Within the great hall, the silver candles flickered, casting restless shadows. The dying light glinted off golden goblets scattered across the long tables, but the sounds of revelry were long gone. The banquet had not yet formally dispersed—but the hearts of those present had already been shattered.
Everyone knew. This Winter Moon Festival could not go on.
The air hung heavy, near-stagnant, still burdened by the suffocating weight of that residual malice. No one dared to speak; even the subtle clinking of silverware had vanished into the abyss of silence.
Prime Minister Renault sat in his high seat, stroking his long beard, his gaze lowered in deep contemplation. After a long while, he finally exhaled, a faint, cryptic smile touching the corner of his lips.
"To still be among the living..." he murmured to himself, "I suppose that is the greatest fortune in this misfortune."
Deep down, he understood—the Queen's "concession" earlier was no true compromise. It was something else—a deeper, more sinister design. Beneath that calm facade, something far more dangerous than mere anger was festering.
General Lance, however, felt the complete opposite.
He stared toward the throne, a feverish, unbridled fanaticism burning in his eyes. The power he had witnessed that night was akin to a miracle. If he could only attach himself to that side—power, status, the entire continent—it could all be within his grasp. He could not stop the corner of his mouth from curling upward; the greed in his eyes danced like a wildfire.
Allen's face, in contrast, was as pale as paper.
He stood rooted to the spot, his fingertips trembling violently. The confidence and edge he had worn earlier had dissipated entirely. Only now did he truly understand—if that "Queen" had chosen to strike, his so-called bargaining chips, his ten thousand elite troops, even the 'Quad-Guardians'... would be nothing more than dust to be brushed away. A wave of nausea surged into his throat; he forced it down, though cold beads of sweat had already broken across his brow.
Helan's back was soaked.
Sweat dripped slowly through the seams of his armor, icy and bone-chilling. He had heard the legends of the "Red-Robed Witch" countless times—the one who toppled empires, executed the Sun Emperor, and cursed the Heroes. But only now, having seen her with his own eyes, did he understand.
These were not legends.
They were a terrifying reality... an invincible existence.
That was not power a mere army could contend with. Not ten thousand, not a hundred thousand, not even the full might of a nation could stand against it.
That was—a calamity that transcended war itself.
Beyond the palace gates, the twilight deepened.
In the dense forest, the cold wind cut through the trees. Rhine stood in the shadows, quietly listening to Karl's recounting of events. He did not say a word. His head was bowed, the flickering light of the campfire dancing in his eyes.
Silence. Oppression.
Then—
"BOOM!!"
He slammed a foot outward, sending the heavy long table beside him flipping into the air! The wood cracked with a violent shriek, splinters raining down, startling the birds in the forest into a frantic, collective flight.
"So—"
He whipped his head up, glaring at Karl, his voice raspy, as if torn from his throat:
"Your point is—as long as she is willing to return the land, you can just pretend nothing ever happened?!"
Karl's expression darkened, and he hurriedly stepped forward:
"That is not what I meant! Just calm down—"
"Calm?!"
Rhine roared, his voice echoing endlessly through the forest:
"Lunethia has been taken! Have you forgotten?!"
"That so-called Queen—she is the Crimson Witch!!"
His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white, and flames flickered, dancing ominously in his palms.
"We came here for one purpose, and one purpose only—"
"To kill her!"
"Whether she returns the land or not—it makes no difference!!"
The air turned razor-sharp. Helan stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Rhine's arm, his voice low and commanding:
"Prince, please. Calm yourself."
Rhine whipped his head around, fury swirling in his eyes:
"You intend to stop me, too?"
Helan's expression was heavy; he did not back down.
"You saw it with your own eyes in the great hall."
"Her power... it defies all logic."
He paused, his tone growing graver still:
"To act rashly now is nothing more than suicide."
"We should regroup, restore the Empire, and devise a long-term strategy."
"Powerful?" Rhine repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
The next instant—
Flames slowly ignited beneath his feet.
The crimson glow illuminated the woods, resembling a rising sun.
"So what if she is powerful..."
He lifted his head, an indomitable fighting spirit burning in his eyes. His voice was low, yet unyielding:
"I—have never admitted defeat."
The flames surged upward.
"The vengeance I've sought is right before my eyes."
"Father... Mother..."
His voice faltered for a fraction of a second, then grew colder and heavier:
"They have waited far too long for this day."
"Prince!" Helan dropped to one knee, his hands clasped over his chest, his voice ringing like iron. "You are the foundation of the Empire! I cannot bear to watch you throw your life away in this suicide mission!"
"Helan!" Rhine barked, flames exploding beneath him, sending heatwaves rolling in every direction. "Stand down! My mind is made up—no one can stop me!"
