In the world of the rift, on the Queen's side...
The rift closes with a dry sound.
Like an iron door being locked from inside the world.
The darkness around dissolves into deep shades of gray, like stagnant mist.
Queen Lyssandrel closes her eyes, letting out a faint sigh… almost as if she were tired of a poorly performed play.
"This is starting to get boring."
Her eyes open slowly, golden and impatient.
She looks around. Nothing seems to have a clear form, but the place… pulses.
Something here lives—or waits.
She takes a step.
Bouros rises from the stone he was sitting on, shadows stretching along with him as if his body were the center of an eclipse.
"I can take you to the boy…
But—"
"No buts," Lyssandrel interrupts without even turning her head.
"That makes things easier."
Bouros stares at her for a moment. Something in his eyes narrows, but it's hard to tell if it's irritation… or curiosity.
"Don't mistake one thing…" he says, his voice rumbling low like trapped thunder.
"You're strong… for that worm.
But to me, just like him, you're nothing but an insect."
Lyssandrel then turns slowly.
Her steps are light, yet they make the space around her tremble as if the very plane felt her presence.
She approaches Bouros. So close that he can smell the faint scent of flowers that no longer exist.
She stares into his eyes without blinking.
Without a trace of fear.
Without pretense.
"You think you can kill me?"
Bouros smiles. A slow, crooked smile, full of arrogance.
"Yes… An insect I can crush at any moment with my hands."
The queen then takes a single step back.
Not out of fear.
But out of pure disinterest in wasting energy on something so… futile.
"Let's make a deal then," she says, bored, as if proposing to swap cold tea for lukewarm.
Bouros keeps smiling, now with just the corner of his mouth.
As if he were facing something he hadn't expected to enjoy.
…
In Jin's mind… in his soul.
The warrior stood before him.
Three steps away.
The eyes hidden beneath the helm glowed a deep purple, like ancient embers still burning.
The entire march halted behind him.
The silence that settled was heavier than any sound.
There was no wind. No time.
Only the muffled sound of Jin's own heart.
He couldn't speak.
Couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe clearly.
The warrior just looked at him.
Without haste.
Without words.
And then… the memories began.
They surged like explosions.
Wars.
Fields destroyed.
Men and women falling by the thousands.
Swords breaking.
Blood staining the earth.
Brutal, long battles, without glory.
Bodies of creatures never seen before.
Giants falling with the sound of thunder.
Cries of victory and despair mingling with the gray sky.
And Jin there, watching it all, feeling the weight of it.
Knowing, somehow, that those memories weren't his—but perhaps… they were.
When the last scene dissolved, the warrior spoke.
His voice was deep.
Firm.
But strangely… familiar.
"It's not exactly what I expected…"
He extended his hand and placed it on Jin's chest—over the old wound.
"…But it'll do."
Jin gasped.
A searing heat coursed through his body like a living flame.
From his chest to his arms.
From his head to his feet.
It was as if every cell was being rewritten.
The warrior then turned to the immense wolf at his side.
The beast lowered its head, lying down with reverence.
With almost paternal affection, the warrior stroked the wolf's head and said:
"We'll follow this boy now."
And in that instant…
Everyone—humans, beasts, soldiers, shadows…
All of the march bowed before Jin.
They knelt as if in the presence of a king.
Or an ancient god reborn.
Jin was still motionless. His eyes wide.
Trying to understand, trying to accept.
The warrior looked at him again.
Stared deep into his soul.
"My era marked great warriors…
I hope you carry my titles forward…"
He then bowed. With absolute respect.
"Maestro."
In that moment, something clicked in Jin's mind.
Like a forgotten gear starting to turn again.
Images, phrases, sensations—all the pieces, finally, in their rightful place.
The warrior raised his face one last time and said, with a cold yet almost gentle seriousness:
"It's time… I apologize in advance… but it's going to hurt."
A weight settled over Jin's body.
His eyes began to close.
Slowly. Heavily.
He tried to resist.
There were still doubts.
Questions.
Things he wanted to understand.
But there was no time.
Everything went dark.
…
Jin's eyes open slowly.
The sky above is gray…
But there's a faint reddish hue, like blood diluted in the clouds.
The air is heavy with the smell of sulfur, iron, and death.
The rift remains silent.
Empty.
And he feels…
Arms.
Soft.
But firm.
Lyssandrel.
She holds him carefully, as if holding something precious. A stark contrast to the world around them.
