You Already Won

"You're not bad, harem boy. This power of friendship is no joke." Jack laughed.

Kana launched Blazing Flicker turning her into a heat-streaked blur, crossing twenty meters in a heartbeat. Jack dodged left, only for Spark Bombs to explode around him mid-air, throwing off his balance.

Miyu, silent and focused, cast Bloomlight Threads into the group, keeping regeneration active as Kana cackled through the flames.

"A+ for pissing off our firecracker," Haruki muttered.

Yuna stepped again, her Stance Pulse anchoring her feet as she delivered a grounded slash aimed to cleave the terrain itself. It worked. Dirt erupted like a geyser. Jack cartwheeled back and raised his hand.

"You guys really think you're the protagonists here?" he asked, calmly. "Let me give you a reality check."

He exhaled—and the world warped.

Color drained from the forest. Trees blackened into silhouette. The air thrummed with paradox. Mountains in the distance glowed purple, then flickered into red and back again. Haruki's heart skipped. This wasn't Ryun alone.

It was Dimensional Echo Authority true ability.

Magic

Jack's inventory pulsed behind him like a spiraling galaxy. His smile thinned.

He raised one hand, fingers splayed like he was plucking something from the air. The atmosphere warped—pressure folding inward, as if reality hesitated.

"Echoforge: Splitstream Flareblade."

It didn't just form—it arrived.

The sword slammed into existence with the weight of a divine decree. A jagged, dual-toned blade of burning shadow and echo-light, its edge hummed with stolen Limit Breaker energy and dozens of warped attack signatures. It pulsed wrong—like it had been forged from stolen heartbeats.

Yuna's eyes widened. "What the hell is that—"

Aika stumbled back a step. "That isn't just reflected… it's rewritten."

Haruki's jaw clenched. He didn't move. Couldn't.

The sword didn't swing. It existed—and that was enough.

Jack pointed it downward and whispered. "Tell me," a smile tore across his face, "can your power of friendship punch through this?"

A sudden, concentric detonation of light and void—no flash, just a fold. Mountains bent sideways, entire sections of the forest peeled upward like pages in a book. And then, silence—

BOOM.

The explosion wasn't loud—it was felt. A pulse that shattered the sound barrier five times over, then reversed it.

Slabs of terrain lifted from the ground and floated—no longer bound by gravity. Shattered boulders spun in the air like confused satellites. Ryun leaked into the air in glowing orbs—burning like tiny stars, caught mid-pulse.

Every echo of sound looped through the scarred valley.

——

In the distance, Delgoretha, capital of the Dorferan Kingdom, shook—trembling beneath the aftershocks of battle beyond the horizon. The sky pulsed oddly, as if the air itself had been scorched by something unnatural. Floating terrain glittered faintly like fractured constellations, and even from this great distance, the spectacle was impossible to ignore.

Ashantiana Zarget exhaled and leaned against the jagged edge of a broken tower, arms crossed loosely over her scorched armor. Her body ached, but not as much as her soul.

It was all so tiring.

This contest. The Malefic gods. The unrelenting spectacle of destruction that had become the new normal.

Morale in the army had long since collapsed. The kingdom, once a bastion of fierce resistance and sovereign pride, had quietly disbanded. The king had laid down his crown without ceremony, choosing to spend what little time he had left with his family. No one had the heart to stop him.

The elders debated. Councilmen tried to make sense of it. But logic had no power against divine chaos. The gods they prayed to—slain, fled, or revealed as frauds—were no longer listening. Perhaps they never were.

And beyond the region?

Their allies had gone silent. Who would risk drawing the ire of multiple Supreme Families, of mad Outlanders playing war games with kingdoms like hers?

Ashantiana looked out over her fallen capital. Wind blew through the crumbled spires, carrying with it the smell of ash and stone.

What was even left to fight for?

"Ay! Warrior, you gonna just sit there and sulk all day?"

Ashantiana's eyes narrowed as she looked down from the crumbling tower's edge.

