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How many years had truly passed since the Holy City lost its dawn?
Why had he—who should not have known—so persistently aimed for my tenth thoracic vertebra, the only fatal weakness?
Had I—had she and I—held out long enough for Deliverer to complete the Flame-Chase Journey?
Beneath the moonlit sky of Styxia, Mydei shook his head.
There was no point in dwelling on such questions now.
The undying Mydeimos had taken a wound to the back, fallen to the ground, and would never rise again—just as foretold in the prophecy.
If so, then the will he had left behind in the world of the living—one that echoed the prophecy of deliverance—should also be fulfilled.
Perhaps because she had found the proper "death" and restored the balance of life and death, the Styx that once flowed in murky, hidden currents began, at some point, to flow clearly and steadily.
The wandering dead who once drifted aimlessly had vanished.
And each time he "died," he would walk quietly through the night, watching the flowers bloom along the roadside.
It wasn’t as though he could afford to let down his guard—if he had, he would have become just another ghost, alone and adrift on the border of life and death in this ancient castle.
Even so, the path of return had become somewhat easier.
At the very least, it no longer echoed the ceaseless, harrowing battle he had waged against the black tide in Kremnos.
Of course, he knew full well that this death was different from all the ones before.
The path home—one he had brushed past death to find, again and again, only to defy and reject it—was nowhere to be seen, no matter how hard he looked.
He walked on.
Even after countless returns through deaths, he had never before taken the time to truly see the ruined capital—but now, its state seeped into him, even in his spectral form.
The architecture, so different in style from Kremnos’s austere grandeur, was graceful in design, now half-collapsed, overgrown with withered vines and the immense bones of dead dragons.
When he looked down at his feet, he could see wooden palisades and battle flags long abandoned, as though they still bore memories of wars from a distant past. And among them, vivid flashes of orange and yellow—flowers and butterflies. Did life still stir within this city of death, immersed in the waters of the Styx? Or were those radiant lights merely the embodiment of souls long passed?
When he reached the great dome of the old castle, he stopped.
The highest tower closest to the twin moons.
The end of the Stream of Souls.
The door of the nether realm.
The first time he had come here—together with Castorice, Trailbrazer, and the pink squirrel—he had turned back at this very point, choosing to return to the world of the living.
“…No longer need to challenge death,” he murmured.
There were no more deaths to conquer. He was only heading toward the one end he must now accept.
He had once spoken words to the Death Servant in this place. Perhaps they had helped sustain her footsteps. If he reached her with his sense of self still intact, he might be able to ask.
“There’s no such word as ‘impossible’ in a Kremnoan dictionary… isn’t that right?”
He had refused death more times than he could count. Surely, he could walk the nether realm by his own will.
Butterflies rose from the flowers and fluttered around the dragon’s bones, as if drawn to them. They must be souls, making their way toward the realm beyond. He only had to follow the path they traced in the air.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
And in his mind’s eye, he pictured—
The other side of the warm west wind, a sea of flowers.
A soft breeze stirred his hair.
The faint scent of blossoms lingered on.
He opened his eyes.
What he had mistaken for a blue sea was in fact a vast expanse of gentle, flower-covered hills stretching as far as the eye could see.
A massive moon hung in the pale violet sky, cracked and silently pouring forth a waterfall of souls.
“…So this is…”
The air he inhaled was crisp with a quiet sorrow, yet the sweet scent of the flowers dulled its sharpness.
“…You are…”
At the soft voice, Mydei turned.
She stood there exactly as she had when they last parted.
Her two silver braids swayed faintly, even in the still air.
Clad in garments of muted lavender that seemed to bear the weight of a thousand years of solitude, she neither blended into the colors of the flowers nor stood apart from them.
She simply stood there, ten paces away.
“You… you shouldn’t have come here.”
Her eyes—filled with divine authority of “death”—lowered, as if still refusing him.
“My immortality is not the same as being unblemished. Even I have an end.”
Mydei spoke just as quietly as she had.
Having spent his final moments on the battlefield, wreathed in destruction and slaughter, he feared disturbing the stillness of this ocean of flowers.
“…Or do you mean to say that even in death, am I to be refused peace?”
She offered no answer.
Her hands remained gently clasped, as if rejecting the role of death’s mouthpiece.
“…Answer me, Castorice.”
He called to her, softly. But the sound carried a weight that could not be denied.
It was as if her name called by him alone might dispel the shadowy veil of death cloaking her form.
