Liberi Reader

The roaring golden ocean smashes against Rhodes Island. The sovereigns' will sinks into the sea of infinity, then rises up again at the only ship upon the waves.

The waves answer the Banshee's call. The sovereigns beckon.

The young Sarkaz raises his bone pen and steps towards the void, writing incantations upon the waves.

The waves attempt to break free of their shackles, but the Banshee is silent.

He peers up at the sky, listening to the sound of the tower trembling.

He knows that King and King are clashing against one another, beyond where his eyes could see.

'I can calm the angry roar of the myriad souls...'

'But the only true answer lies in cutting off the source of all our suffering.'

'What is suffering to us Sarkaz?'

'Is it the brief respite by the only candle in the dark mines after a long day of working in ice and snow?'

'Is it the murder of the children of a Sarkaz and a Liberi who truly love each other, committed by the fanatics of the frontiers solely out of fear of their appearances?'

'Or polishing our horns day after day, spending our entire life living in fear wearing a Caprinae disguise?'

'A Sarkaz may encounter countless forms of injustice and suffering in their lifetime...'

'Injustice has become the norm, the entirety of their lives...'

'Such that when they are asked what suffering is...'

'They could not answer.'

Atop the tower, the pure-white figure gazes down at you.

'The King of Sarkaz.'

You have spent so much time with that Cautus girl that you have forgotten the implications of this title until now.

Theresa was not the King of Sarkaz simply because of the crown.

What kind of strength, wisdom and cunning does it take to convince all Sarkaz to willingly, gladly call her their king?

Massive energies rush out from the tower, forming white threads and silk that stretch on and on without end, permitting no resistance.

'The real Theresa'?

She cannot help but mock the ridiculous notion.

She casts her eyes at the familiar, yet impassive Theresa.

She looks towards Amiya, still resisting the overwhelming Arts. A black crown floats above her head.

W realizes that she started believing in Amiya a long time ago.

As she did on the burning command tower in Chernobog, when the bunny delivered the box with the key in it into her hands...

She believed that the city would stop.

W looks at the girl. She almost sees Theresa.

She begins to move.

She never hesitates or doubts herself.

The only thing she feels is excitement, the moment she came up with the brilliant idea of blowing those blasted myriad souls to pieces.

As she does whenever she goes into battle.

W hears voices innumerable, but it is not as she had imagined.

She thought she would hear angry roars like the revenant's, but the voices are far calmer than she expected.

They quietly tell of countless lives and deaths as Sarkaz.

The sigh of relief when drifting farmers finally find a land to settle on. The last pleas of Infected thrown alive to the furnaces.

The futile howl of dying soldiers forced to watch their city conquered. The helpless cries of hungry children lying weakly on their beds.

So many different upbringings and circumstances, all bestowed a tragic fate just because they were Sarkaz.

Their joy, their anger, the emotions amplified by the span of nine thousand years—

If this was what Theresa was always listening to... why?

Was it the myriad souls' will that the twin kings came to be again? Was it their will that sent the Sarkaz into this war?

The Sarkaz engrave their sorrows into the myriad souls, and the will of the myriad souls leads those who come after on a similar path. This is a tragic cycle.

Hate ignites hate. Sorrow reflects sorrow.

...Is that all?

W feels like she is being swept along by a rapid current.

Her life is also amongst the voices of the myriad souls.

She stops. Theresa sees her, and she sees Theresa's expression.

Maybe, maybe...

There is no wind in this place, but the static air begins to flow.

Clouds gather and disperse by the tower, soft and light, like white flowers brought to bloom by the wind.

Theresa stands in the middle of the sea of flowers, and a symbol begins to appear at her feet—

Her voice is confident.

It is as though, here and now, or perhaps in the distant past... your emotions and memories had been tightly linked.

You are familiar with the symbol. Why a rhombus, though?

It exists everywhere in this 'universe', within Originium.

Most of the time, it hangs in the heavens, seemingly a harmless source of light. W and the others would not think much of an unusual 'star' in the sky.

But you know that this is not right.

If heaven and earth could be reversed... how could this 'star' be a planar figure?

I heard it.

Black tide clashes with black tide. King clashes with King.

Amiya's black Arts are reduced to nothing the moment they touch Theresa. Black threads are pulled away from around Amiya, re-converging in Theresa's palm.

Countless white threads rush out from Theresa's hand.

They tightly surround Amiya.

Like a soft dress, or a blossom whose blooming process had been reversed.

Theresa's silhouette fades in the smoke of the explosion. Where she had stood, the outline of a thorn-shaped crown becomes increasingly distinct.

The sun shines brightly on the spotless deck. The wind is warm, mixed with the smell of wilderness and flowers.

The Cautus girl turns around and sees her onetime self running happily on the deck.

She casts her gaze towards the distance, but there is nothing on the deck.

There was no need for questions.

Amiya feels Theresa's every choice, every struggle.

This race has been through too much hardship. Every step it takes is heavy and labored.

If Sarkaz needed someone to show them a new path, she would take up the banner first; if the price of Sarkaz unity was the death of their king, she would be the one to step up.

The protector is inevitably also the persecutor, Amiya.

As we gain, so do we take away.

Not an epic of heroic warriors protecting their home, nor a legend of a King of Sarkaz's reign.

Just a story of an ordinary Sarkaz girl, who lived a little longer than the ordinary person.

Born in Kazdel, she saw the few families and friends she had suffer in constant cold and hunger, trembling in fear in the darkness every night, waiting for the sun to rise again.

She wanted the people around her to live in happiness, to have a safe home. She would do anything for this.

She remained ever true to this wish.

Only then can you carry on my unfulfilled dream.

Only then can you release me.

'Fate' should not exist, Amiya.

Heat saps at reason, flames scorching the soul.

A sword forms within the flame, taking shape in Theresa's hand.

Amiya sees it all.

Theresa wandering in the darkness, seeking an answer.

Theresa standing in the halls of the airship, gazing down at the battle below.

Theresa waking up alone from death, no friend or comrade around her.

Theresa—pointing her sword at a child.

Such sorrow.

Amiya could barely move under the overwhelming sorrow.

Amiya feels a weight in her hand.

The sword, which had slain an evil god, had returned to her hand.

Formless flame warms her palm.

Black tides ripple from Theresa, turning into threads that lead Amiya's hand—

The sword points at Theresa.

The sword in Amiya's hand trembles, but not out of fear or excitement.

She can feel Theresa's will fill it.

The sword pierces Amiya's own chest.

Amiya holds Theresa's hand tightly, pushing the sword further in.

It is not that there is no pain.

It is simply that all the pain has been wrapped in layer of warmth.

Tears begin to fall from Theresa's face—

Falling into Amiya's eyes.

The black sword shatters.

A warm and gentle power surrounds Amiya's fingertips.

It is sorrow...

And the purest love.