In that inferno of dead heat and stagnant smoke…
She smells of fresh flowers.
Has a gentle smile.
A serene… maternal face.
Jin sits up slowly, his body still heavy. His head spins.
Lyssandrel watches him with slightly narrowed eyes and a subtle smile:
"Finally… I was getting worried," she says in a soft voice.
But Jin can't respond.
The words return.
"I apologize in advance… but it's going to hurt."
And then…
It hurts.
Too much.
The wounds. All of them.
The one on his chest. His face. His ribs. The internal perforations.
They begin to close.
But not like a blessing.
It's torture.
Every muscle that regenerates, every bone that snaps back into place, burns as if it were being melted before reforming.
His blood boils within, and his body responds with brutal spasms.
Except for his right arm.
That one… doesn't return, like a mark he'd have to carry forever.
Jin arches his back, eyes wide.
He screams.
Long minutes of agony.
Longer than any battle.
More intense than any death.
Lyssandrel holds his hand.
Squeezes it gently and says in a serene yet firm voice:
"Calm down, Jin. Calm down. It'll pass…"
Jin clutches the ground until his nails bleed…
Lyssandrel then raises her eyes, now worried, and says:
"Bouros. Do something."
Bouros remains where he is, arms crossed, face expressionless.
He just watches.
Like someone observing an animal writhing on the ground.
Lyssandrel embraces him.
Not with the coldness many would imagine from a queen.
But with warmth. With strength. With something Jin hadn't felt in years.
At first, the pain only throbs, as if his body rejected the kindness.
But then, slowly, the warmth of the embrace begins to burn away the shadows of suffering.
After a few minutes, the pain doesn't vanish completely—but it subsides enough for Jin to breathe.
And he breathes.
Panting. Heavy. As if he'd gone years without air.
His eyes are wide. Confused. Frightened.
Dissonant thoughts explode in his mind.
Words he'd never say.
Voices that don't seem like his.
Memories that might not even be his.
It's as if his very soul were rearranging itself—piece by piece—with cracks that never healed.
Bouros just watches. Silent. But attentive.
His eyes narrowed, as if calculating every reaction, every heartbeat of Jin's.
Lyssandrel releases the embrace slowly. Holds the boy's shoulders, looks deep into his eyes.
There's pain. There's exhaustion. There's… something she can't name.
And then she says softly:
"It's over… The hell… Everything. You can go home and rest now."
Jin's eyes are sunken like wells. The dark circles are vast, dark, alive.
Two years.
Two years without sleep. Living and reliving a hell.
His body is one step from collapsing.
Even so, with Lyssandrel's help, he stands.
But they take no more than two steps.
Because something appears behind them.
Lorn.
His smile is grotesque, petty—a mask of sarcasm and scorn.
"Really… touching," he says, as if savoring the wrong word. "The hated orphan adopted by royalty… What a story…"
He tilts his head, thoughtful, as if searching for the perfect irony.
"Beautiful… Moving…"
His tone is distorted. Surreal. Almost as if he didn't believe what he was saying.
Lyssandrel sighs, bored:
"You're annoying."
Lorn laughs.
But then Jin turns.
And looks at him.
Just a look.
A single look.
And a thunder—literal, almost spiritual—pierces Lorn like an arrow of ancestral command.
His body trembles.
And then… it bows.
Jin continues to look, indifferent… As if observing a slug on the ground.
Lorn, the cause of all that hell… Was trembling and bowing.
And his mind panics.
He didn't want to do this.
But his body doesn't obey him.
Something greater than him demands respect. Obedience.
Devotion.
Lyssandrel watches, confused… genuine curiosity.
"This is supposed to be…?" she asks, not hiding her interest.
No one answers.
Not Lorn. Not Jin.
Bouros, at the side, just smiles faintly. As if he already knew.
Then, something begins to move.
Shadows.
Thick, deep, dark as oblivion.
They seep from Lorn's body…
And crawl across the ground…
Until they merge with Jin's shadow.
The boy doesn't react.
He just stands there, looking at Lorn.
And then… the rift opens behind him.
Slowly. As if hell itself recognized the presence of its new master.
Still bowed, Lorn murmurs:
"Yes… Maestro."
Jin turns, and Lyssandrel does too. Still confused, still processing everything.
But she doesn't ask.
Doesn't question.
She just walks beside him.
And then, in absolute silence…
The rift closes.