Kanna is exhausted, her body screaming with fatigue, but the steady flow of magical energy she receives from Strauss through their demonic contract bond allows her to continue.
Her hands press on Rero’s bleeding stump, still fresh and dirty, blood dripping to the ground and mixing with dust, debris, and ash.
She must be precise; every movement, every impulse must be controlled. With forced calm, she begins to realign the bones, which crack like splintered wood, and with the [HEAL] spell, she initiates the reconnection of tendons, followed by muscles, which intertwine under her fingers like tightly wound cords.
A soft, warm light emanates from her hands, enveloping the arm and stump. The pain is intense, and Rero feels every layer of flesh reattach; the process is slow and grueling. The skin stretches and reconnects, sutured by magic like fabric forcibly stitched together.
Kanna’s face is covered in sweat, and Rero’s breathing grows increasingly labored, but the operation is complete. The cleric then focuses on healing the other injuries sustained in the fratricidal battle. Slowly, the magical flow that knits together flesh and bone fades, and the arm becomes part of the girl's body once more.
Finally, Rero opens her eyes.
Her expression is disoriented, but gradually she becomes aware of her surroundings, the pain that wracks her body, and the sorrowful faces of her companions gathered around her.
Kanna briefly explains what has happened, the sacrifices and losses they've endured.
As the group gathers around Rero, the tension and fatigue weigh on them like an oppressive burden.
They have lost Deedee, Gallo, and Bicrista, and the cost of their survival is etched in the visible and invisible wounds each of them bears.
Numerically, they still hold an advantage, but they have used up every potion they had. Their equipment is damaged, armor shattered, weapons chipped; they are exhausted and aware that the battle has worn them down, though they haven’t broken yet. The queen has lost four of her Servants, but the sacrifice to reach this point has left deep scars.
The brunette, just risen, looks around with a newfound gravity. The cheerfulness and lightheartedness that once defined her are now overshadowed by the suffering of what she has seen and endured.
Slowly, she props herself up on one elbow, examining her recently reattached arm with an uncharacteristic seriousness. With a mechanical, almost automatic movement, she picks up her brother's greatsword, which Jarica has carried there.
Clarissa, the magical greatsword, a heavy weapon, is the treasure of the Sansanti family.
Now, it belongs to her.
Without hesitation, she lifts it, and with her left arm, now rejoined to her body, she performs a series of fluid, almost ritualistic movements, as if reigniting her connection with the blade and the brother who wielded it before her. The greatsword cuts through the air with elegance, and Rero begins to reacquaint herself with her strength. Each strike is an act of defiance, a way to reclaim her determination.
The energy and determination have returned to her eyes, a new, burning light of vengeance. “It’s not the physical pain,” she murmurs, stopping the blade mid-motion, “but the wounds of the soul that have made this challenge a living hell.”
“These cheap shots… making us fight the ghosts of our pasts…” Rero mutters to herself, a flame of anger building within her, unstoppable. “Now I’m angry.” Anger at this twisted game, where even victory will feel hollow, considering all they’ve lost and the scars it has left on their hearts.
Beside her, Luysia watches the transformation in her companion, noticing the fire burning in Rero’s eyes, fiercer than she’s ever seen. Luysia, too, has suffered through the cruelties of this game, but seeing Rero’s rage fuels her own strength.
“Let’s win this, Rero,” she says with fierce resolve, gripping her arm, “for Strauss, for us.”
Rero nods, moved, and quickly wipes away a rebellious tear trickling down her cheek.
There’s no time left for tears.
Her green eyes meet Luysia’s azure ones.
Rero senses a shift in her friend, a resolute determination that seems to have emerged after a long period of being fractured.
It’s as if Luysia has finally pieced herself back together.
Then she turns to Franz and Jarica, the two who pulled her from the battlefield and saved her life.
“Dadref, Fleubert… thank you for saving me,” Rero says, with a sincerity that transcends any formality.
Franz shakes his head, trying to maintain a composure that has eluded him recently.
He has lost many of his certainties, but this time he manages to find a calm resolve.