Under the reflection of the fire, Helan's palms turned red from the heat. He looked down at his scorched skin, then back up at the figure engulfed in flames. At that moment, he realized—this was not a resolution that could be shaken by persuasion; it was the resolve of one who had already burned his bridges.
"If that is the case..." his voice lowered, "then I shall be the one to face the Witch—"
Rhine offered a cold smile, firelight dancing in his eyes: "You? You possess neither the Divine Fire nor the ability to use Chakra—you don't even have the right to get close to her."
He stepped forward, his voice like iron: "This battle—it can only be fought by the seven of us."
As he spoke, the air seemed to still.
Rena stepped forward, gun in hand, a familiar, sharp smirk playing on her lips: "Boss, do you even have to ask? Of course, I'm coming with you."
She gripped her spear tightly, her gaze resolute: "Thia has been taken. I don't care what that woman's end game is—but she's definitely up to no good. We have to bring her back."
Milia said nothing, merely walking silently to her side. Her steps were light, yet she did not hesitate for a single moment.
Gareth reached out instinctively, wanting to pull her back, but his hand froze in mid-air. His fingertips trembled slightly before he slowly pulled them back.
He watched her retreating figure in silence, his eyes filled with a complex, unreadable emotion, before turning his gaze toward Karl.
Owen did not speak either. He had grown up alongside Gareth; though they are goblin miners, they had followed Karl faithfully for years. At this moment, his gaze was fixed on Karl as well—the look of a soldier awaiting his command.
Karl was silent for a moment, then sighed softly.
"…I understand."
He looked up, his gaze sweeping over the crowd to fix upon Prime Minister Renault, who had yet to leave his seat. His voice was low, yet carried an unwavering resolve:
"Prime Minister Renault—if the Queen falls tonight, will the Kingdom of Lunaris still honor her decree to return the territories?"
Renault narrowed his eyes, his fingertips drumming lightly against the armrest as if weighing the pros and cons. After a moment, he spoke slowly:
"Since His Majesty has issued the decree—unless she revokes it herself, the Kingdom shall follow the original order. We would not dare to defy it."
"Old fox," Karl sneered, though a flicker of understanding flashed in his eyes.
He leaned in toward Allen, his voice dropping to a near-whisper:
"Return to the Ember Alliance and tell Albert everything that happened here."
He paused, his tone darkening: "If I do not return... tell him to march to the old lands of Stellara and ascend as the Stellar Sovereign."
Helan's pupils dilated; his expression turned grave. He nodded slowly, his voice raspy:
"I understand… Prince Karl. He—will be in your hands."
The words had barely left his lips—
"INSOLENCE!!!"
A roar cracked the air like a thunderclap, tearing through the tension of the great hall.
"How dare you openly conspire to commit assassination in my presence!? Do you even acknowledge the Royal Army of Lunaris!?"
General Lance was incandescent with rage, his finger trembling as he pointed at the group. "Guards! Seize them—seize them all, along with that old fox Renault!!"
However, before he could finish his command—
Allen simply raised a hand.
In the next heartbeat, the Quad-Guardians were there.
They moved with no wasted motion, simply stepping into position. Yet, it felt as if iron walls had suddenly slammed shut, locking Lance firmly in the center.
One of them slowly drew a short baton and leveled it forward—
Lance's voice was cut off mid-shout.
His pupils contracted, shock and utter disbelief etched across his face. A second later, he went limp and collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
Another guardian stepped forward with calm precision, hoisting the limp general up like a ragdoll and dragging him to Allen's feet.
Allen remained composed, as if this were the most natural occurrence in the world. He turned his head to look at Renault, his tone unhurried:
"This man… I will deal with him. Do you have any objections?"
Renault offered a thin, enigmatic smile, a cold glint flashing in his eyes:
"General Lance defied the Queen's orders and attempted to incite war—the evidence is irrefutable."
He flicked his sleeve dismissively. "If General Allen is willing to carry out the sentence on behalf of the Royal House—it would be a welcome relief."
Allen's lips curled into a faint, detached smile, and he left without another word. He turned away, the Four Frontier Generals trailing behind him, dragging the unconscious Lance deep into the long, shadowed corridor. Before vanishing from sight, he offered only a single, quiet parting remark:
"What you do from here on out—is none of my business. I must return... to pacify the army."
The sound of his voice faded, and his silhouette disappeared into the darkness at the end of the corridor.
The great hall returned to silence.
Helan, having ensured his four guards had departed, returned alone. He walked quietly back to stand by Rhine's side.
Rhine's brow furrowed, his tone filled with repressed displeasure:
"Did I not tell you to leave?"
