The roaring crowds began to fade. One by one, the arena’s team banners lowered with a solemn grace — the end of the event finally near.
Jug and Myke wandered the outskirts — pacing slow, just to feel their legs move again. Through the plaza, past the bazaars, cutting across quiet parks... The warm glow of lanterns brushed their skin, and a soft wind rolled through, cool and soothing.
Then something shifted.
As the last banner dropped, a new one rose — unfamiliar colors, unknown crest.
"Huh," Jug muttered. "Never seen this team before."
"Must be a rookie crew," Myke said, eyes still distant.
"Why don’t we spectate, huh? What d’you say, Lyo?"
"You got coins for munches?"
Jug grinned, pulling out a fat bag of jingling metal. "Think this should cover snacks and a sip."
The match began not long after.
Steel clashed in the arena. Cheers thundered. Commentators screamed over each other.
Caster 1: "ODHA GOT HEAD ROLL!!"
Caster 2: "OH! OH! TEAM FIGHT—TEAM FIGHT!!"
Jug laughed like a kid.
But Myke?
He didn’t laugh.
His mind had already left the stands.
"Mmm?" Jug nudged him. "Yo, Myke? You alright?"
Myke blinked, then forced a smile. "Yeah… that team’s got good potential."
"Bullshit. You’re thinking about something else," Jug caught it. "Ming?"
"...Yeah."
"What about her?"
"She wants to switch roles with Ying."
"Wait—Ming? Going back to vanguard?" Jug scratched his head. "Didn’t she used to do that?"
Myke nodded. He looked up at the dusky sky and let out a long breath. "She’s the one who told me to bring Ying into Valirion... but now I’m starting to doubt her."
"Doubt Ming?" Jug frowned.
"She’s not what she used to be. Since Ying joined… she’s softer."
"Ain’t that a good thing? She’s more focused. Sharper. Feels like she’s got more instinct now."
"She hesitates," Myke said flatly.
Jug tilted his head. "Is that really such a big deal?"
"...I don’t know."
The crowd roared as another caster howled:"DOOOOM!!!"
Myke stood up. Stretched.
Started walking away.
"Hey—Lyo! Wait up!"
At the front gates of Geil, Ming was already waiting.Still. Cold. Stoic.
Myke approached. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you idiots," she said, flat as ever.
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Jug caught up and immediately sensed the tension."Ooh… parent fight incoming. I’ll… see myself out."He slunk away with a whistle.
Ming and Myke locked eyes.
Quiet. Stiff.
"...Ming. I noticed you—"
"I didn’t shoot," she cut him off.
"You hesitated?"
She didn’t blink. "Is that a problem?"
"You never miss. You’ve always been focused. But ever since Ying joined us… you’ve changed."
"And that’s bad?"
"You missed a screw, Ming."
"It was just a misplacement."
"You even pulled Ying into Valirion… using me."
Ming’s face twisted."WHAT’S WRONG WITH THAT, MYKE?!"
Her voice cracked into the air.
"YOU SAW HER POTENTIAL! YOU SAW THE WAY SHE MOVES—LIKE OUR ROSE! WHY AM I THE ONE TO BLAME?!"
The wind froze.
Ming’s chest heaved.
"Is it because I want to be vanguard again?" she whispered. "Fine. Just say it. Say Ying’s more competent than me. But this wasn’t just about me—this was from my sister’s request—"
"Your sister?" Myke narrowed his eyes. "Are you being selfish—"
"BECAUSE I SAW YING AS MY ANITA!!!"
Ming cracked.
The tears broke through.
"YOU KNOW HOW LONG I’VE WAITED TO FIND SOMEONE LIKE HER?! DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO LOSE EVERYTHING?! TO LOSE HER—WITH MY OWN BARE-FUCKING-HANDS?!"
Myke stood frozen.
"...You never told me about Anita," he murmured."I didn’t know she mattered so much to you."