Yet still, somewhere within his voice, there lingered something almost like a plea.
—I’m not speaking to “Death.”
I’m speaking to you, the one who shared in our pain.
At the sound of her name, her fingers gave the faintest tremble.
It was a motion so subtle it could have vanished amid the swaying of the flowers in the breeze—but not even such a minute gesture could escape the eyes of a warrior.
“...I’m afraid.”
At the end of a long silence, she finally gave voice to her thoughts.
“Since I came here and became a demigod of death, I’ve guided many souls to this place.
But… somewhere in my heart, I always believed you would never come here.
I… even wished we would never meet here.
It terrifies me… to accept that I can no longer send you back to the realm of the living.”
She has that same look again, Mydei thought.
It was the same look she’d had when she asked if he would return home alone.
When she had shared her fears with him.
When she told him the principles about the next cycle.
The eyes of someone sincere to her core—so sincere that sorrow and fear took root all too easily.
The wind stirred.
Was it the west wind? Was it warm? He couldn’t tell. But—
“…The wind here smells of flowers.”
Drawn by his quiet murmur, Castorice looked at him.
“All my life, the wind carried with it the scent of rust....
Even in the markets of Okhema, or in the Twilight Courtyard where a glimmer of light trickled in…the stench of the battlefield clung to me, refusing to fade.
But here… it’s different. The wind felt as though it was gently embracing me, rather than dragging me back to the battlefield.”
Meeting her eyes, Mydei went on:
“Until the day inescapable fate calls us onward…would it be all right if I stayed here?”
Castorice closed her eyes, as if letting his words wash over her—and slowly, silently nodded.
At the very least, the time when death and immortality had to reject each other… had come to a pause.
“…So. You’ve done it too. You completed your frame-chase journey… and embraced your fate.”
The gentle tone, filled with quiet fondness, made her open her eyes.
“…Lord Mydei, it was you who taught me that nothing can begin unless I take the first step. Even the answers I thought I’d found in my thousand-year life… I only realized them fully because of your words.”
“…Is that so.”
He smiled, a calm, warm smile.
“Well done, Castorice. Now that we’ve both walked our paths to the end, we can look back and know the trials we have endured had meaning.”
The immortal warrior who had fought endlessly through life and death offered comfort to the one who had lived embracing life, cloaked in death.
For the first time in ages, Castorice, too, allowed her expression to soften.
“…Thank you, Lord Mydei.”
"…So, you've stood before Thanatos at last?"
“…Yes.”
She sighed softly.
“Thanatos… she was me, in a way. And also… my twin little sister from the world before this one. When this world began, she took the form of a dragon and sent me down to the realm of the living. But in doing so, she died… and her bones were left exposed in Styxia.”
"Your sister, huh… So, out of love for you, she defied the laws of life and death—and both of you bore the consequences."
Castorice nodded, then widened her eyes slightly as if recalling something.
"She mentioned something else… That she was cursed to refuse death, and so she couldn’t return to the nether realm."
His brow lifted at that.
It was the very curse he had borne.
"…You rode upon Thanatos—on the back of the dragon?"
“…Yes.”
“I see.”
Mydei exhaled, and though she looked up at him anxiously, the expression he wore was one of calm, as though some long-unsettled question had just found its answer.
“…It can’t be—”
“Don’t worry about it.
I just thought… perhaps you and your sister, and I, the one made immortal while lingering in the Styx—perhaps the three of us were bound together by ‘Death’ in some strange way.”
He shook his head, quietly ending the line of thought.
And when he looked at her again, his orange eyes held a gentle, ember-like warmth.
“No matter what binds us, I’m no longer immortal—I’m already dead. But… that might actually be to your advantage.”
“…Th—that’s…”
Understanding what he meant, Castorice’s voice caught in her throat.
“…Are you saying I should try to touch you?”
“You never once asked me for help. Not even back then.”
She remembered it now—when he left Okhema as a demigod, he had made her an offer, likely as a parting gift.
She hadn’t realized it at the time, but now she could feel the quiet trace of regret that had accompanied it.
“Lord Mydei… I never once thought of using your immortality to gain something for myself.”
“I know.”
He stepped forward, careful not to tread on the flowers. The first step. Then another. And another.
Now, he was within her arm’s reach.
Castorice looked down at her hands.
Even after becoming a demigod of death, and for a thousand years before that, these hands had remained cold.
