Night had fully fallen. Everyone was busy with their own tasks, leaving Ophis alone with nothing to do but patrol the northern wall.
Naturally, the commander had tried to assign her guards, but she'd refused outright.
To Ophis, that would have been nothing but a waste of manpower.
She paused, tilting her head slightly, then rose lightly into the air, drifting onto another section of the wall.
A pure-white girl stood there.
A white veil flowed like long hair, stirring gently in the night breeze.
Perhaps "pure white" was an odd description.
Her clothing covered only part of her body; the rest was dark, bronze-toned skin that nearly melted into the night. Only Ophis's sharp eyes let her see the girl's outline clearly.
Even so, "pure white" was still Ophis's first impression.
Maybe it was the contrast between light and shadow—or maybe something deeper. Ophis couldn't say.
"Altera."
Ophis spoke her name aloud.
As a dragon who rarely initiated conversation without reason, this was almost unprecedented. The only other person who had ever piqued her curiosity had been Enkidu—and even then, she had spoken first only because Enkidu's hostility had warranted attention.
Now, though, she was intrigued again.
This girl in white gave Ophis a faint sense of danger—not from her power, but from something more essential, something woven into her being.
The demonic beasts Merlin had crippled during the army's retreat had withdrawn north to regroup, leaving a rare lull in the fighting. Yet instead of resting, this girl stood here alone, staring into the dark horizon.
Everything about her stirred Ophis's curiosity.
Whether because she hadn't heard Ophis or simply chose not to respond, Altera remained silent, gazing ahead.
Following her gaze, Ophis looked out as well.
Nothing but piles of beast corpses and a few scavengers circling overhead.
"What are you looking at?"
No response.
Is this what humans call awkward conversation?
No, this probably didn't even count as conversation.
Still, Ophis didn't mind being ignored. She was used to doing the same herself. (Flawless logic, apparently.) She simply stood beside Altera, quietly sharing the silence.
"Those…"
Ophis didn't know how much time had passed—long enough for the evening to fade into deep night—when Altera suddenly spoke.
"…Are the traces of my destruction."
Ophis tilted her head.
The words came out of nowhere; their meaning unclear.
From Ophis's view, the devastation wasn't particularly unusual—severe, yes, but still less excessive than Arjuna's mountain-leveling blast.
Yet Altera looked faintly startled, as if she herself didn't know why she'd spoken, and then fell silent again.
…So it really was awkward conversation after all.
"Altera, why did you respond to the summoning?"
After a moment's thought, Ophis asked the question directly.
Though Inori had already offered an explanation, she wanted to hear it from Altera herself.
"…I don't know."
After a pause, Altera finally answered.
"When I became aware, I was already summoned. The knowledge of this war had been placed in my mind."
"…"
So Inori had been right.
"But even with that knowledge, I still don't know what I should do."
To Ophis's mild surprise, Altera went on.
She raised one hand toward the night sky, eyes distant.
"These hands can't protect. They only know how to destroy. So I don't know what else I can do."
Ophis said nothing.
There was no emotion in Altera's tone—neither pride nor regret. Merely fact.
Attila, the Scourge of God; Altera, the King of Destruction.
For someone like her, what purpose could destruction possibly serve?
"To you, destruction is like instinct… No, perhaps not even that?"
After a pause, Ophis spoke softly.
Even instincts—like desire—brought pleasure in their release. But Ophis had never seen Altera derive anything from destruction.
"You only carry it out because it's what you were born to do."
Her conclusion was calm, certain.
She had seen something similar before—Enkidu.
Both bound by purpose from birth.
But Ophis had no right to tell such a being to cast it away unless they chose it themselves.
Besides, Altera's nature was different.
Enkidu's mission had been imposed by gods. Altera's destruction came from within—part of her very essence.
Deeper than instinct; the foundation of her existence.
"Altera, are you lost?"
At Ophis's quiet question, Altera's eyes flickered, but she didn't reply. Ophis continued, unconcerned.
It was rare for her to speak more than the other person—almost unheard of.
The thought made her lips curve faintly.
Perhaps Altera was like her.
Both burdened by roles dictated by fate—Altera with destruction, herself with kingship.
Neither had ever doubted their purpose.
But because Altera's essence was destruction, she followed it blindly, while Ophis had found a reason outside her role—Enkidu had sparked that change.
In practice, both were the same:
Both had lost their way in fulfilling their purpose.
"...If you feel lost, if you feel empty," Ophis said at last, turning slightly away, "then maybe try giving it meaning yourself."
That was what she herself had done, after all.
Perhaps her kingship hadn't been a choice—but the meaning behind it had become one.
With that, Ophis leapt lightly down from the wall, leaving Altera behind, deep in thought.
...
Siduri exhaled heavily, passing the last clay tablet to a nearby soldier.
Building a living zone on a front line wasn't simple—enemy surveillance, alarm systems, civilian evacuation routes, troop logistics—everything had to be planned in painful detail.
They even had to find merchants and volunteers brave enough to live there first.
And all of this—Ophis had casually dumped onto Siduri.
Really… what was the King thinking, building a city in a war zone?
"King Ophis has her own reasons."
Siduri barely flinched when Merlin appeared behind her; she was far too used to his habit of popping up unannounced.
"With a defense line this size, a permanent settlement is necessary to sustain it long-term."
"I know that already," Siduri sighed.
"Whether soldiers, priests, or even the King herself—everyone's giving everything they have."
She looked up at the night sky.
"A whole nation united, pouring all its strength into surviving a doomed end… and all it accomplishes is buying time. It just feels… unfair."
Fairness had never existed—not even in later ages. In this era of rigid hierarchy and divine law, the word was almost a joke. Even under a wise ruler, true fairness was impossible.
And yet, Siduri said it anyway.
Because even if life wasn't fair, it shouldn't feel this hopeless.
"I see. But I'm not very good at understanding those emotions," Merlin said quietly, his tone uncharacteristically serious. "I admire the patterns humanity weaves, but I don't feel much for humans themselves."
He paused, eyes on the distance.
"Still, I believe this: even if the artwork isn't perfect, as long as the artist puts their heart into it, it leaves meaning for those who come after. And just because the original ending isn't satisfying doesn't mean someone from another story can't write a warmer one. That's why fanfiction exists, after all. So—just do your best."
Leaving Siduri both puzzled and strangely comforted by his words, Merlin vanished once more into thin air.