For the men—kings, generals, fathers, and even the surviving youths—they lament the same dream every night: they stand in the midst of a field full of empty graves, with names that were never carved. In that dream, they reach out to children born without faces, walking away into an endless spiral vortex, leaving the fathers in an increasingly suffocating emptiness. Among them, the rustling of leaves can be heard, adding to the eerie atmosphere, as if the ghosts of the past are wandering, demanding recognition that never comes.
Many of them wake up with sobs for no reason, or immediately run out of their tents—calling out the names of children they never had the chance to create. "My child...," cries one of them with a hoarse voice, while the morning dew soaks the ground around him. Tiamat has sunk its claws into the masculine soul of the world, cutting off the hopes of a new generation before they are born. The sudden sound of raindrops falling seems to create a symphony of sorrow, echoing in the hearts of those filled with wounds.
Meanwhile, the surviving women—the queens, wives, protectors of Sanctuary—face a silence more profound than death. In the dim light, they sit at the edge of their beds, feeling the faint pulse of life within their wombs, yet the whispers of dragons fill every heartbeat. "Will they hear my voice?" whispers one queen, her gaze drifting to the window, hoping for an answer from outside that could comfort her empty heart.
Rinoa, who now hides with Nobuzan and Mutsuyori in a labyrinth of illusions, is not spared from this torment. Every night, she dreams of gazing at a changing face of a fetus: sometimes she sees Fitran's eyes, sometimes the silhouette of Nobuzan, sometimes a shadow of herself—but every time she wants to touch it, the face transforms into a spiral, disappearing into black mist. In an instant, she feels a deep warmth, but soon after, emptiness returns, carving a pain sharper than before.
Nobuzan, who tries to be strong by her side, slowly loses her grip on reality. Faint voices echo in her mind, like whispers of the wind that constantly remind her of the life that should have been, adding weight to her shoulders. Tiamat's magic gnaws at the boundaries of their memories, mixing up the identity of the father. Sometimes she feels like a father, sometimes just a protector, sometimes as if she is merely an illusion created by Mutsuyori—and Fitran is a shadow that always lingers at the edge of memory, never truly acknowledged by the world.
In the shattered Sanctuary, the remaining people struggle to survive against Tiamat's monstrous attacks and the magic storm that has yet to subside. The air is filled with anxiety, the aroma of wet earth and burning smoke mingling, creating a tense atmosphere where hope seems increasingly distant. However, the most devastating disaster now is psychological: men and women find their identities torn apart. They gather around a dying campfire, sharing stories, but those stories often break off midway, like lost memories. Names become vague, family lineages fade, and newborns bear spiral marks on their skin—a sign that they are the generation desired by the will of the ancient dragon. "What does all this mean?" sighs a mother, her eyes filled with tears, warming her cold baby in her embrace.
Some families choose to isolate themselves, fearing their own children who cry with a dual tone: one human voice, one dragon voice, vibrating like echoes from the belly of the earth. In the dark of night, the sound of those cries becomes a tense rhythm, spreading throughout the corners of homes that were once warm but now feel cold and empty. Those babies often cry in the middle of the night, their vacant stares seeming to know that this world is rejecting them. Their voices haunt the parents, bringing shadows of a lost past, and among the cries, there is a gentle sigh from a mother trying to soothe, while recalling happy moments before darkness enveloped their lives.
Elsewhere, fathers tie themselves to trees or drown themselves in rivers, unable to bear the guilt of the children they never gave birth to. As the sun sets, its red light casts long shadows on the ground, reflecting the sadness they feel. Some young queens perform exorcism rituals, trying to save the fetuses in their wombs from the spiral curse, but their magic backfires, hurting themselves—blood flows, and they faint in the embrace of the remaining protectors. With trembling fingers, one queen murmurs incantations as the altar fire ignites, but each word slips from her lips with deep doubt, reflecting uncertainty about what will happen next.
Rinoa walks among the ruins, her wings now half-burned and half-glowing attracting the attention of the remaining angels. The sky above her blazes with dramatic orange and red hues, creating a strange atmosphere between beauty and destruction. Gabriel accompanies her, but it is clear his heart is torn. He can no longer say his name without hesitation, and the angels begin to lose their identities, calling each other by old names that have lost their meaning. Among them, a longing arises to remember the times when every voice felt precious, before tragedy took everything away.
Some angels accuse Rinoa of being the cause of all this: "You brought Fitran's blood! You are the bridge between emptiness and the world!" Their voices overlap, creating a chaos that deepens. But Rinoa only responds with a vacant stare, her eyes radiating unspoken pain. She feels every accusing finger, as if they are trying to tear apart the layers of uncertainty within her soul. In her heart, she whispers, "Let me try to be what you want, even if in this journey I may lose myself."
