[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Heart Kingdom Outskirts]

[Virelheim Mountain Village]

("For such small projectiles… they're destructive.") Gretel thought numbly, her gaze turned toward the devastation the water pellets had wrought. Entire facades of buildings had been punched through cleanly, splintered walls caved inward, roofs collapsed into heaps.

She didn't let herself look for long. The sight was too much, and Snow still stood at the center of it all, her hands folded loosely behind her back. The Mortifer wasn't interested in speaking anymore. And neither was Gretel.

There was no reasoning now. No space for words.

Only killing—Snow, or her.

("I can't keep wasting blood like this… my reserves are draining faster than I can replenish them.") Her thoughts came fragmented, threaded through exhaustion and pain. ("I'll have to close the distance. But the moment I use my Null Schema to its full extent, she'll learn how it works. That means I'll have to risk injuries—bad ones.")

Her bloodied fist clenched, the muscles in her forearm trembling with fatigue. The pain burned, insistently but she ignored it. Pain was a given; it meant she was still alive.

Gretel raised her rapier and dragged her wounded hand along the blade. Her blood slicked over the metal, coating it in a viscous red sheen before it hardened. No more hesitation or thought. Her feet shifted, and then she moved.

She lunged forward, the ground splintered under the sudden acceleration. Her rapier thrust out with enough force to tear through flesh easily.

Snow merely tapped her foot.

A hollow boom spread through the village, followed by a sudden drop in temperature that made Gretel's skin sting and her breath plume in front of her face. A bloom of jagged ice erupted from the ground before Snow—a wall of it bursting outward like an explosion.

Gretel's eyes widened. Reflexes took over. She halted mid-charge, flipping backward as the ground where she had stood just seconds ago was swallowed by the expanding frost. The wave of ice surged forward in a straight, perfect line. Gretel landed, pivoted, then leapt to the side, barely avoiding the next stretch of the ice.

Everything the wave touched turned to solid, shimmering ice. The cobblestone streets, the broken fences, even the fallen bodies. When the wave finally stopped, half the entire first platform of the village was nothing but glittering ice.

For a fleeting moment, Gretel stared at it.

It was grotesque and almost beautiful.

("Seems she's taking this seriously now. Swell.") She exhaled, watching her own breath swirl white in the frigid air. Her muscles tensed instinctively. Every nerve screamed at her to move—but Snow wasn't done.

The Mortifer extended her index finger—not at Gretel, but behind her.

"There," Snow said simply.

Gretel's instincts flared. Don't look. Don't—

But she did.

Behind her, scattered across the frozen ground, were a dozen crystalline formations shaped like blooming flowers—each one seemingly delicate and perfect, like glass sculptures.

Then, one of them imploded.

The sound was crushing—like the air being punched. The explosion of force struck Gretel's back, sending her stumbling forward, the breath torn from her lungs.

"Gah!" she gasped, barely catching herself—but there was no pause. Another flower imploded. Then another. Each detonation came pounding and punishing. The ground split beneath her boots, the frozen streets cracked like glass, the thunderous blast rolling through the air.

Each blast was stronger than the last, hurling her through the air, her body weightless for an instant before she slammed against the side of a frozen building. The surface fractured under her impact, the crack splintering across the wall like a spiderweb before she slid to the ground, crumpling into it.

Pain exploded through her body. Her ribs burned and her limbs screamed.

Along with that a new pain bloomed, sharp and cold. She looked down. A thick shard of ice jutted out from her abdomen, slick with blood.

Her breath caught in her throat. "Ugh…" she gasped, one trembling hand reaching toward it. Her fingers wrapped around the shard's smooth edge, her teeth gritted so hard they ached—and she pulled. The shard slid free with a wet sound, blood spilling. She pressed a hand against the wound, trying to stop the flow, her vision swimming.

When she finally managed to lift her head, her blurry gaze found Snow—still standing there, still composed. She wasn't even breathing hard.

Her expression was almost lifeless.

Snow raised a hand again, her palm turning toward Gretel.

Gretel tensed, bracing herself for the killing blow—but nothing came.

She blinked in confusion—then agony struck.

"Wha—AGH!" she screamed, clutching her stomach as something sharp and freezing tore through her from within. The pain wasn't external—it was inside her veins, her arteries, her blood itself. Her body seized as frost raced along her skin, blooming out from the wound. She looked down to see something horrifying: a frozen flower, identical to Snow's constructs, growing from her abdomen.

A choked sound escaped her—a groan torn between disbelief and pain—as she collapsed to her knees. Her rapier slipped from her grasp and clattered onto the ice beside her. Her vision blurred at the edges; every sound dulled except for the faint sound of approaching footsteps.

Snow stopped a few paces away, her voice carrying no emotion. "And that," she said coldly, "is the difference between me and you, girl."

