Shirogane’s eyes flicked to the horizon.

The birds weren’t flying anymore.

They were hovering, locked mid-flap — time wobbling around Joha’s presence.

“You’re war, then?” she asked. “The silent kind?”

Joha tilted his head. “No. I am what comes after war… when names are forgotten, and victory means nothing.”

He turned to Alarich, a slight flicker in his expression.

“You walk toward something that can’t be stopped. But the frost is not to stop you. The frost is to preserve what must not be lost in the burn to come.”

And with that, he turned and walked into the crowd — unnoticed by anyone but them — as if he had never been there at all.

Elsewhere, beneath the bronze dome of a crumbling sanctuary once called a Hall of Song, Hilda and Erinn moved quickly. Their boots echoed in ancient, hollow tones.

Lyx was there — or what remained of them.

The Mirror-Being. The Whispering Star.

Hilda approached with her voice steady:

“Lyx, you knew this would happen. You sent me dreams. Told me about the Snow Before the World.”

Erinn’s voice was sharper. “Tell us what Joha really is. Tell us why you’re not afraid of him.”

Lyx didn’t speak with a mouth. It shimmered — light moving backward across its form — and then a voice came, not through the ears, but into the ribs.

“Because Joha is not your enemy.

He is the archive.

Of what you were,

what you could have been,

and what you must never become.”

And then Lyx turned slowly to the horizon, where the glow of the frost star — Joha’s flake — hovered still in the sky, never melting, never falling, only watching.

“You still have time,” Lyx said. “But not much of it.”

As Joha and Shirogane stood at the edge of the capital, they watched the figures descending the grand staircase. The city, once ruled by monarchies from the Age of Flame, still whispered echoes of the old order. One name stirred in Joha’s memory—the Zoria family. A bloodline bound to fire and law.

And now, from the shadows of that legacy, one of their guards appeared.

He stood tall, composed, wrapped in a long black coat fastened with brass buttons that caught the dying light. Atop his head sat a towering headdress of crimson and gold, ornate and sacred—like the crown of a forgotten high priest.

His face was hidden behind a smooth metal mask—cold, expressionless. No mouth, no nose, only hollow eyes deep beneath a grand collar rimmed in shadows.

One hand wore a polished steel gauntlet, resting firmly on the hilt of a dark and decorated rapier.

The sword itself was ancient. The gold in its hilt gleamed faintly, betraying craftsmanship far older than the towers surrounding them. This was no mere weapon—it was a symbol of judgment, of tradition, of execution.

Even his shoes were peculiar: black and polished to a mirror sheen, with red roses perched atop each toe. An eerie flourish. A ritual touch. A symbol of something older than the city itself.

He walked with the silence of a verdict already passed.

His presence said nothing.

Yet it commanded everything.

Alarich stood beneath a flickering lantern, the rain whispering across his shoulders like forgotten voices.

He watched the city breathe—a beast of brass and soot, alive with its own rhythms. The hiss of steam valves. The hum of rails above. The clatter of clockwork joints. All of it familiar, yet distant, as if Veltrith were an old song now played in a minor key.

His coat was soaked at the edges, the long hem darkening like blood in water. Drops slid down his gloves, gathering at the knuckles before falling into the glimmering puddles at his feet. In those reflections, he saw the past… and the price of survival.

They've gilded the bones of a dying empire, he thought. Built towers to reach gods they no longer believe in.

The spires meant to inspire only loomed. The sky-trams whispered of progress, yet they carried passengers to nowhere—endless circuits in the mist. Every automaton that passed by was a mirror of ambition without soul, motion without meaning.

He knew the heart of Veltrith was not the grand dome, but the secrets buried beneath it—truths soldered into brass coffins, crimes veiled in patents and treaties. The rebellion, the catacombs, the opera house… all distractions. The real rot ran deeper.

He looked up at the copper dome crowning the Capitol—a cathedral of logic and law. From here, it looked like a mausoleum.

A beautiful machine, Alarich mused, designed to outlive the people who built it. Just like everything else.

And yet… he remained. Watching. Thinking. Waiting.

Veltrith was on the brink. And he could feel the city holding its breath.

Alarich stood at the edge of the sprawling city, his gaze drawn toward the grand palace that crowned its heart. Bathed in the warm embrace of the setting sun, the entire scene shimmered with a serene beauty that seemed almost otherworldly.

The golden light stretched long shadows across the cobblestones, tracing every arch, every carved detail of the buildings with delicate precision. The sky above was a watercolor wash of soft oranges, pinks, and purples, painting a perfect farewell to the day.

Mountains loomed beyond the city limits, their silhouettes grounding the sprawling metropolis in ancient earth and time.

At the city’s core, an enormous glass-roofed hall rose like a crystal beacon—a palace or exhibition center of such intricate design it seemed to breathe with life. Its soaring arches and countless windows glittered in the sunset, while smaller townhouses and shops clustered tightly around it, each brick and stone telling stories of generations.

Amidst the reddish-brown stone and weathered brick, vibrant bursts of pink cherry blossoms punctuated the streets and canals. Their petals floated gently on the breeze, softening the city’s stately lines with nature’s delicate brush.

Manicured gardens and sculpted hedges framed the grandest homes, weaving a patchwork of order and beauty through the urban tapestry.

For Alarich, the sight was both a reminder and a question—a legacy to live up to, and a world worth fighting for.

As the golden light bathed the rooftops of the old city and cherry blossoms whispered through the air, Alarich turned to Joha—his expression clouded by something deeper than confusion. It was the quiet weight of too many paths, too many voices, and a looming sense of being watched even by time itself.

Alarich asked quietly, “Joha… what should I do about the madness from the pathway?”

Joha didn’t answer right away. He stood still, the wind stirring the folds of his coat and the faint shimmer around his form. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, detached, as if echoing from both this world and another.

“There’s a drink,” he said. “Not of Lyx. Not of your kingdom. A drink that awakens the third phase… of Dì èr dìqiú — the Second Earth.”

Alarich frowned. “Second Earth?”

Joha nodded slowly. “Not like this world. Different. It's layered, folded inside the memory of the first loop—of what came before. When the First Earth was destroyed, the remnants... they grew roots elsewhere. That place is not here, yet you’ll find it through the pathway.”

He gestured upward toward the air, but what he meant was not the sky—it was space between breaths, between steps, between thoughts. “There, you’ll meet beings. Not angels. Not demons. They’re beyond classification.”

“Like Jacob?” Alarich asked.

Joha’s shadowed eyes narrowed behind the mask. “Jacob is one of them. He is a god born of the collapse—of the First Loop undone. His realm cannot be entered by feet. Only by minds already fractured… or awoken.”

Joha paused, then placed a hand against his own chest. “Only those like Shein… or like me, can guide you across. Spirits not of flesh, but memory. I am from that world. I am a remnant. A witness.”

He looked at Alarich now with piercing stillness, the kind that cracked time itself.

“You must choose. To wake the Third Phase… or remain here, ruled by the spiral of the Pathway’s madness. But know this—once you drink, once you see, you can’t close your eyes again.”