Within a hidden Sonora space, the eternal twilight softly enveloped that familiar town square.
This was the "Shores of the Lost," forged by Phrolova's own hands.
The air was permeated with the immutable scent of decaying flowers and the scratchy white noise of an old vinyl record.
Phrolova sat alone on the bench beside the old, mottled grand piano. She didn't strike the piano keys; instead, she focused entirely on playing the violin in her hands.
The bow glided elegantly across the strings, pouring out Canon in D Major—the final duet he had dedicated to her and played alongside her that day in this very place.
The melody was as precise and poignant as ever. The different parts chased each other endlessly yet never truly merged, much like her and the other person who had played it.
Phrolova tilted her head slightly, her gray-green hair cascading down to obscure half of her face.
Her red-and-white spider lily dress was spotless. The chest that had previously been pierced by the Blood Oath Covenant was now as flawless as before, as if the tragic, bloody battle atop the Proving Ground's high platform had never happened.
Her body had completely solidified, appearing even more full of vitality and surging with power than in her prime. Yet, a loneliness far deeper than before radiated from her entirety.
The violin wept and whispered, repeating that melody of fated separation over and over, as if trying to carve it into the very bedrock of the Shores.
Just then, a set of clear, abrupt footsteps broke into this music-ruled space. They stepped to the beat of the Canon but carried an icy texture that was completely out of place.
The violin abruptly stopped.
Phrolova didn't turn around. She merely furrowed her exquisite brows slightly, a clear look of displeasure surfacing on her face.
Setting down the violin, her voice was ethereal but carried a bone-chilling coldness: "Trespassing in private territory without permission, Overseer. I don't recall sending you an invitation."
The newcomer—the Overseer of the Fractsidus, "Swartzlo"—had taken the form of a man in a crisp suit and was slowly walking toward her.
He ignored Phrolova's sarcasm and reprimand. Sweeping an intrigued gaze over the townspeople in the square locked in their eternal, looping motions, he smiled. "Why so distant, Phrolova?"
"I merely sensed that your power has completely recovered—even surpassing your past—and came specifically to visit."
Only then did he rest his eyes on her, continuing in a relaxed tone: "Time has quietly slipped by since you parted ways with your 'soulmate' here."
"It seems you truly are unharmed. Then, shouldn't it be time to fulfill our original agreement? Christopher's script in the Seven Hills is waiting for its key Tuner to take the stage."
Phrolova remained silent, her fingertips unconsciously tracing the cold strings of her violin.
Swartzlo added, seemingly casually: "Perhaps right at this moment as we speak, that Rover you so dearly miss has also embarked on his voyage to the Seven Hills. We do not have much time left."
After a long while, Phrolova finally spoke slowly, her voice as calm as a placid lake: "According to Christopher's original script, it seems far too early for my entrance."
"You all have already thoroughly planned the crisis in the Seven Hills—let him resolve the crisis first, win the trust of the locals, and then, when everyone lets their guard down, resurrect Leviathan and trigger the descent of the 'Roaming Heaven'..."
"What, am I wrong?" A faint trace of mockery laced her words.
"That is indeed the script," Swartzlo admitted frankly, before changing the subject. "But an excellent playwright always yearns to perfect a tragedy."
"To be honest, Phrolova, back on the top floor of that Proving Ground, the fact that you and he mutually wounded each other, ultimately allowing Christopher to successfully seize the gem... although the result was the same, it was a pleasant surprise."
"Now, his chapter can be unveiled ahead of schedule."
Phrolova's mind flashed back to the final scene on that high platform—the agonizing pain of the sword piercing her chest, the shocked look in his eyes as she fell...
A nearly imperceptible flash of disgust and complex emotion swept through her eyes, but her tone remained calm: "Since the gem has already been obtained by you, my mission is complete."
"Before your grand plan to resurrect Leviathan officially begins, I don't believe there is anything else for me to do."
Saying this, she raised the violin again and placed the bow on the strings, adopting a posture of seeing out her guest, clearly unwilling to continue the topic.
Swartzlo wasn't surprised by this at all. He just smiled faintly. "No matter. I came only to inform you. Once the Rover resolves the Black Tide crisis in the Seven Hills, it will be time for you to assist the grand plan of the Fractsidus."
He paused, turned to leave, and murmured as if talking to himself: "It seems these old bones of mine should get some exercise. I shall personally travel to the Seven Hills and add some more fuel... to that grand theatrical act."
His footsteps grew fainter and fainter until they completely vanished into the tranquility of the Shores.
Phrolova didn't immediately start playing. She slowly lowered the violin.
Most of the Overseer's words were like wind skimming across the water; they didn't linger in her heart for long.
At this moment, however, a familiar figure—dressed in black with golden eyes—unexpectedly intruded into her mind.
It had been months since they parted ways at the Shores that day.
The torrential surge and chaotic entanglement of emotions at that time—was it the catharsis of surviving a disaster? Was it the confirmation of fulfilling her obsession?
Or was it simply wanting to greedily absorb the last bit of proof of existence and validation from the only "soulmate" who could understand her?
And during that violent emotional fluctuation, she had actually taken the initiative to... with him...
Thinking back on it now, even she found it somewhat bold and absurd.
That union felt more like an intense yet lost note in her paranoid rhapsody.
At the same time, a profound doubt had begun gnawing at the persistence she had held for centuries.
Back when she joined the Fractsidus, it was precisely because Rover had broken his promise. When she was in absolute despair and had nowhere else to turn, Swartzlo had demonstrated the "miracle" of "resurrecting" Tris. Only then did she view the Fractsidus as her sole hope.
For centuries, the Fractsidus provided resources, and she worked for them; both sides got what they needed.
However, her Shores had ultimately failed to be perfectly realized. The flawless resurrection of the townspeople was still a distant dream, and the beautiful future promised by the Fractsidus...
Looking at it now, it seemed to have strayed far from her original intentions.
The Threnodian Gem had already been taken by Christopher to resurrect Leviathan, and her last hope of reconstructing the Shores was completely shattered with it.
This lengthy transaction with the Fractsidus seemed to be drawing to a close.
"So be it," she recited silently in her heart. "Once this matter in the Seven Hills concludes, I will help them finish this so-called 'Final Game' of Rinascita. Win or lose, the Fractsidus and I will owe each other nothing from then on."
And in the near future, on the lands of the Seven Hills, she and her "soulmate" would inevitably cross paths again.
After months apart, how would he have changed?
Two people who had shared the most intimate of contact, now forced to point blades at each other once again as enemies...
That scene... thinking about it was incomparably awkward and ironic, but...
"Let the future Phrolova deal with the future's troubles."
Sighing softly, she temporarily suppressed these chaotic thoughts and raised her beloved violin once more.
Within the Shores, the familiar, sorrowful melody of Canon leisurely drifted out again, lingering for a long time beneath this eternal twilight sky.
It seemed to silently narrate that an old romance, never truly concluded, would inevitably welcome its fated continuation and final chapter in the center of the approaching storm.
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