Standing below was a girl just a few years younger, her skin the grain and hue of sunbaked sand and red stone—just like her own. Her long white hair, streaked with gold, shimmered under the fractured sunlight. But unlike Ashantiana's ash-streaked, bloodstained armor, the girl wore a flowing oriental-styled dress of deep crimson and cloud-white silk.

It was her sister.

Selcentra Zarget.

Ashantiana sighed. "My dearest sister, how can you be so… cheery during a time like this?"

Selcentra tilted her head with a coy smile. "Because we're having a Xicni. Duh."

Ashantiana blinked. "A Xicni?"

Selcentra nodded proudly. "Not in true Dorferan-style. No songs, no fancy feast. Just bread, salted meat, and whatever peace we can snatch before the world eats itself. Oh! But I did get us some wine!"

Ashantiana stared at her like she'd lost her mind. "You know what's happening. You've seen it."

"Of course I have," Selcentra replied, casually laying out a tattered cloth atop the broken courtyard stones. "That's why I'm doing this. Come down."

"No," Ashantiana said flatly. "Someone has to keep watch."

"For what?" Selcentra asked, eyes calm but direct. "The army's gone. The banners are ash. The capital is a ghost. What are you guarding?"

That struck deep. Ashantiana's jaw tightened, and she turned away, fists curling.

"I'm guarding what's left." Her voice was low. Gritty. "The memory. The pride. The reason we fought."

Selcentra didn't argue.

She simply shrugged. "Then you should spend time with the things you're trying to protect. Because memory doesn't live in ruined walls or scorched flags."

Ashantiana looked down at her—this barefoot fool with meat in one hand and resolve in her eyes.

"You think peace just happens because we want it?" she asked bitterly.

"No," Selcentra said. "I think peace starts when we stop living like we already died."

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Silence stretched.

Finally, Ashantiana slid down from the tower, boots crunching against the broken stone. She didn't sit. Not yet.

"Can we at least pick a better location?"

Ashantiana crossed her arms, casting a pointed glance at the wreckage around them.

"Great idea!" Selcentra beamed, already gathering the cloth and tucking the food away. "I know the spot you're thinking of."

Ashantiana raised an eyebrow. "I didn't say I had a spot in mind."

Selcentra just smiled knowingly. "You always have a spot."

They walked in silence for a time, the wind weaving through the hollow streets of Delgoretha. The city stood—mostly—but it had lost its shape. Entire towers had collapsed and never been cleared. Temples were cracked open, repurposed into makeshift shelters or ignored entirely. The Dorferan capital now resembled a memory more than a metropolis.

Civilians passed them, some with quiet nods of recognition. Others just stared ahead blankly, clutching sacks of roots, fabrics, or salvaged gear. Warriors—once proud and polished—now leaned against walls or watched the sky, spears chipped, armor unfastened. No drills. No orders. Just controlled chaos, like everyone had agreed to pretend structure still existed.

Ashantiana glanced around. "It's strange, isn't it? No hope, no war, and yet people keep moving. Like they're trying to outwalk the silence."

Selcentra nodded. "Hope is a habit. So is grief."

They passed a cracked fountain at the plaza's edge. The fish-shaped spouts no longer worked, and the basin was filled with ash and wilted flowers. Ashantiana stopped for a moment.

"I remember falling in there when I was young… maybe ten dual lunar cycles," she muttered.

Selcentra grinned. "You threw yourself in. Trying to impress that one-eyed scout. What was her name? Tael?"

Ashantiana groaned. "Don't remind me."

"You said, 'I am the storm, born of water and wrath!' Then tripped on your own sandal and face-planted in the pool."

Ashantiana gave her a deadpan look. "And who dared me?"

"I simply provided the stage. You were the actor."

They turned down a quieter lane where murals still clung to the walls—half-faded scenes of battles won, gods blessing fields, Dorferan youths ascending the Tower of Trials. One had been defaced with black paint. Another had names carved into it, prayer-like etchings asking for forgiveness or strength.

Ashantiana touched one of the carvings. "Do you ever think… maybe we weren't meant to win? Like all of this was a sick game from start to finish?"

Selcentra didn't answer immediately.

Instead, she looked forward and pointed.

"There," she said. "The garden ridge. Behind the old barracks."