"I hesitate… because I’m afraid," Ming said, her voice softer now, but raw."I’m afraid I’ll break her.Afraid she’s not ready.And if I don’t teach her—if I don’t—she’ll never know how to stand as Valirion. Just like… your dead wife."
Myke had no words.
Ming slowly turned away, her shoulders trembling—but her voice steady:
"If you really want Ying to be the vanguard… then let her."
She walked into the night. And Myke just… stood there.
In the tavern, the wave of customers had finally receded.Bartenders moved in silence—sweeping shards of shattered glasses, replacing chairs, wiping down the old, scarred tables.
Jug entered quietly. Shoulders slouched. Breath shallow.
He pulled out a small, worn photograph—his niece."I wonder if you made it to school today," he whispered with a soft smile.
Then, from his coat pocket, he drew out a battered book to pass the time.
“If thou feel the world turn against thee… remember who thou art.”
He murmured the line under his breath.Familiar. Forgotten. Still comforting.
He looked up.Brows furrowed.
“Huh. Where the hell is that maniac? And where’s Ying?”
He stood, cracked his neck, and walked off.Ying’s room—empty.Hennah’s—no sign either.
“The fuck…?”
He wandered toward his own room, grumbling.Opened the door—
“HENNAH!!!”
He froze.
His room had turned into chaos incarnate:Crayons. Doodles on the wall. Tissue paper strewn like battlefield flags.
And on the bed—Ying and Hennah, curled up, asleep.
Hennah’s face still bore streaks of dried eyeliner—like war paint faded by tears.Ying’s red hair was a mess—wild, soft, like a mother who hadn’t rested in days.
Jug stared.Then sighed—deep, annoyed, but gentle.
“At least use the blanket, pink hair... and you too, Ying.”
He pulled it over them both, careful not to wake them.Then quietly stepped out, closing the door behind him.
In the hallway, he nearly bumped into Myke, who was clearly searching.
Jug raised a finger—quiet gesture.
“They’re in my room. Asleep.”
Myke paused, nodded once.
Eyes soft, he whispered,
“Tell Ying... it’s time to teach her as a marksman.”
Jug tilted his head.
“So you finally decided?”
No answer. Myke just walked past him—silently—toward his own room.
“Where’s Ming?” Jug asked.
Still no reply. Only silence. And the weight of everything not said.
In the dead silence of the wasteland, Ming walked alone beneath a sky without warmth.
Her book sat open in one hand—pages curled, half-scribbled, held like a habit too old to break. In her other hand, a katana. Her rifle rested strapped to her back.
She mumbled to herself, not as a warrior—but as someone clinging to a thread.
“I’m not gonna fall... I’m not gonna fall... I’m not gonna—”
A soft flutter.
A picture slipped from her book, drifting to the dust.
Ming froze. Her breath hitched. Slowly, she bent down and picked it up.
It was a photograph—faded from time, but sharp in meaning:
-
Herself, with red hair and bright golden eyes.
-
Two daughters in her arms.
-
One, red-haired like her, smiling with yellow fire.
-
The other, white-haired, crimson-eyed—calm, almost divine.
-
They were laughing.
A family. A life once whole.
Her fingers trembled.
Then—her knees gave out.
The rifle slipped from her back. The katana dropped beside it.
She cradled the picture to her chest, as if it could still be warm. “Anita... Amelia...” she whispered.
Then she broke.
A scream tore from her throat—raw, unfiltered, real.
She collapsed—forehead pressed to the sand. Tears hit the dust in silence. Her wings slowly unfurled, white and sacred, flickering like broken light. “Akira... I’m sorry... Anita, please... don’t leave me…”
“Ava skula ghu... leylha ghu fha sha talha... Eti... Etinati... Harmonia... Etinati... Con—Conshigaru...”
The words faded—lost to grief too heavy for language.
That night, she did not rise.
Only the stars kept her company.
And somewhere—deep in her fading vision:
She lay in a warm bed.
A small child, soft and bright, clung to her side. “Mama,” the girl said—first word, first warmth.
Ming held her close in the dream. “Anita... I miss you...”