She also experiences strange dreams: herself as a child in Sheena's lap, then suddenly becoming the queen of the world standing alone atop a pile of bones. At the end of the dream, there is always Tiamat's voice—soft yet insistent, urging her to surrender all she has for the rebirth of the world. In the embrace of her dreams, she feels the cold wind touching her skin, as if the outside world is reminding her of how fragile she is in the midst of emptiness. Every second in her dreams is filled with doubt and surrender, keeping her awake in a cold sweat.
Rinoa struggles to keep the hearts of the angels and the people of Sanctuary intact. She holds a small ceremony in the ruins of the temple, lighting a blue fire from Michael's magic, praying that the souls of the lost children may find rest. However, each flame feels weaker, as if the world rejects all forms of long-lost hope. As the blue fire begins to fade, Rinoa feels a weight in her chest, as if the burden of loss envelops every corner of her heart. She whispers softly, "Come back to us, lost children, so we can feel your presence once again." Her thoughts drift to memories of laughter and joy from the children in Sanctuary, which now only exist as ghosts among the ruins.
Mutsuyori, who has become the main protector of Rinoa and Nobuzan, is also not spared from nightmares. Every time she sleeps for a moment, she dreams of being a mother to children she has never met, then wakes up with tears on her cheeks. Sometimes she stares at Rinoa for too long, as if trying to ensure who truly carries the spiral fetus: is it Rinoa, Nobuzan, or is she merely a tool of Tiamat's magic? She longs for the warmth of a family that never materialized, wondering in her heart if her protection has been enough. In the stillness of that night, she recalls Rinoa's smile, which seems to remind her that there is still hope even when everything feels bleak.
On a stormy night, Mutsuyori sits at the end of the hiding corridor, watching over Rinoa and Nobuzan as they sleep. She jots down new spells, hoping to strengthen their hiding place. A small candle lying beside her emits a dim light, providing a bit of warmth in the cold of the night. However, her hands tremble—she knows that any illusion she creates will always be shattered by the blood of the spiral nature within Rinoa and Nobuzan's fetus.
Meanwhile, Rinoa begins to lose her memory of Fitran. Shadows of her husband's face flicker in her mind, but never clear enough to grasp. She feels both love and hate for her husband, unsure if Fitran ever truly existed or was just a name created to give meaning to a wound that never healed. Within her, longing clashes with hatred, creating an endless whirlpool of emotions.
That night, Rinoa awakens from a nightmare. She gazes at Nobuzan with tears on her face, wanting to release all the burdens in her heart. The dark shadows from the dream still haunt her, causing a tightness in her chest.
"Nobuzan, I... I am afraid. Who truly planted this child in my womb? Why can't I remember its face clearly?" Rinoa's voice trembles with doubt, as if questioning the existence of this world. Every word she utters is a cry of a trapped soul.
Nobuzan hugs her tightly, feeling the same tremor of fear. "I too am not sure who I truly am, Rinoa. Tiamat... she erases names, shatters our hearts, and demands the world to pay the price." Her voice flows softly, soothing while trying to convince not only Rinoa but also herself that they will endure despite being pressed by uncertainty.
From the dark corridor, Mutsuyori only listens, holding back her own pain. In silence, she knows that the three of them are merely pawns in a ritual of a world older than all human lineages. The sorrow flowing between them seems to build a bridge in the quiet night. A deep sense of connection, even though separated by the dangers lurking outside.
The fog thickens outside the hiding place. The cries of spiral children fill the night, merging with the howls of Tiamat's monsters creeping from beneath the earth. A world without children, queens without kingdoms, and fathers without names—all realize that a new era will be born from the womb of emptiness. In the dark corner of the hiding place, Mutsuyori tightens her embrace around her body, feeling the creeping fear as if it grips her with cold hands. The sounds of the children's fear remind her of the past, when their laughter still adorned the night, long before all this happened. "Look! There is light!" shouted a child with a stuttering voice, hope amidst despair. "Maybe someone is coming to help us!" That hope feels like a glimmer of light in the darkness, but Mutsuyori knows that hope is often just an illusion.
And in the sky, Tiamat's eye continues to watch, waiting for the right moment to swallow all remaining hope. Every movement, every breath that can be heard, seems to fuel the monster's thirst for darkness. In the stillness of that night, a firm voice cuts through the silence, "Don't give up! We must keep fighting!" shouted a woman, her voice trembling yet full of determination. She is the longing of the children, a protective figure who becomes hope in the midst of despair. Mutsuyori gazes at her, feeling a strong urge to believe, even though everything seems impossible.