Gretel coughed, blood staining her chin. Her trembling eyes rose to meet the Mortifer's. Snow's silhouette was almost ethereal in the frozen scene.

"Conviction. Duty. Justice." Snow's words fell softly. "Call it what you will. But in the face of something beyond yourself, such ideals crumble. Meaningless things meant to soothe dying hearts."

Gretel spat out blood, her teeth chattering as her body shook uncontrollably. "A-and your hatred isn't meaningless?" She rasped.

Snow tilted her head slightly. "Hatred is my clarity. It purifies purpose. Conviction, compassion—those only cloud it."

Her tone carried no arrogance, only certainty. That was what terrified Gretel most.

Snow believed what she said.

"I shall not waste words on a dying girl," Snow continued, her gaze softening only marginally. "But for a no-named Nil, you were… admirable. Had circumstances been different, I might have welcomed you into the Retorta Guild." Her raised hand hovered above Gretel, her open palm radiating faint light. "You clearly have some measure of skill."

("Crap… is this really the end?") The thought surfaced sluggishly in Gretel's fading mind. She could taste iron, could feel the ice melting into her blood. ("Right. What was I thinking? Fighting a Mortifer? Protecting villagers who barely speak my name? Saving them? I couldn't even—") She bit down on the thought, unable to finish. ("Maybe I did enough… Mikoto and Shuten… they must be on their way. If I die here, then maybe that's fine. I brought this on these people anyway.")

Yet even as she told herself that, she trembled. Not from cold—but fear. There was still so much she wanted to do, so much she had yet to say. The thought of dying here—alone, forgotten—sent a sharp ache deeper than her wound.

Snow lowered her hand slightly, her face indifferent. She was about to strike when—

THUNK.

A small sound broke through the tension. Snow blinked. Her head tilted just enough to glance behind her. A pebble lay on the ice.

Someone had thrown it.

The Mortifer's gaze followed the stone's path—and Gretel's stomach dropped.

"H-hey you! Leave Miss Gretel alone!" a trembling voice shouted. It was weak, frightened, but it carried.

A small figure stood not far away, shaking violently but refusing to run. Ginger hair and wide, glassy eyes locked on Snow.

"...Arabella," Gretel whispered hoarsely, disbelief choking her words. No. Of all people—Arabella. The most reckless of the three. The child she'd scolded time and time again for her impulsiveness. The one who laughed too loudly, mocked too openly, and refused to follow basic etiquette. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't.

Snow's eyes flickered, just slightly. A moment of surprise, faint but real. Then her expression reset just as quickly. "Oh?" she murmured. "You would stand to protect this girl?"

"T-that's right!" Arabella stammered, voice cracking but full of desperate courage. "I—I don't know why you're doing this, but it's horrible! The people here were kind! They helped each other! And you—" She faltered, shivering, tears clinging to her lashes. "You killed them for nothing!"

"Arabella, run!" Gretel screamed, trying to rise, but pain shot through her abdomen and sent her collapsing again. "S-shit! Get out of here!"

"How amusing," Snow said quietly, almost amused. "But I suppose… brave." Her gaze flicked between them. "You realize this woman you're defending—this Gretel—is partially responsible, yes?"

Gretel froze. The words hit harder than any attack.

There it was—the putrid truth.

Snow turned her gaze upward to the surviving villagers who watched from the platform above, their faces pale and drawn. "Do you hear that?" she called. "This girl you cower behind stole from the Retorta Guild! That is why I was sent here. Her foolishness gave me reason to act. To exact my revenge—and purge what remains of this pathetic place!"

The murmurs of the villagers turned to fearful whispers. Gretel's blood ran cold, and not from her wound. Shame, guilt, and despair twisted in her chest. The eyes of those she had fought to protect—eyes she had wanted to see gratitude in—now looked at her with doubt.

Her breath hitched. The pain in her body was nothing compared to that.

But then, through the chaos—

"I don't care about that!" Arabella's voice rang out, strong and clear.

Snow turned her gaze back slowly, her expression unreadable.

"Miss Gretel is the kindest person I know!" Arabella cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. "She helped us when no one else would! She kept me safe! I don't care what you say—someone like you doesn't get to decide who she is!"

Gretel's eyes softened. Despite everything—her pain, her guilt—something warm and fragile welled up inside her. But that warmth quickly twisted into dread as she saw Snow's face darken again.

"How naïve," Snow said, her voice devoid of all inflection. "Still, sentiment has its charm, I suppose. Not that it will change anything." She raised her hand, and ice gathered at her palm, coalescing into a long, curved dagger. "I still have a job to finish. And this village will not stand once I am done."

"No!" Gretel screamed, her voice desperate—

But the Mortifer had already thrown the dagger.

It cut through the air in a perfect line, headed straight for Arabella.

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