Helan's expression remained unchanged, his posture as steady as a mountain: "It is precisely because I know how perilous this journey will be that I cannot abandon the Prince."
Rena tapped the barrel of her spear, glancing at him sideways with a sharp, mirthful glint in her eyes: "Don't forget, you don't have Divine Fire, and you can't use Chakra. Facing a Witch—the best you'll do is tickle her. Don't drag us down when things get ugly."
Helan's gaze was like iron, completely unshaken: "I do not require protection. If I can block a single strike for the Prince—even if it costs me my life, I, Helan, will have no regrets."
"Are you insane!?" Rhine whipped his head around, his eyes wide, his anger mingled with helpless frustration. "A single hit like that and you'll be dead!"
Helan gazed at him quietly. There were no ripples in his eyes, only a resolve that felt frozen in time:
"Fifteen years ago, on the day the Empire fell... I died once already."
The air in the forest suddenly turned heavy.
Rhine fell silent for a long moment. Finally, he let out a heavy, ragged breath, his tone impatient yet softened by a flicker of acceptance:
"...Stubborn old man. Then stay back. Don't get in my way."
Karl scanned the group, his gaze lingering on each face for a brief moment, before speaking in a voice that was low yet resolute:
"Since the decision is made—let's move."
Gareth nodded slightly, a weary but determined smile touching his lips: "Since the Boss is heading into the fray himself, I don't really have a path to retreat, do I?"
Owen hoisted the still-sleeping Gerald onto his back, frowning: "Fighting the Witch is one thing, but the problem is—we haven't a clue where she's hidden Thia. Even if we storm the castle, we need a direction."
Rhine mused for a moment, then suddenly shifted his gaze to Gareth, his tone matter-of-fact:
"Don't you sneeze the moment you touch magic? Go run a lap. Find out where she's hidden her."
Gareth stiffened, letting out a bitter laugh: "Boss... you want me to run the entire palace grounds? This place is massive. By the time I finish, the sun will have risen three times over."
"Squeak—Squeak!!"
A sharp, urgent cry abruptly cut through the conversation.
Everyone turned in unison.
There, tucked in a dark corner, a white rabbit sat hunched. Its eyes were wide, its expression frantic, and its limbs were flailing wildly, as if it were desperately trying to convey something.
Rhine frowned: "What is up with this rabbit?"
Owen laughed and picked up a carrot from the side, offering it to the creature: "Hungry? Here, have this."
The rabbit didn't hesitate; it swatted the carrot away with a sharp slap. It then darted its head back and forth, as if desperately searching for something.
Suddenly—
It lunged at a white napkin on the table, bit into one corner to drag it open, and then dipped its front paw into the leftover sauce on the plate. It began to tap frantically against the fabric, "thump, thump, thump."
Milia tilted her head, clearly bewildered: "What... is it doing?"
Karl's eyes narrowed as he stepped forward: "Wait... it's writing."
The group froze, crowding around the table.
There, on the white napkin, a few crude characters appeared—sauce for ink, a rabbit's paw for a brush. The strokes were messy, but legible.
Rena's eyes widened: "Are you kidding me? A rabbit that can write? What does it say?"
Karl read the words slowly, his voice laced with pure disbelief:
"I... know... where... Lunethia... is."
As the last word left his lips, the rabbit nodded vigorously and then nimbly leapt from the table.
Karl let out a wry, helpless laugh: "This rabbit... is certainly full of surprises."
Rhine's eyes, however, instantly ignited with a razor-sharp edge: "If that's the case—follow it. We don't have any other leads."
Guided by the rabbit, the group moved quickly.
They navigated the palace corridors, steps light and hushed. The rabbit moved with an eerie familiarity, never once hesitating. Through halls, around corners, and past hidden doors—they went deeper, and lower.
Finally, they stopped before a set of ancient, worn stone steps leading into the underground.
The staircase spiraled deep into the dark, as if descending into some forgotten abyss.
A strange, unnatural chill washed over everyone at once—
How could a rabbit be so intimately familiar with the palace's secret structure?
The rabbit paused at the entrance, looking back at them, and pointed a front paw into the depths of the darkness below.
Rhine narrowed his eyes: "You're saying—Lunethia is down there?"
The rabbit nodded firmly.
In the next instant—
Rhine grabbed the rabbit by the scruff of its neck, his gaze fierce, his tone carrying an unmistakable threat:
"If you're lying to me—you're the first thing I'm going to grill."
The rabbit went stiff, its ears twitching slightly.
Rhine held the creature high, then turned to face the group, his voice low and vibrating with battle-lust:
"Get ready—and be prepared to wake that old man up at a moment's notice."
