Several months have passed since the last fog of war cleared from the valley of Arvellis.
We didn't inscribe victory in stone tablets, didn't erect statues of heroes. Instead, we planted trees in the scorched earth, naming the fallen not on tombstones… but on the roots of life that would grow.
One of those trees grew right in the middle of the field where Seraphine and I had once challenged each other. It was a young Arhel tree, a rare species that only blossomed when planted with a hand free from resentment. And on the 73rd starry night since the battle ended, it sprouted its first bud.
Some called it a miracle.
But I knew: it was simply the result of a world finally being given a chance to breathe… without the demands of perfection.
In the north, the former Order fortress is now an interracial school. Elven children sit alongside beastkin, and humans learn spirit language alongside kurin. Seraphine teaches there, no longer preaching truth, but teaching how to ask questions… without fear.
"The light," she said in a lesson I heard from afar, "does not belong to one race, one religion, or one tower. It grows in hearts that dare to doubt and love anyway."
In the south, Lysette leads a project to open a new trade route between the human realm and the land of darkness—a land once spoken of only in fearful whispers. But now, its name has changed: the Land of Twilight Shadows, not because it was erased from its history, but because it embraces all its colors.
As for me?
I have become a wanderer.
Not as a hero, not as a demon king, but as a witness. Someone who comes to villages, listening to old stories, reading poetry to children, or helping extinguish small fires before they become full-blown hatred.
Sometimes, I'm still called a monster. Sometimes, I'm still asked to stay away. But sometimes… just sometimes, someone calls me uncle, or even teacher. And that's enough.
In a small village, a little human girl tugged at my robe and asked, "Is it true that you used to be a demon who fought against the light?"
I knelt down, smiled, and replied, "I'm someone who loves this world too much to let it burn with lies."
The girl nodded slowly, then said, "Then… may I become like a demon too?"
We laughed together.
Because we know: darkness is not the opposite of light. It's a place where light can be reborn.
And tonight, like all nights, I write.
Not to be remembered.
But so that one day, when the world trembles again on the brink of darkness, this voice from the past can whisper:
> "We once chose a light that doesn't dazzle. And a darkness that doesn't mislead.
We once chose to see... together."
And that's more than enough.
Sometimes I silently wonder... will all this sacrifice truly endure in memory?
The world forgets easily. It rushes forward, chasing the future, and often pushes aside pasts that are uncomfortable to remember. But I believe that as long as there remains one child who asks, one tree that grows from the ashes, one soul who chooses to listen before judging... then what we have built will not be in vain.
In the distance, the village bell rang. Not a sign of danger, but a call to dinner.
I put my pen and rolled up paper back in my old leather bag and rose slowly. The wind carried the scent of mushroom soup and warm bread. In this place, night no longer meant fear.
And as I walked toward the light of those little houses, I knew—
—I was no longer walking alone.
Because the world has finally learned that between light and darkness… there is room for all of us to stand. Together.
The end of a story.
The beginning of a hope that no longer whispers.