Ashantiana hesitated, then followed.

The path led up a cracked stone incline, past bent railings and weather-worn archways. And then they saw it—the overlook. A narrow plateau lined with wild violet blossoms that had miraculously survived the devastation. From there, the city stretched out below them in fractured elegance. Towers still stood in the distance, though none untouched. Beyond them, the sky still shimmered faintly from Jack and Haruki's clash—floating terrain and pulsing stars suspended like a second, broken heaven.

Selcentra laid the cloth again, this time with careful reverence.

Ashantiana sat beside her without protest.

Neither spoke for a while.

Eventually, Selcentra said, "This was where you said you'd never kneel to anyone. Not even the gods."

Ashantiana smiled faintly. "I was so sure we could defy them."

Selcentra passed her a piece of dried meat. "You still can. Just not by force."

Ashantiana looked down at the food, then at the city. The civilians wandering below. The warriors half-asleep on their feet. The broken, breathing thing Delgoretha had become.

"Maybe," she whispered, "we're not meant to shape the world anymore."

Selcentra's voice was quiet but firm. "Then shape what's left. Even if it's just me. Even if it's just this moment."

The wind carried the scent of wildflowers and distant smoke. Ashantiana watched the pulsing sky, still streaked with Ryun residue from the distant battle. From up here, the chaos felt like a fever dream—something happening in another world.

Her sister poured dark red wine into two chipped cups she'd brought along.

"Do you remember that one festival?" Selcentra asked, swirling her cup. "When Father let you lead the Stormwalk and you tripped on the fire-ring?"

Ashantiana rolled her eyes. "You mean when you moved the fire-ring?"

"It needed better placement. For visibility."

"You nearly lit my hair on fire."

Selcentra grinned. "A small price for a legendary entrance."

Ashantiana huffed, though a ghost of a smile flickered. She took the cup, but didn't drink. "You keep talking like that matters."

"It does to me," Selcentra said easily. "The smell of torch oil, the colors of the banners, the way Father pretended not to cry when you lifted that ceremonial blade."

Ashantiana's grip on the cup tightened.

"And what does that mean now?" she muttered. "Our gods are gone. The kingdom's dust. The oaths we took were nothing. And you—" she gestured sharply at her sister "—you sit here, laughing, pouring wine like we're not sitting on the corpse of our life."

Selcentra blinked but didn't flinch.

Then, calmly: "If we're going to talk about things we can't change, why not speak of a happier past… rather than a broken future?"

Ashantiana stood up abruptly. "Gods, you sound like a bard after a bad prophecy."

They stared at each other.

That's when Ashantiana saw it—not denial. Not delusion. But deliberate choice. Her sister felt the same weight. The same ache. She just refused to let it rot her from the inside.

Ashantiana sighed, the fire in her chest dimming into something dull and bitter.

She sat down slowly, grabbed the second cup, and swished the wine around once before downing it in a long pull.

"Fine," she muttered. "You little shit. Let's talk."

Selcentra beamed. "Now there's the sister I remember."

Ashantiana stared at the clouds above, voice dry.

"…If you bring up the Five Wave parade, I swear I will throw you off this ridge."

"You mean your glorious flight from seafolk vengeance? How could I not?"

Ashantiana groaned, but she didn't stop her smirk from spreading.

They sat side by side beneath the fractured sky, sipping wine as the wind brushed the wildflowers on the ridge. Ashantiana leaned back, legs stretched out, eyes following the shimmer above.

"I still can't believe it turned out like this," she muttered.

Selcentra didn't answer at first. She just passed the bottle to refill her sister's cup, her gaze distant.

"We knew the region was marked," she said eventually.

"But others had been marked before. Planets, countries, even star systems. And they still survived."

"Seems we won't be as lucky."

Ashantiana shook her head. "Legendary cadets, a few low-ranking Rankers. Dangerous, sure, but manageable. Just another cosmic trial."

They sat in silence for a while.

Then Selcentra exhaled softly. "Did you ever tell Fifagona you loved her?"

Ashantiana nearly choked on her drink. "W-what? I didn't—what kind of question is that?"