“We’re all in this together,” he replies, finally reclaiming his true determination, far removed from appearances.
Jarica, who usually keeps her distance and avoids affectionate words, ventures a little closer.
“We still need your strength,” she says with a hint of embarrassment. The warrior isn’t used to openly showing admiration, but the battle against Fierro has changed her, revealing the true value she sees in Rero, beyond any rivalry or envy.
Rero grasps her companion’s hand and returns her gaze to her brother’s sword, a symbol of the family bond that was taken from her.
Kanna leans heavily against a column, struggling to steady her breath and calm her heart, which feels like it’s ready to burst from her chest. “Time is running out… we don’t have much… still, we need to rest… to regain some strength…” she murmurs, barely audible.
Her voice reflects the exhaustion enveloping the entire group.
Even Xiaikai feels the weight of exhaustion seeping into her bones, but her expression remains focused.
“The Lich will return soon. But I agree—we need a moment’s rest,” she adds with a severe but understanding look.
“For the Lich, we can only rely on Strauss… I’m sure he’ll handle it,” the professor replies, placing her full trust in her Master, and first and foremost, her lover.
The summoner says nothing, contemplating in silence.
She still has some potions she traded for in Arach'Che'el, a barter made possible with the Magicore collected from the slain Dungeon spiders. She looks at Kanna, fully aware that without the healer in good condition, their chances of survival drop drastically.
Without a word, Xiaikai hands Kanna an elixir to restore her magic points.
“Thank you... Xiaikai,” the professor murmurs, accepting the gift with a grateful nod.
“The healer’s survival is paramount,” Xiaikai responds pragmatically.
Every member of the group nods, keenly aware of how vital this simple truth is to them all.
Xiaikai grips the last remaining potion tightly, realizing it might not be enough to face the queen’s formidable Servants.
She looks over at the blue-haired mage, Welze, knowing she could also use a potion; however, sharing the final elixir is out of the question.
Welze, perhaps sensing the summoner’s thoughts, shakes her head. “D-don’t worry, Xiaikai. It’s more important for you to be at full strength… I’d only be… a burden…”
Xiaikai clicks her tongue in frustration.
She knows she has to prioritize herself, but it bothers her to act selfishly—and even more so to see Welze pitying herself.
“I still have some MP left… if I focus on casting spells only when it’s crucial, it should be enough,” the mage adds, trying to reassure the group, though perhaps more herself.
Franz gently places a hand on her shoulder, and silence falls over the group.
Each member withdraws into their thoughts, trying to savor this brief moment of calm, aware that a storm is about to come.
After resting for about an hour, the group rises with a heavy weight pressing upon them.
Their wounds and exhaustion are far from healed, but time is short, and they know that every second lost works in favor of the enemy.
Kanna scans each of her companions, seeking confirmation that they’re ready. Each one nods silently, their eyes reflecting both determination and the burden of everything they’ve lost so far.
The group prepares to continue their ascent toward the Great Temple of the Spider Mother, their final destination.
Before them lie three paths.
With a quick exchange of glances, they decide, without many words, to stay together and take the central path.
They advance in silence, their footsteps softened by the stones and damp ground.
The air grows heavy, thick with tension.
A smaller temple looms at the end of the stepped path.
Eykad Kzordodror, the dwarf, waits at the top of the staircase, towering over them like an immovable sentry.
His arms are crossed, with his massive hammer resting head-down on the ground.
The torchlight casts dark shadows over the rough stone, stretching the shadows of his armor until they almost reach the group's feet.
His massive, imposing figure seems even more menacing with each step they take up the staircase.
His deep, raspy breathing echoes off the narrow walls, a resonance of metal and stone that reinforces his warning.
"Here your advance ends," Eykad declares in a gravelly voice, like stone scraping against stone.
Every word is a pronouncement as heavy as the tempered metal of his armor.
The group halts abruptly, their ascent interrupted, each breath held.
Only Luysia steps forward toward the dwarf.
She advances, one step and then another, determined to face the imposing figure.
