The inferno raged, white-hot and seething, until all that remained was silence. No scream. No trace. The Crimson Apostle was gone — not merely slain, but erased, incinerated to dust in an instant. There was no body, no bone, no final cry of anguish — only drifting ashes, dancing in the air like burnt snow.
Everyone stood frozen.
Dragonfire.
How could a man — a blind man — release dragonfire?
Joran's mouth was slightly agape, his sword still clenched yet forgotten in his hand. Halewyn's brows were furrowed in disbelief. Even Garron, though clutching his bleeding side, stared ahead with a haunted, near-terrified look.
There was only one possible assumption forming in their stunned minds — this man, Soren Noctis, must possess a magic so advanced, so insane, it defied understanding.
A spatial magic? He absorbed the dragon's breath… and released it back. As if he had stored it within himself. Could someone that young, blind, and quiet… wield a spell worthy of an archmage?
It was Elianne who moved first. Her hand trembled as it hovered near her lips. A single tear fell, trailing down her cheek as her eyes widened in disbelief and something more — closure.
He did it.
She remembered it clearly — the moment all her effort had cracked the divine barrier. And just now, in those final seconds, it was that fracture which allowed Soren's fire to strike true. A clean hit. No resistance.
Soren had turned her vengeance into something real.
He didn't steal her moment — he honored it.
She knelt down beside him.
Soren was on his knees, gasping, sweat clinging to his brow. His left arm — the one the Crimson Apostle had gripped — was blackened, veined with a spreading curse. A thick, corrupted aura leaked from the skin like smoke, pulsing with malevolence. He winced, teeth gritted.
Joran and Halewyn rushed over at once. Vin followed, helping the half-limping Garron hobble along behind them.
"How is it?" Elianne asked, her voice barely steady, turning toward Halewyn. "Please—"
Halewyn crouched, peering closely but keeping his hands away from the corrupted flesh. His eyes darkened. "He landed a fatal blow point-blank… but Mister Noctis also took one in return. This corrosion… it's no ordinary curse."
Vin stepped in, breath shaky. She reached toward the arm — then stopped, swallowing. "T-This… if we don't stop it, it'll spread to his main body. We have to sever it. Quickly. There's no other way."
A sharp silence followed.
Then—
"Do it!" Soren's voice was hoarse but unwavering. "There's no time to hesitate."
His breath was ragged. Pain laced every word.
"An arm's nothing. I have to live. I still need to take care of my sister…"
His eyes remained closed, as always — but his resolve shone clearer than any light.
Elianne felt a sharp prick in her heart.
The one who had played the hero — the one who had delivered her long-awaited justice — was now collapsed before her, in agony and at the mercy of fate. The irony of it stung deeply.
He had granted her closure… only to be left with no choice but to sacrifice part of himself.
She clenched her fists.
That feeling — the helplessness — she hated it more than anything. Wanting to help, to do something, anything, yet unable to lift the burden from someone else's shoulders.
"Lady Elianne," Halewyn said gently, his voice steady but heavy, seeking her word.
She had closed her eyes, struggling with the decision, but after a breath — she opened them again. A quiet resolve, like steel in silk.
"Do it, Sir Halewyn. Please… help Mister Noctis."
Halewyn nodded solemnly. He unsheathed his sword — no ceremonial blade, but one honed through years of battle. No hesitation. No indulgence.
Just resolve.
With a single, clean arc, like a silver flash of mercy, he brought the sword down.
Blood sprayed.
Soren let out a strangled cry — a guttural, raw noise of agony — before his body slumped to the side and consciousness left him once more.
"Miss Vin, now!" Elianne pleaded.
"I've got him!" Vin was already at work, scrambling to suppress the bleeding from the severed bicep with rapid chants and glowing threads of magic. The curse had stopped spreading — but the damage was done.
A silence fell over them again, one filled with shaky breaths and clenched teeth.
---
Inside the mental world…
Soren gasped and opened his eyes.
Not the closed, blind darkness of reality — but vision. Clear and sharp. His own inner world, where light danced in surreal patterns and the laws of the outside world held no dominion.
But his head throbbed — a stabbing, ringing pain that echoed deep into his skull.
"Ugh… my head…" he muttered, wincing.
"Yeah, of course it does," came a voice from nearby.
Greed was there. Standing casually, arms folded, with that same crooked smirk etched across his face. "You passed out after losing an arm. Did you really think jumping into your little mindscape would spare you from all the pain?"
He gestured lazily. "Pain still exists here, y'know. Just… translated."