“My hands… they might freeze your soul.”
“They shouldn’t. I’m already dead, am I not?”
Mydei removed his gauntlet and opened his palm gently.
“These hands once dealt death to my enemies. But now… perhaps they can offer a touch of comfort to one who’s borne the solitude of destiny.”
The solitude of destiny—to the one who had worn it like a shroud for a thousand years, the lion who had stood apart from all others now extended his hand.
Hesitantly, she placed her hand in his.
Cold.
And yet, he did not wither, did not fade.
He simply held her hand, softly.
And soon, she felt it—her own heartbeat pulsing within their joined palms.
“…Warm…”
She heard it: a soft breath, tinged with a smile. Just like before.
Before she could react, she was wrapped in his strong arms.
“Castorice… Even if it took me a thousand years, I thought—I wouldn’t have minded waiting.”
Mydei’s voice fell gently, like snowfall.
“But now… I’m simply relieved to know you didn’t have to spend another thousand years in solitude.”
The wind of the underworld carried a chill.
One had lost the warmth of life.
The other bore hands that had always been cold.
And still, they felt warmth between them.
Nestled against his chest, Castorice pressed her cheek softly to where his heartbeat should have been. Only silence met her ear.
“Lord Mydei… I’m sorry. I… wasn’t able to help you.”
Her voice was muffled, each word strained and fragile.
“During that battle… from here, I could only send a faint thread of power. Even though you placed your trust in me… in the end, you came to this place.”
Mydei lowered his gaze. He didn’t need to look to know—her shoulders were trembling.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said firmly.
“That dark-clad swordsman… he possessed power far beyond any of us. Whether it was me, or Phainon, or even all of us together—we could never have truly defeated him. That much, I can say now.”
He sighed, regretting that even in this sea of flowers, the shadow of that dark figure still lingered in their thoughts.
Yet as he gently stroked her hair and back, he spoke to her, calm and steady—as if recounting a tale.
“The prophecy I received said: ‘One day, you shall die with a wound in your back.’ That destined moment simply came to pass. It’s not something for you to bear.
You did more than enough.
The time your power bought may have steadied Deliverer’s path… and as for me, in that final battle…I wasn’t alone.”
Castorice nodded, her face still turned downward.
Tears welled and spilled freely, and she pressed her palm against his chest—as if to offer him the faint warmth kindled in her once-cold fingers, as if to share with him the pulse of life still lingering within her.
“…Maybe… I just wanted to be by your side.”
She murmured as if confessing something long hidden.
“I found companions for the first time… in Okhema. And yet, even then, I was still shackled by the curse of death, hesitating to move forward.
It was you—brave, immortal you—who looked at me, and gave me courage…I just… wanted to be beside you.”
“Would a dead lion, or a mortal man, still be enough for that?”
The unusual phrasing drew Castorice’s gaze upward.
Her eyes were still wet, tears clinging to their edges—but there was something more behind them now.
“Yes… Not because you were immortal, but because… you never feared even death… I…”
“Say it, Castorice.”
Mydei’s tone was gentler than the orders he once gave his troops—but still commanding enough that she drew a sharp breath and opened her eyes wide.
He nodded, as if giving her a final nudge forward.
“Forgive me… Lord Mydei… I… have long held feelings for you.”
“…I figured as much.”
He murmured it softly.
“…Th-that’s it? You’re not even surprised…?”
“You may not know this, but I’m not entirely illiterate,” he replied, a smile on his lips as he looked down at her.
“There was once a writer of questionable historical fiction—clearly inspired by me—who penned some rather romanticized tales and myths. She disappeared, and not long after, ‘another’ writer took up the mantle and began writing something… closer to the truth. Still a bit too glorified for my taste, but…”
“Ah—ah—Lord Mydei!”
Flushed to her ears, Castorice tried to wriggle free from his embrace, but he gently held her there.
Defeated, she hid her face behind both hands.
“Y-you knew? Did Lord Phainon tell you…?”
“No. In my position, I kept an eye on fringe histories and lineages related to Kremnos and my people.
There are more obscure tales tied to Kremnos than I could count…
But clearly, one in particular seems to have struck a chord with you.”
He gave her a teasing grin.
“I won’t speak of the contents. It’s not surprising people take such interest in me. What matters is—I knew your feelings weren’t for the ‘immortal’, but for me as a person.”
“…Forgive me,” she whispered faintly. She wondered if the heat of her blushing cheeks was reaching him now.
