Dust rained from the blood-stained sky like confetti, only that this celebration was of death.

A bitter, silent one.

The streets were still — an eerie stillness that seemed to hum with grief. The puppets who were far from the attack, the ones that had once twitched under invisible threads now stood frozen, their limbs slack, their lifeless eyes staring into nothing. It was as if someone had cut their strings, releasing them from whatever monstrous control had animated them moments ago.

Luther let out a long breath and sheathed the demonic sword at his waist. The faint hum of the blade quieted, its crimson veins fading to dull steel. He should've felt victorious, but instead his shoulders slumped, heavy with exhaustion. His hands trembled slightly — not from fear, but from the guilt that was starting to sink in.

The red sky flickered like lightning behind clouds of smoke, and rain fell — no longer burning, no longer toxic, just cold.

"Wasn't this supposed to be acid rain?" he muttered to himself, his voice cracking against the emptiness.

"Saint!" Alina's voice broke through the hush. She was pointing at a dark patch of ground not far from him.

Luther's brow furrowed as he walked toward her, boots crunching against the ash-covered street. The air smelled faintly of rust and salt. He stayed alert — wary of another ambush, another cursed body leaping back to life.

He knelt beside the dark dust. The ground was still warm. He pinched some between his fingers, but it crumbled instantly, dissolving into the wind. The cold cut through his gloves, and he clenched his right hand.

Even with the rain, it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

Then, a quiet sound — not of monsters this time, but of weeping.

He turned. Alina was on her knees, hands clasped, head bowed. Her shoulders trembled as tears slid silently down her cheeks.

For a moment Luther only watched, numb.

Then he felt it too — that sting in his chest that wasn't from battle wounds.

He looked around. The houses were collapsed into blackened bones, the streets littered with remains of market stalls and toys. The town of Noia, once noisy with children and merchants, now looked like a painted memory — vivid only in the mind of those who had seen it alive.

"They were innocent…" Alina's voice cracked between sobs. "They didn't even have crystals, Saint. They were just people. Normal people."

Her words echoed something inside him he didn't want to touch.

Something that whispered, You couldn't save them either.

Luther sighed — not out of annoyance this time, but the kind of sigh that carries sorrow too big for words. He knelt and pulled Alina gently into his arms. She stiffened at first, then clung to his cloak. Her tears soaked into the fabric, and he just held her there.

For the first time since the fighting stopped, he allowed himself to breathe.

They were already dead before we arrived, he thought bitterly. We just didn't want to admit it.

The rain thickened, masking the sound of their quiet cries. When he finally released her, she sniffed and quickly wiped her face, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"T-Thank you, Saint…" she said softly.

Luther gave a small nod, forcing a crooked smile. "Don't thank me. I'm just as bad at comfort as I am at divine sermons."

That earned him a faint chuckle from her, and for a second the heaviness in the air lightened — until a faint ding snapped through the silence.

Luther frowned and reached into his pocket. His fingers brushed against something warm and pulsing.

When he pulled it out, his stomach tightened.

The black crystal.

He had almost forgotten about it — the same crystal that had dropped from one of the thugs they'd fought earlier. Now it was glowing again, dimly at first, then brighter, like a heartbeat quickening.

"What is that…?" Alina asked, voice wary.

Before Luther could answer, a sharp crack echoed, and the piles of black dust scattered across the town began to stir. The ashes spiraled like miniature storms, whirling through the air before streaming toward the crystal in his hand. Luther's eyes widened as every fleck of corruption — every dead remnant — was drawn in, disappearing inside the gem's dark core.

The glow dimmed, the sound stopped, and silence returned.

He stared at it, unsure if he should drop it or crush it. The thing felt alive — like it was breathing softly in his palm.

Alina pointed, voice trembling. "Saint… where did you get that?"

"It fell from one of the thugs," he said quietly. "I thought it was—"

A cough interrupted him.

Both their heads snapped toward the sound. It came from the edge of the square — the tent. They had completely forgotten about the field tent, still standing despite the chaos.

Luther slipped the crystal back into his pocket and motioned for Alina to follow. His boots splashed through puddles as they approached, each step heavier than the last.

When he pulled back the tent flap, the smell hit him — a sharp, metallic stench mixed with something rotten. Rows upon rows of bodies lay inside, still in their cots. But they weren't dead yet. Not fully.

Their chests, where their hearts should've been, were now hollow pits of black rot. Veins of darkness spread across their skin like vines, pulsing faintly as if feeding on what little life remained.

Alina gasped and dropped to her knees beside one of the patients. Her hands glowed gold as she pressed them against the wound. The magic surged through the body, but the darkness only swallowed it whole. Nothing changed.

"No…" she whispered. "No, no, no… heal!"

Her voice cracked as she tried again, her magic flaring brighter this time, desperate. The man's face twitched for a second — then stilled again.

"Stop." Luther's voice came low, but she didn't listen.

She moved to the next body, casting again and again until her breaths turned shaky.

"Alina." He grabbed her wrist.

"Let me go! I can save them, I just need—"

"You can't."

The words came out sharper than he meant. Her body froze, trembling under his grip. Luther softened his tone, though his eyes were glassy with unshed tears.

"They're already gone," he said quietly. "What you're seeing… it's just what's left."

The demonic sword hummed faintly at his side, its voice slipping coldly into his thoughts.

"She doesn't understand. They're husks — shells clinging to borrowed time. No light can reach them now."

Luther gritted his teeth. "I didn't ask for your commentary," he muttered under his breath.

"Yet you know I'm right, the sword teased, a hint of cruel amusement in its tone. You feel it too, don't you? That hopelessness crawling under your skin."

He shut his eyes for a moment, steadying his breathing. He hated that the sword could read him so well.

When he opened them again, Alina had gone silent, her shoulders shaking. Luther knelt beside her, his expression calm but distant.

He wanted to tell her something comforting, but all that came out was a low whisper to himself —

"Why is it that even after everything, I still can't save anyone?"

The tent was filled only with the sound of rain now. Luther looked at the patients — faces pale, veins black — and then at his own hands. The golden glow of his healing magic flickered briefly, then died.

"Maybe…" he murmured, half to the sword, half to the heavens,

"this world doesn't need a saint after all."

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