Selcentra raised an eyebrow, unbothered. "Come on. You drilled with her every dawn, sparred every dusk, shared rations, rode missions side-by-side. You blushed when she sharpened your blade."

"That's because she sharpened it wrong!"

"She carved a flower into the hilt, 'Tiana. A flower."

Ashantiana looked away, cheeks flushed. "I didn't say it, no."

Selcentra leaned on her elbow. "But you loved her."

A long pause.

Finally, a quiet whisper: "…Yes."

Selcentra nodded. "She knew."

Ashantiana looked down. "I hope so."

Then she smirked. "And what about you? You ever give Culliteq your answer? Or were you still deciding whether to be his fourth wife or just ruin his life out of spite?"

Selcentra's smile flickered. For a moment, her light dimmed.

"I said yes," she said softly. "Went to his home to tell him. Brought gifts for the wives. We were going to laugh, drink, name each other's kids…"

She paused.

"When I got there, the town was gone. Bloody glass and melted stone. I found him, barely breathing—curled over them. The wives. The little ones. All of them."

Her voice was still. Hollow.

Ashantiana reached over, resting a hand on hers.

Selcentra didn't pull away.

"At least," she said after a while, "they didn't get caught up in the rest of this madness. They got to go together."

Ashantiana swallowed hard. "You should've told me."

"You were busy holding the front. Someone had to."

Silence again. This time, gentle.

Then Ashantiana cleared her throat. "He was a good match. You would've made a terrifying fifth."

"Fourth," Selcentra corrected. "And yes. I already picked out names for our first six children."

Ashantiana barked a short laugh. "Of course you did. You always amaze me."

Selcentra smiled, warmer this time. "You always amazed me. I wanted to be like you, you know?"

Ashantiana blinked. "Me?"

Selcentra nodded. "Brave. Sharp-tongued. Fearless. You made commanders pause just by walking into the room. You made enemies hesitate. You made me believe we'd win."

Ashantiana's eyes widened, her grip on her cup tightening. "I…"

A long pause. Then:

"…Do we have more wine?"

Selcentra grinned and poured generously. "Absolutely."

Ashantiana took the cup, swished the red liquid once, then sipped. It was dry. A little sharp. But smooth at the end.

She looked up again.

For a moment, the world felt like the wine.

Bitter. Sweet.

Selcentra stood and stretched, her white-and-gold hair catching the breeze like a banner refusing to fall. The wind pulled at the edges of her dress, light and bright against the ruins around them. She looked radiant—not just beautiful, but alive in a way few still dared to be.

Ashantiana watched her, eyes misted with tears she didn't bother to wipe away.

When had they last spent time like this?

When had the weight of duty pulled her so far from her sister's laughter, her gentle chaos? Nine years she had trained—marching in their parents' footsteps, climbing the ranks, chasing the impossible expectation of honor. While Selcentra? She painted. She wandered. She lived by whim, working odd jobs, collecting stories instead of titles. And in the last four months, she had prepared to marry a farmer—a man with a kind heart, a sturdy home, and land wide enough for children to grow wild.

Now he was gone. And so was the future they'd both been chasing in opposite directions.

Selcentra caught her gaze and smirked. "Don't get negative on me now, Tiana."

Ashantiana gave a slow, watery smile. "So far you've brightened my mood."

"Oh?" Selcentra's eyes sparkled with mischief. "I made your black soul turn gold?"

"More like pitch black to regular black. And I honestly hate the look of gold."

They both laughed—genuine, rolling laughter that echoed over the broken ridge and felt heavier than it should, yet light enough to lift the air.

Eventually, they stood together and began to pack up, folding the cloth and gathering the cups. The silence between them wasn't awkward—it was shared, lived-in. As they folded the last edge, Selcentra looked to her sister.

"I want to stop by Mom's grave," she said softly. "And visit the orphanage. There are a lot of children there now. Scared. Alone. I want to see if we can help… even if it's just for a while."

Ashantiana didn't argue.

Her sister—whose life had been scattered like petals—still found ways to gather light in her hands and offer it freely. Even at the end.

She smirked, the knot in her stomach twisted, softening into something warm.

Bitter. Sweet.