“Words and poetry… they were the most free, the most eloquent means I had to express myself.”
“I understand. Sorry—my jest went too far.”
She shook her head.
“No… I was still afraid of confronting the real you. So I could only write about you… not face you.”
“It’s not too late,” Mydei said, gently but with conviction.
“The time of the genesis draws near… You sense it too, don’t you? But until then—even if it’s brief—we are free.”
At last, he released her from his embrace. Taking her hand, he led her gently up a low hill. Once seated beside her, he spoke again.
“You asked, ‘that’s it?’”
“…!”
Castorice tensed with surprise. This time, Mydei’s expression held no trace of jest.
“I’ve been thinking about you for a long time.”
He spoke the words slowly, as if reciting something etched deep into his heart.
“I saw the torment of my immortality reflected in your thousand-year solitude.
Even though you knew the path you had to walk better than anyone, your heart still hesitated—and I wanted to hold that hesitation close.
When I saw you, on the verge of tears, taking your first bite of the meal I cooked for the Chrysos Heirs… I thought then, from now on, I’ll have to cook for you.”
Her eyes widened. He had watched and remembered—tears she’d believed no one had seen, no one had noticed.
“Countless times, I wondered if, as one immortal, I could reach out to your loneliness—born of the curse of death that drove others away.
But…no matter how many times I told you I’d come back, no matter how firmly I tried to assure you I would be fine—you would still have blamed yourself for letting me ‘die.’ So all I could do was watch over you.”
As if trying to reclaim that lost time, Mydei took her hand again, and held it tightly.
“My deaths were always painful. And yet—even so—if it could be of help to you, I would offer them willingly.
Do you understand, Castorice? You should have relied on me more.
But… you never would. No matter how much you suffered, your gaze—so full of love for all life—never wavered.
And so, I vowed to protect that heart of yours.
Even if it meant running through a thousand years of battle, dying cruel deaths, and enduring bitter rebirths, again and again…
I wanted to ease the weight of the fate that would bring your thousand-year journey to its end.”
He looked out over the sea of flowers, his voice gentle.
“I always knew that I, too, would one day meet my end.
And when that day came, I wished for it to be here—in the sea of flowers.
I wished that you would be waiting at the end of that path you chose, and that you would welcome me home.”
Castorice looked at him as though she couldn’t believe what she was hearing—not out of doubt, but out of fear.
Fear of allowing herself to believe.
“There’s one thing I know for sure about you.
After a thousand years of solitude, you’ve learned not to open your heart so easily.
Though your soul overflows with feeling when you write, you keep your gates shut tightly against the world.
That’s why I must speak this aloud—plainly.”
Mydei took a quiet breath in, then out.
His golden-hued eyes looked straight into hers.
“Castorice—I love you. Please, believe in me.”
“…Yes.”
The word was barely audible, her voice a trembling whisper.
Her pale violet eyes shimmered through a veil of tears.
“You believe me, then?”
“…Yes. Yes.”
With her answer, Mydei hesitated no longer.
He pulled her close, wiped away her tears, and pressed his lips gently against hers.
Once.
Twice.
Each time, he gently stroked her trembling shoulders as if to soothe them.
When he finally drew back, her cheeks were flushed with warmth.
“...The time of the genesis is near,”
he murmured, as though tasting the words.
“You once told me,” he continued, “that in the next cycle, we may become Titans of calamity... Are you afraid?”
“...No.”
Castorice leaned gently against his chest.
“I won’t think about it now.”
“That’s right.”
He nodded, arms still around her.
“When the time comes, resist with whatever strength you have. I’ll do the same.”
“Even if I become ‘Death,’ I’ll bring the meaning of ‘Love’ into the world.”
“Heh... Is that so? Then I swear, in the name of ‘Strife,’ I will make ‘Death’ something glorious.”
The pride of those who choose to live with heads held high, unbent by fate.
Their oath—witnessed by none but each other—was carried through the nether realm on the scent-laden breeze of flowers.
“...In the next life, or the one after that,” he murmured,
“If I remember you, I’ll cook for you again.”
“Even if I don’t remember you... I know I’ll recall you somehow.”
“If your sister will allow it... then let us live together.”
Castorice laid her head upon Mydei’s chest and released a slow, deep breath.
For now, simply being by his side was allowed.
As if to embrace this miraculous moment, they both closed their eyes in silence.
Until the moment the inevitable arrives.