Chapter 1516
When the Future Arrives as Scheduled
After the rain, the sky clears and everything is renewed; it's the perfect day to say goodbye.
The traveler bids farewell to family and friends, embarking on a distant journey, pursuing a landscape glimpsed only briefly in her dreams, experiencing numerous ambiguous encounters, and perhaps harboring a shallow stubbornness buried deep within her since childhood. Does she know her journey might be meaningless? Even so, will she persist? Has she realized that once she makes this decision, she will never have a second chance to return to her hometown? Life is like a mirage; she listens to the bubbling soup on the stove, watches swallows soaring beyond the clouds, yet constantly yearns for the loneliness and weariness of the journey, recalls a rainstorm she sheltered under a tree, the mountains weeping in the rain, and those lingering feelings.
The world is like two mirrors, and she is caught between the illusions of the two mirrors, feeling lost and confused, unable to tell which one is her true home.
But forcing yourself to discern the truth only leads to unnecessary trouble. True sages have gradually come to understand this principle through long journeys in the world and lonely wanderings in the sea of suffering. They have learned that the secret to happiness is simply to sign a non-aggression pact with curiosity, because there is no secret in the world worth exchanging a lifetime of pursuit and the ignorant emotions of youth for.
Unfortunately, although Ovira had read many books, understood many principles, and even mastered all the knowledge in the world, she still dared not presume to claim that she was a rare sage in the world. Life's journey was full of ups and downs, sometimes tossed to the mountaintop, sometimes plunged to the bottom of the valley. It was in the long process of gains and losses, rises and falls, that she gradually understood that so-called reason, ideas, and ideals were nothing more than thin ice floating on the surface of water. What truly supported a person to keep going was often the emotion that was deep in the heart and could not be spoken, which neither faded with the passage of time nor compromised by the admonition of reason.
If rationality is just needless worry, ideals are merely adding to troubles, and ideals are nothing more than a legitimate excuse for one's own behavior, then why not entrust the rest of our strength to emotions and let them lead us to distant places? Just as books grow wings, words soar like young butterflies, and ink transforms into an ocean beneath those wings.
Legend has it that there exists a butterfly in this world that never pollinates, nor reproduces; its sole mission is to fly, riding the wind and currents, traversing mountains and distant lands, until its death. Born with a beauty surpassing the world's, it dies so silently, without a single mourner, without a single person feeling any sorrow. In its flight towards death, it may possess much, but ultimately it all vanishes with the wind, leaving nothing behind. Is that destiny? Or perhaps it is its own choice; only by abandoning everything can one journey to the distant horizon.
Through the skies of Atorica, across the land once shrouded in torrential rain, the earth stretched out below, scarred yet gradually recovering. Survivors were clearing rubble, burying corpses, and scooping up the first handfuls of clear water from the puddles. She saw the expressions on their faces—no sadness or joy, only the predictable calm, as if they had foreseen this disaster years ago through a strange inspiration, and foretold its end. Since everything was as expected, there was no need to feel sadness or joy; these emotions would eventually fade with time, merely lingering occasionally at a certain point in time.
Passing through the bones at the world's end, through the enormous scars fate has left on this land, the pale sunlight scorches the gentle, poisonous mist, and the abyss glistens beneath the clouds, as if reborn. This is the final destination of all the errant—stubborn as wounded dragons, desolate as fungus-men at the bottom of valleys, and every kind of soul long accustomed to this bleak world, wandering aimlessly, awaiting the carving of tombstones. A pair of cold, merciless eyes watch the changes, made even colder by the scorching flames and corroding mist, utterly inadequate compared to the warmth of stone.
Passing through the hellish depths of the earth, through the graveyards dug by thirty million slaves for themselves, endless ants devour life beneath the surface, mineral staircases stretch to the ends of the earth, an unstoppable urge boiling in their veins. The hero is a symbol of glory, a clarion call of war, and also a demon that urges people onto the battlefield. He led a band of hot-blooded soldiers, destroying enemy fortresses and castles time and again through guerrilla warfare—a task that took him nearly ten years. Then he spent another ten years training those greenhorns into competent soldiers, and another ten years systematically eliminating the most threatening members of the enemy army, pushing the war forward with unimaginable cold-bloodedness and ruthlessness, a war that continues to this day.
Some say that in the final battle, the hero led his followers in a full-scale attack, annihilating the cruel empire in seventy-two continuous battles, leaving not a single survivor on this wasteland. However, as he killed the last enemy and attempted to declare the war over, a mournful roar echoed behind him, and a dagger, thirty years too late, pierced his heart. Even long afterward, when the hero's sister had become a new hero, and war resumed as scheduled, the killer remained elusive, which was seen as a twist of fate. The land did not wish to lose the war, nor did it wish for peace to rob it of its heroic legacy. Thus, it chose to sacrifice one man in exchange for a continuous stream of successors, fighting, killing, and shedding blood for it.
The blood of dragons, the blood of men, the blood of invaders, the blood of heroes, the blood of kings, the blood of slaves... How could a land nourished by blood possibly look favorably upon other weaker sources of nourishment?
She continued forward, with her increasingly thin butterfly wings, with her dwindling strength, with her last vestiges of consciousness. She traversed mountains and rivers, through landscapes she had only read about in books but never witnessed firsthand. In some places, fog was rising, the mist seeping through her transparent form like passing through a dissipating rain curtain; in others, the sun was rising, its rays streaming unhindered into her fading chest, casting final shadows upon her heart. She felt neither cold nor warmth, only a strange lightness throughout her body, as if something was slowly drifting away from the depths of her being, drifting towards distant places she could never reach.
