We did not return to the waking world right away.
Not because the Rose Garden refused to release us, but because—Silent Man could no longer move.
When he collapsed, there was no sound.No warning. No sign.Like a line that had been dragged past its limit at last snapping apart.
I knelt beside him, my hands shaking.
His wings would not retract.Black wing-bones were exposed, fractures spreading all the way to his shoulders.There was no more blood flowing—only a coldness that felt wrong.
This was not blood loss.It was—the hollow left behind when existence itself is drained away.
I pressed my forehead to his chest, and could barely feel a heartbeat.
"Silent Man…"
I didn't dare raise my voice.Because I knew—if I used even a little more force, the world would truly pull him away.
This place was not the Rose Garden.But it was not the waking world either.
It felt like a forgotten transitional layer—no time, no direction, only the slow circulation of residual natural breath.
And I understood at once:this was a blank zone the Rose's memory refused to index.
Errors.A place where mistakes were temporarily hidden.
I closed my eyes.
The mark on my chest was still warm.Not a summons—but a response.
It was not the Rose.
It was something else—older, and gentler.
I placed my hand on the ground.
No spell. No ritual.I simply let my consciousness sink.
In that instant, golden light surfaced deep within me.And green as well—the mark once left in my palm.
Not the Rose's red, but a green balanced between light and dark—like life clinging to dead branches.
Mistletoe.
It does not exist to bloom.Nor to bear fruit.
It attaches, exchanges, coexists.It does not steal its host's life,yet it never lives alone.
Only then did I understand why it had always appeared between us.
Fine green tendrils emergedfrom the cracked seams in the stone.
Not growing—but being allowed to appear.
They wrapped around Silent Man's wrist, his chest, the roots of his wings.No restraint. Only support.
As if mending—the parts the world had stripped away from him.
His breathing slowly returned.Shallow. Unsteady.But alive.
My strength finally gave out.I leaned against him, barely able to stay upright.
"…Hanna."
His voice was so faint it barely sounded awake.
I didn't answer.I only pressed my forehead back to him,as if confirming that this was real.
"You didn't choose that path again," he said.
Not a question.
I stiffened.
"You…""I know," he murmured. "Because in that moment, the Rose didn't contract."
I understood then.
What he saw in the Rose Garden was more than just the battle.
I lifted my head and looked at him.
"What did you see?"
He was silent for a while.Not hesitation—but uncertainty over whether the truth should be spoken.
"They said killing you was to reboot the world…"he began slowly.
"But I finally understood—what they truly wanted to kill was never your life."
My fingers tightened.
"It was your soul," he said."Your elven heart."
Not stealing breath.Not stopping a heartbeat.
But—cutting off the possibility of choosing again.
Ending reincarnation. Ending return.Erasing memory. Erasing recurrence.Forcing you to remain forever inside a single 'reasonable sacrifice.'
"As long as your soul was completely terminated,"Silent Man said without hatred, only exhaustion,"the world wouldn't have to destabilize because of you."
"In that case, they wouldn't even believe they were killing anyone."
I remembered then.
The countless times.The blurred dreams. The déjà vu scenes.Why the world always remained after "I died."
Because—I had never truly been killed.
"So that's why you were so angry," I whispered.
Not because they wanted me dead—but because they wanted to erase me.
Silent Man did not deny it.
His hand slowly covered mine.No force.But no retreat either.
For the first time, he did not seal his heart away.
"I used to think that if I bore everything alone, the world would spare you," he said.
"Now I know—that was only delay."
He looked up at me.His eyes were no longer white, but dark traces still lingered.
"As long as you exist," he said,"they will never stop."
"Do you regret it?" I asked.
Regret choosing me.Regret becoming a variable.Regret standing against the world.
He did not answer at once.
A long time passed—long enough for the mistletoe leaves to sway gently.
"No," he said.
This time, without hesitation.
"I've simply understood something at last."
"If this war is ever to end,"he said quietly,"it won't be because you die."
"It will be because you—are no longer taken to die."
I began to cry.
Not collapse.But the release that comes after holding on for far too long.
My power has not fully awakened yet.I know that.
I can only feel half of it.
Nature responds to me—but it still refuses to stand fully on my side.
Because this is not the end.
It is only—the first deviation.
I rested my forehead against his shoulder.
This time, he did not avoid it.Nor did he step back.
"Silent Man," I said."This path won't be easy."
He answered softly.
"I know."
In the distance, the Rose's presence was rearranging itself.
The world has not given up.
It has simply—been forced to recalculate for the first time.
And I know that from this day forward—
I am no longer"the one who must die."
And he is no longer"the one who must bear everything."
The heart of the Luminary Elfis not only power.
It is—the will that refuses to be terminated.