He paused, his eyes burning like fire:
"The time for the final battle... has arrived."
The group exchanged glances.
No one spoke.
But in every pair of eyes, there burned the same heavy, unwavering resolve.
Just as they were about to step onto the spiral staircase leading into the earth—
Rhine suddenly stopped.
He slowly turned his head to look at General Helan, standing behind him.
"Helan." Rhine spoke softly, his tone unusually heavy, carrying a rare sense of solemnity.
Helan arched a brow, seemingly having already perceived his intention. He asked in a deep voice: "Are you intending to leave me behind?"
"That's right." Rhine looked him straight in the eyes, his gaze burning yet preternaturally calm. "In the battle to come, your sword... may not be of use."
His tone was quiet, devoid of even a shred of condescension.
"The Witch is too powerful. Our movements cannot afford a single flaw."
Helan fell silent for a moment, a flicker of repressed unwillingness flashing in his eyes. "You mean... that I would be a burden?"
Rhine shook his head.
"You are a commander of armies," he said slowly. "But this time, it is not a battlefield confrontation—it is an act of defiance against fate itself."
His voice was low and resolute:
"We need speed. We need perfect coordination. And we need... the courage to stake everything on a single gamble."
He paused, his tone growing heavier:
"More importantly, we cannot rule out the possibility that she has contingencies. If reinforcements arrive from the outside to cut off our retreat, we will be trapped and killed down there."
Rhine stared directly at Helan, emphasizing every word:
"Therefore, someone must guard this entrance. And—it must be you."
The air stilled for a moment.
Helan's fist slowly tightened, then relaxed bit by bit. He gazed at the young Prince before him. In his eyes, there was reluctance, there was struggle, and there was... a certain recognition gradually settling into place.
At last—
"I understand."
He finally nodded, his voice low and hard as iron:
"I will hold this gate—until you return."
Rhine offered a faint smile and clapped him on the shoulder. His tone lost its sharp edge, replaced by a rare, fleeting warmth:
"Rest assured. We will come back."
Helan did not answer.
He simply stood there, like an immovable mountain.
He watched as they stepped onto the stone stairs one by one, their figures swallowed by the darkness. The firelight receded, growing fainter until only a pale glimmer remained.
Finally—
The passage returned to silence.
Only the dim torchlight and his solitary figure remained.
Like a gatekeeper. Like a gravedigger.
Within the Queen's private chamber.
The ancient mirror, tall as the vault of the ceiling, stood in silence.
The surface was deep as water, light and shadow swirling slowly within it as if devouring every ray of light that touched it. Even the air seemed sluggish and heavy in this place.
Suddenly—
A slender, elegant silhouette emerged slowly from within the mirror.
It was the Queen's spectral projection.
She was draped in intricate, bewitching palace robes, her black hair cascading like a waterfall. Yet, those eyes—which should have looked down upon all creation with disdain—now betrayed a faint, impossible-to-hide hesitation.
She raised her head slightly, gazing at the sky reflected in the mirror.
It was a crescent moon outside the high tower window, refracted by the mirror into a shattered, jagged image, as if it were a reflection of fate itself.
"The whirlpool of destiny... is beginning to turn turbid."
She murmured softly, her voice gentle, yet concealing a thread of unease.
"The fated moment... is drawing near. Even I... can no longer clearly see where this river will ultimately flow."
She slowly raised both hands and gently patted her own pale cheeks, as if trying to banish the momentary flicker of doubt.
"It's alright."
She whispered the words, as if reassuring herself.
"Everything... has already been woven."
Her gaze slowly regained its composure, even taking on a near-fanatical certainty:
"What people call chaos is merely fate converging too densely—when too many 'key individuals' gather in one place, it naturally triggers turbulence and ruptures."
She smiled lightly.
The smile was faint, yet cold enough to make one's heart shudder.
"But whoever they are—no matter how hard they struggle—"
Her voice suddenly turned low and resolute:
"They cannot change Lunethia's fate."
She extended a hand, her fingertips gently brushing against the surface of the mirror.
The motion was tender, bordering on the eerie, as if she were caressing a sleeping infant.
"What will the ending... be like?"
She murmured softly, her voice sounding as if it drifted from a great distance:
"My treasure... my little Lunethia..."
Her lips slowly curled upward.
The smile remained tender, yet in the next instant, it revealed a bone-chilling obsession—like the deep-sea currents shifting beneath a crust of ice.
"Do not... let me down."
"Hehehehe..."
The laughter echoed throughout the mirror chamber.
Long, ethereal, and bizarre.
It was as if the sound did not originate from this place—
But had drifted quietly from the other side of destiny.