Asuma dropped to his knees beside her, his hands trembling as they closed around the hilt of the demonic blade impaled through Fionalla's body.
"Hang on—just hang on," he pleaded, teeth clenched as he pulled.
The moment the blade shifted even slightly, blackened blood poured out in a sickening rush, soaking the scorched earth beneath her. The flames along the sword flared violently, feeding on her life rather than releasing it.
"No—no, no—!" Asuma panicked, shoving the blade back instinctively, hands slick with blood.
It was pointless.
He knew it.
And yet every part of him refused to accept it.
His chest burned as if something inside him were tearing itself apart, screaming that this couldn't be happening—not again, not someone else he cared about.
"S... stop..." Fionalla whispered.
Her voice was so faint it barely carried over the crackling fire, but it froze him in place.
"Please," Asuma said desperately, leaning closer, tears spilling freely now. "Don't talk. Don't waste your strength. I—I'll find a way, I swear."
She looked up at him, her vision clearly fading, yet her eyes were gentle—almost amused.
"I knew... this would happen someday," she murmured. "It simply came sooner than I expected."
Her lips curved into a weak smile.
"It seems I'll be joining that old bastard Guyu after all," she said softly. "I wonder... what kind of face he'll make when he sees me."
"Please... Lady Fionalla, stop," Asuma choked, his voice breaking completely.
To him, she wasn't just the sage.
She was the woman who had visited Lyon year after year, bringing strange trinkets, warm laughter, and stories from lands beyond the lake. The woman who teased his grandfather mercilessly, who spoiled Anami, who made the small village feel like the center of the world whenever she arrived.
She carried the same warmth as Guyu.
The same presence that made the world feel safe, even when it wasn't.
Seeing her like this—burning, bleeding, dying—felt like losing his home all over again.
She coughed, dark blood staining her lips, and her gaze shifted past Asuma.
"Latriys..." she whispered.
The name trembled on her tongue.
"Please... protect her. I leave her... in your care."
Another violent cough wracked her body, and more blood spilled free. Asuma pressed his hands against the wound, desperately trying to stem the flow, but the curse embedded in the blade rejected his touch, searing his skin.
It was useless.
Completely useless.
And for the first time since Lyon burned—
Asuma truly understood what it meant to be powerless.
Amira could do nothing but stand there and watch.
The Asuma before her was not the boy who charged demons without hesitation, nor the one who faced death with clenched resolve. This was a shattered man—hands trembling, breath uneven—desperately trying to hold together something already lost.
His palms pressed against Fionalla's ruined body, aura flaring weakly as he tried again and again to seal the gaping wound. Each attempt only smeared more blood across his hands, across the scorched ground, across reality itself.
"Please... just—just stay," he whispered, voice hoarse, as if begging the world rather than the woman before him.
Amira felt her chest tighten.
She had seen death before. She had killed. She had lost people.
But this—this was different.
Time passed slowly, painfully, until the inevitable happened.
The Great Sage of Nature exhaled one final breath.
It was so soft, so gentle, that Asuma didn't notice.
He kept working.
Kept pressing.
Kept whispering.
Only when her body grew cold beneath his hands did the truth finally reach him—and even then, his mind rejected it.
"No..." he muttered, shaking his head. "No, she's just... she's tired. She'll wake up."
Leon lay unconscious nearby, forgotten for the moment. Amira placed him down carefully, then ran to Asuma, wrapping her arms around him from behind, holding him as if anchoring him to the world.
"Stop..." she whispered, her voice breaking despite her effort to stay strong. "She's gone."
She wasn't crying for the sage.
She was crying for Asuma.
For the way his shoulders shook beneath her grip. For the way his hands finally fell limp, fingers curling into the blood-soaked earth as reality crashed down on him.
At last, he collapsed.
Tears poured freely now—raw, uncontrolled sobs that tore from his chest as he crumpled forward, forehead pressed against the ground. Amira stayed with him, saying nothing, holding him while he mourned in silence.
He remained like that for a long time.
Later that day, Asuma buried Fionalla beneath her tree home, laying her to rest where life once flourished at her command. He covered her grave with flowers—vivid, beautiful blooms drawn from memory and sorrow rather than magic.
As the sun set, the pocket dimension began to fade.
The sky dimmed. The land dissolved.
And with it, the resting place of the Great Sage of Nature vanished from the world.
Yet her legacy would not.
Her name would live on in the histories of Azel, whispered among scholars and mages.
And more importantly—
She would live on in Asuma's heart, as another irreplaceable loss carved into his soul.
"I need to find Latriys," he said quietly, though his voice carried a dangerous edge. "Whoever killed Fionalla took her. But the sage didn't leave us empty-handed."
Amira turned to him, sensing the shift. "You found something?"
"She left a clue," Asuma replied. "Not written. Not spoken. Something hidden in the way this entire conflict in Talagra is unfolding." His fingers curled into a fist. "And it leads back to two people."
"Zyra and Santanios?" Amira asked.
"Yes." His eyes burned with certainty. "One of them poisoned the garden. And one of them... is a pillar."
Amira's breath caught. "A pillar? That's impossible. They're both human. Why them?"
"Because with the sage gone, the ancient spell suppressing the poison has collapsed," Asuma explained. "And when that poison spreads unchecked, only two people stand to gain."
He began pacing, thoughts aligning like pieces of a deadly puzzle.
"Zyra profits from destruction—projects, expansion, influence, gold. A ruined sacred site gives her justification and power."
"And Santanios?" Amira pressed.
"He feeds on devotion," Asuma replied coldly. "Fear, faith, fanaticism. A poisoned 'holy' garden turns him into a martyr-maker. An undying following that clings tighter the more people suffer."
Amira fell silent, the implications sinking in.
"And the princess?" she finally asked. "Where does Urialla fit into all this?"
Asuma exhaled slowly. "That's the part I can't see yet. She's not aligned with either side—but she's not uninvolved." His eyes narrowed. "She's a Pandora's box, sitting right in the middle of this conflict."
Amira crossed her arms, unease settling in her chest.
"Let's hope," she said softly, "that Pandora's box stays shut."
Asuma didn't respond.
Because deep down, he already knew—
It wouldn't.