not to be involved somehow.
— But anyway… now I need to
A sharp whistle suddenly cuts through the silence.
The upper part of the tree Atela was perched on splits in an instant.
The wood shatters like paper beneath an invisible blade.
Time seems to slow.
— I found you.
Kay's voice rings out, almost amused, clear and steady.
He appears gracefully on the branch, his sword still smoking, ready to cut down anything in his path.