I don’t remember how I got back to my room.
What woke me was the noise outside—muffled voices echoing through the corridor. It was distant but agitated, as if the air itself had grown heavier overnight.
When I looked down at myself, I saw that most of my wounds had already started to heal. On the desk nearby, some leftover herbs and a nearly empty vial told the story. I must’ve patched myself up after crawling back here. Not that I remembered doing it.
The fog in my mind started to clear slowly and uncomfortably.
Joanne was still asleep in the bed beside me, utterly still. I realized that the commotion outside could only mean one thing.
Last night… I killed Fuankilo.
Didn’t I?
Even now, after everything, the doubt crept in. After seeing how hard it was to kill a so-called immortal in this place, even with overwhelming force, part of me couldn’t help but wonder.
They say a killer always returns to the scene. I guess that made me just another cliché.
I threw on a robe, making sure to hide the bandages still wrapped around half my body, and made my way to the smelting plant.
Or what was left of it.
The place had burned to the ground—charred beams jutted from the rubble like broken bones. Only the metal furnaces had survived the fire, blackened and warped.
No one’s fixing this without specialists. Not anytime soon.
I kept walking until I could hear the voices. I strained to listen in.
“Fuankilo-sama is dead,” someone whispered.
They thought it was an accident. That she’d fallen into the molten pit, tried to eject herself with that weird escape spell of hers, and failed.
Burned alive.
No one even suspected foul play.
From the edge of the wreckage, I saw them. Pawk, standing like she’d been carved from stone. Aros with his head lowered, shoulders heavy. Even Celestia was there, though she didn’t say a word. She just stared down, her expression unreadable.
I had to leave. Fast.
I told myself it was for the world. That killing her was the only way to tip the scales back. But even as I turned away, something stabbed deep in my chest. It hurt more than I thought it would.
Some days later, just after sunset, they held Fuankilo Legacy’s funeral.
Despite preaching resurrection for the faithful once their divine mission was fulfilled, the cult often performed formal services like this—mourning rites to offer closure. This time, though, it was different. The death of a high-ranking executive due to an “accident” demanded a stricter, more solemn ceremony.
It all felt hollow.
There was no body to bury. Only a vacant coffin at the center of it all, resting beneath the temple’s shadow in the heart of Metasim. Those attending had gathered like mournful wraiths. Clad in black cloaks, they formed a ring around the sanctuary, torches held aloft in reverent silence.
The flamelight spilled across the temple steps, flickering over the coffin and revealing the only thing inside: scraps of clothing, singed and torn. What little had survived.
No body. No remains. Just the echo of her destruction.
For those who possess healing magic, death doesn’t come with a corpse. When it does come, it consumes everything. They don’t just die. They’re extinguished. That’s the paradox of their power. They live on the edge of annihilation, always a breath away from vanishing entirely.
The fact that any of her garments remained was a miracle in itself.
Standing closest to the coffin were the four remaining great executives: Aros, Shadik, Pawk, and Stella. Celestia stood off to the side, awkward and uncertain, as if the space around her had grown colder. Joanne, of course, still hadn’t woken up. She was locked in that unnatural sleep with no signs of stirring.
When the officers stepped forward, the gathered believers raised their torches high. The flamelight shuddered in the air, casting wavering gold and crimson across the temple's face. It was the only warmth in a night that had gone cold with grief.
Aros’s voice rang out, smooth and clear.
“Fuankilo Legacy was a fine subordinate.”
His mask caught the torchlight as he raised a hand over the coffin, lifting it gently with an unseen force. From where I stood—directly across from him—I stared straight into that hollow-eyed porcelain.
“She committed herself wholly to the unglamorous work. Oversight. Infrastructure. Interrogation. She demanded excellence in every detail. Her diligence, her refusal to cut corners—that was her strength. She could be stubborn, yes, but that stubbornness… was endearing. In its own way.”
Pawk’s lips pressed into a thin, pale line. Shadik moved to support her, one gloved hand resting gently on her shoulder. Stella remained still as stone, eyes closed. Celestia looked off into the distance, brushing her long hair from her face as if trying to disappear into thought. Aros kept speaking, unshaken.
A lone sound of grief rippled outward, then others followed. Gentle weeping broke across the assembled crowd like soft waves against the temple stones. I stood there, still, torch raised, and couldn’t help but wonder—was Fuankilo really this loved?
No. I couldn’t bear to watch this. A sharp, unseen hand clenched around my chest—guilt, pressing deep.
I squeezed the haft of my torch tighter, grounding myself in that searing grip.
That woman… They were treating her like some kind of saint now, as if she’d always been kind. Compassionate. Just.
I knew the truth. She was a monster.
And these mourners? Glorifying her? You’re no better. All of you are just as rotten. Aros, when is that mask of yours finally going to crack?
I glared at him from beneath the hood of my robe, eyes burning through the shadows.
“Bow your heads,” Pawk commanded, her voice sharp and carefully stripped of emotion.
Celestia raised a hand. A whisper of wind curled through the air, snuffing out the flames on the torches in a single breath. As the smoke spiraled into the dark, silence took its place.
The deepest mourning our cult ever offered.
Only the pale light of the moon touched her coffin now.
Fuankilo’s casket, now entombed beneath the temple, would never see daylight again.
That night, I dreamed.
It was during the early days of the Metasim raid. Back when we still thought this war was something we could plan neatly on maps.
“You. Take this.”
The voice came out of nowhere. Fuankilo, that sadistic freak, just… handed me a knife. It was rusted dark with dried blood.
“It’s still usable if you clean it. I’m too lazy to scrub it myself. It’s yours now.”
She didn’t wait for thanks. She said her piece and turned to go.
“Tch.”
“Ow—?!”
She kicked me. Hard. Right in the ass as she left. I remembered the pain and the smirk on her face.
Why that memory now?
When I woke, it had already slipped away.
Fuankilo Legacy was gone. Her unique magic—her curse—was erased from existence.
One more enemy, wiped clean from this world.