But in the face of mysterious royal power, the idea of forever seems somewhat laughable.
If you work hard, fly hard, shout hard, try hard to achieve something... then you will eventually reach your goal, right?
Such a fleeting yet long period of sorrow, loneliness, despair, hope, hatred, pain, kindness, tenderness, shame, inferiority, glory, beautiful memories, reality, dreams, and obsession... distance.
...Finally, I saw that place.
The moment Ieta returned to the windmill tower, she breathed a long sigh of relief, finally able to relax. Although there was actually nothing for her to worry about—the Angel's only task in this war was to pilot the Cloud Whale Sky Island to suppress the enemy within Page Mountain Fortress, facilitating Alice's new mech force's attack—the war didn't last long before being abruptly ended by a plague. The already disadvantaged defenders lost their will to fight and quickly collapsed. However, even the victorious Holy War Army fared no better in the face of this all-encompassing plague. If it weren't for the Cloud Whale Sky Island providing logistical support, and Sister Medien and Sister Livia's tireless efforts to heal them, they would likely have suffered heavy losses.
However, she managed to hold out until Ovira awakened and regained the full power of her royal authority. With the authority granted by the fairy sword, she became an omniscient and omnipotent god in the land of Atoliga. In this way, she helped the creatures of this land survive the most terrible disaster in recorded history, just like the hero Italos ten thousand years ago, the leader of the Holy War three hundred years ago, and Cheryl one hundred years ago.
A land of heroes, a land of disasters, a land of constant destruction and rebirth... that is Atorica.
Speaking of Ovira, I wonder how her battle is going?
Ieta didn't go inside. Instead, she sat on the stone steps by the door, her hands supporting her cheeks, her eyes glazed over, lost in thought. Before her lay the familiar primrose field. The primroses from the Salya Plains seemed unaffected by the cataclysmic rainstorm that had struck the land of Atorica, still thriving under the angel's protection, blooming with a seven-colored miracle. But this prosperity was merely a facade. The familiar birdsong and insect chirps, even the sounds of fairies playing in the flower field, had vanished without a trace.
Fairies are nature's darlings, always favored by fate, but they seem to have no special privileges in the face of plague. Furthermore, their strength is usually not very high, so they are almost powerless against the spreading epidemic. Most fairies have been sent to the Fairy Deep Sleep Inn for treatment. The few lucky fairies who haven't contracted the disease are hiding in their lairs, trembling with fear of their companions' illness and the power of the Plague Witch, naturally having no heart for play. As for the birds and beasts of the forest, needless to say, the medical resources on Cloud Whale Sky Island are limited, and they can't be cared for at this time. The only option is to have the stone spirit guards who are still able to move take them in for later treatment.
Without these vibrant natives, Narwhal Island has become desolate and quiet, a silence that evokes sadness. At least, Iyeta, who had long regarded this island as her home, her refuge, and her final resting place, was so saddened by this scene that she could hardly speak.
For her, this was the only place since Avignon, the windmill village, where she could feel safe and happy. Now it had become like this, and she was powerless to do anything about it, only able to watch helplessly. In the past, this sense of powerlessness could have completely crushed the fragile angel. As for today, although she had become much stronger after receiving care from Sister Xia, encouragement from Ling, and trust from her companions, perhaps she still felt some inferiority and guilt?
I can't do anything right. Although I always enjoy everyone's encouragement and expectations, I can never meet them. It was like this when I faced the Dark Witch Caraboss in the past. I was determined to win this time, but I was defeated without any suspense. I couldn't do anything and had to let Sister Xia clean up my mess. It's the same now. This land was protected by the hero Italos. The fairy sword Hydras was the weapon she used to fight evil and protect mortals. As her reincarnation, shouldn't I inherit the hero's will, stand up, and defend this hard-won peace? But in the end, the hero who wielded the fairy sword and fought against the powerful enemy was Ovira, not me.
Every time someone else takes the blame for me, it seems to come at a heavy price. First it was the villagers I considered family, then it was Sister Xia. Undoubtedly, the price was the same, and so heavy that I didn't even dare to speak of it. Could it be that this time…
The angel shuddered, then shook her head frantically, telling herself it was impossible. Her sister, Ovira, had awakened the complete Arcane Royale, wielded the Fairy Sword, possessed the power of the Holy Grail, and was practically an omniscient and omnipotent deity on this land. A mere Plague Witch shouldn't be a threat. And indeed, the plague released by the Plague Witch was precisely countered by the power of the Arcane Royale, and it was estimated that it would be eradicated soon. Furthermore, the subtle connection between the Maiden Royale and the Plague Witch allowed Ietta to vaguely sense that just moments ago, the Plague Witch's aura seemed to have become extremely weak, even vanished.
This means that Sister Ovira must have won this battle, right? Like a hero in a story, she will defeat powerful enemies, fight against terrible disasters, save the weak, and finally return laden with honor and victory, bringing everyone one exciting piece of good news after another. When that time comes, I must be the first to rush to greet her. I don't need to tell her how worried I was; I should say, "I've always believed in you..."
As she pondered, a joyful smile crept onto Miss Angel's face, as if the scene were unfolding right before her eyes, so vividly real. This wasn't surprising, a strange voice within her said, "You merely foresaw the future. We all know that, don't we? For the story, this is a good ending."
But is the happy ending that a story needs necessarily the true ending that reality needs?
Her unspoken meaning sent a chill down Ietta's spine, but the angel had almost no time to think, for in the next instant, the future she had foreseen arrived as predicted. (End of Chapter)