Soren didn't respond immediately. He closed one eye, breathing through the pain, then muttered, "So I've lost an arm now. From a blind man… to a crippled blind man. Great."
Greed chuckled coldly. "What? You want sympathy from me?" He snorted. "You are more broken now. At least you're still alive."
Soren ignored the jab. "Did you wait for me here?"
"Oh, relax. I'm not here to haunt you — I'm here to help." Greed stepped closer, eyes gleaming. "I sensed something… something left behind by that disgusting priest you incinerated."
"A belonging?"
"A relic," Greed corrected. "A crimson necklace. I want you to claim it as your loot. Trust me — you need it."
Soren raised an eyebrow. "What does it do?"
Greed's grin widened. "It suppresses demonic aura. Conceals possession. With that around your neck, no one will sense the Eye of Ruin. You'll be able to open your eyes freely without panicking someone calling you out."
Soren's eyes widened. "That's—… That's exactly what I need. Thank you, for telling me."
"Yeah, I know," Greed said with a mock yawn. "Don't get sentimental on me. It's not because I care — it's because you're my investment now."
He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "Don't forget, Soren Noctis — Bring me the Shard of Epoch. That is your main quest from me."
"And since you're still here," He said with a sly grin, "I'll give you further guidance on how to use my power to your advantage."
---
Several days later – at the gates of Kirra.
A crimson necklace swayed gently on Soren's chest, gleaming faintly under the morning light. It hung like a silent brand.
"I apologize for claiming this item for myself," Soren said quietly, standing before the small gathering who had come to see him off — the trio from Howlspire, Vin, Garron, and Joran. Beside them stood Elianne and Halewyn, her ever-watchful guardian.
Joran waved his hand dismissively, grinning. "That's not a problem at all, Mister Envoy. You're the one who brought us victory. Honestly, we should be the ones thanking you. Besides—" he nodded back at the others, "—there were plenty of other belongings left behind. We've divided them fairly. Don't feel bad."
Vin gave a quick nod. "You more than earned it."
Soren returned a small smile. He appreciated their words — but more than anything, he appreciated the peace on their voices.
Elianne stepped closer and gently touched his right arm — the one still intact. Her touch was soft, almost hesitant.
"Soren… are you really all right now?" she asked, her eyes filled with lingering concern.
She no longer used formalities. And Soren didn't mind.
"I'm fine, Lady Elianne," he replied. "You can return home now — bring the good news to your father. As for me, I need to get back to my sister."
Soren direct his closed eye stare toward Halewyn, who stood silently nearby. The older man held his 'gaze' and gave him a deep nod — a silent gesture of respect and recognition. "Thank you young man." he said. They had spoken privately before, and Halewyn had shared much of Elianne's past. Soren was glad he could help her — and everyone else — find some form of closure.
"I told you already," Elianne pouted softly, crossing her arms. "Just call me by name."
"…Okay then. Elianne," Soren replied with a small chuckle.
"Don't be a stranger," she smiled. "Let's meet again — on a happier day. Maybe we can even drink together."
"I'll look forward to that."
Joran stepped forward and extended his hand. "You've got a strange way about you, Mister Soren. But you're good people. Let's meet again."
Soren shook his hand firmly.
Vin and Garron joined in with grins of their own. The tension that had once existed between them had long since faded — there was only camaraderie now. Blood shared, battles fought, and survival earned.
Vin, however, couldn't hold back any longer. "So… Mister Soren… are you an Archmage?"
The question hung in the air — half-joking, half-sincere.
Soren paused.
He'd considered telling them — at least partially — about his left eye. About the ocular power he carried. After everything they had shared, he owed them that much.
But not yet.
Not now.
If fate brings us together again, he thought, maybe I'll tell them.
"It's a trade secret," he said aloud, jokingly.
They laughed, half in relief, half in resignation.
Soren turned, facing the road ahead.
The horse-drawn carriage awaited — a simple one, but enough to carry him back, to the quiet house where Lyra waited.
He looked back one last time at the people he had fought beside. His comrades. His proof that he could still protect, even if broken.
"Let's meet again," he said softly, "on a happy occasion."
Then he walked away.
The long cloak draped over his shoulders — fastened at both sides like an admiral's mantle — billowed slightly with each step. It concealed the empty space where his left arm had once been. A small detail, easily missed. But none of them forgot.
And none of them said a word.
Not about the missing arm.
Not about the way the air seemed to shimmer around him… just faintly, like the breath of a sleeping dragon.
As if something deeper still lingered within him.
Waiting.
Watching.
Burning.