Goodbye...

A slow exhale left Vastarael's lips as his eyes flickered open. The ceiling of the uppermost floor of the Obsidian Runic Spire loomed above him, constellations glowing faintly across its obsidian-black surface. His vision was hazy at first, blurred by sleep, but the moment his consciousness settled, he felt the weight of exhaustion in his body.

It was another morning.

He stretched his arms over his head, letting out a low, groggy yawn as he sat up from the plush couch he had collapsed on the night before. The dark silk sheets of the massive four-poster bed nearby were a tangled mess, faintly illuminated by the golden morning light that seeped through the crystal-glass windows of the spire.

His long, curly white hair draped over his shoulders, a few unruly strands falling into his face as he turned his head toward the bed.

And there she was.

Erna.

Her long, flowing hair, like the shadows of the void itself, cascaded across the pillows, seemingly moving on their own, shifting and swaying in slow, rhythmic pulses. Her skin, a deep, lustrous bronze just like his, shimmered faintly beneath the morning light, her breathing slow and steady, completely at peace.

Vastarael sat in silence, watching her for a long moment, memorizing every detail of her sleeping form. She was… beautiful. Not just in appearance, but in presence. And yet, here she was. She fell asleep to gain more energy since she was no longer a Phantasm but a Divine now.

He sighed softly, pushing himself off the couch and stepping toward her. The cold obsidian floor was smooth beneath his feet as he approached, his form bathed in the soft, golden glow of the morning. As he reached her side, he knelt, carefully raising a hand to her forehead with his bionic arm.

He lost his arm in the fight with Permafrost. After all, the final hammer blow did not miss when he unleashed his Overwrite. And no matter how hard he tried to regenerate it, it never did. So he was forced to make a bionic arm using his sapphire and Erna's help, who was skilled at it too.

Anyways, she was warm.

His fingers lingered against her skin for just a moment longer before he withdrew them, exhaling through his nose.

"…It's time for me to go."

She didn't stir. He sighed again, his lips curving into a faint, almost bitter smile.

"You should wake up soon, Erna. I'm going to the Fallen Bridge today."

Still, she slept peacefully.

Vastarael leaned back slightly, resting one forearm against his knee as he stared at his own reflection in the darkened glass of the room's towering windows. The sunlight barely touched his face, casting half of it in shadows, his own skin pale with exhaustion beneath the gentle glow.

A part of him had hoped—perhaps foolishly—that things would have calmed down after he restored the Halo Islands. That maybe, just maybe, he could have had a brief moment of peace before the next trial.

But no. There was no peace for someone like him.

Not for someone bound to the Epoch Cycle.

He had been sent to the Epoch Cycle like many others before him.

At first, it had been nothing more than a whirlwind of confusion, an endless journey through time and ruin, its purpose barely making sense to him.

He had met a nomadic tribe, a people who had no home but the land beneath their feet, who had wandered the frozen wastelands with nothing but their stories to guide them. They had welcomed him. Given him shelter. And in exchange, he fought for them. He had traveled alongside them, sharing laughter, sharing meals.

And then, he had met her.

A Winter Labor.

An entity of ice and sorrow, a being who should have been his enemy, but instead… she had bent the knee. He had made her his subordinate, binding her to his cause.

Then the past had pulled him under. And in that past, he had seen something that had shattered him.

He had seen Erna's child, a child who should have been dead.

A child he had saved. But in the end, fate was cruel.

The nomadic tribe that had taken him in, that had shown him kindness, that had trusted him...

They had all died. Every single one of them were slaughtered on the Island of Peony, their bodies twisted and devoured by the very land they had tried to call home. He had watched them burn, scream, vanish into nothing.

And he had barely escaped, only to arrive in the Halo Islands, where he had thought that maybe things would finally make sense.

But the islands were frozen.

His friends, his allies were encased in ice, their forms trapped in agonized poses, frozen in a fate worse than death. And at the center of it all, standing at the pinnacle of cruelty was another Winter Labor.

The one who would take his arm.

Vastarael could still feel it, even now. The phantom pain of losing his limb, the sensation of frost creeping into his very bones, trying to steal more than just his body, trying to steal his very soul.

He had fought for days, he remembered. He suffered. He endured. And in the end, he had killed that monster. It had not been easy. Nothing ever was.

But his suffering had not ended there.

Because that was when he had met Erna, a woman who, like him, had been bound by fate, by time, by suffering. A woman who, against all odds, had become his companion in the darkness. And now, as he stared at her sleeping form, he knew that The Fallen Bridge would be no different.

Vastarael stood beside the bed, staring at Erna's sleeping form for what felt like an eternity. The soft glow of morning light framed her face, her long shadow-like hair shifting faintly as if responding to something unseen.

A deep, weary sigh escaped his lips as he ran a hand through his own messy white curls, pushing them back as he glanced toward the window. He was leaving.

Alone.

He didn't need to think about it twice. If anyone found out what he was planning, they would follow him. There was no doubt in his mind. Phaenora would definitely join him. Siranna and her daughters would definitely join him too. Heck, he was sure that even Farrynelle and Xander would too.

And they would die.

Because the Fallen Bridge was not a battle to be won with numbers. It was a graveyard, a place where warriors marched forward but never returned.

He wouldn't drag them into that.

Not this time.

Vastarael let out another slow breath before finally closing his eyes.

"Nineteen Hours," he murmured.

A silent pulse of power surged through his veins, wrapping around him like a veil. His body flickered once, and then, he was gone.

Not physically. He was still there, still breathing, still standing. But the world could no longer see or sense him. It was absolute invisibility that not even the most powerful of Nexuses could see.

A bittersweet smirk ghosted his lips as he exhaled softly.

"Goodbye, Erna."

It was the only farewell he would allow himself. And with that, the floor beneath him glowed.

A teleportation circle formed beneath his feet, lines of sapphire-blue runes spreading outward, forming a mystic circle. The magic pulsed, shifting like liquid light, and then, he vanished.

In a single breath, he was no longer in the spire's highest chamber. Instead, he stood in the center of his personal quarters on the 37th floor, the familiar scent of aged books and cool obsidian stone filling the air.

The room was dim, save for the faint luminescence of floating crystals embedded in the ceiling. A large, ornate desk sat near the far end of the room, its surface cluttered with parchment, enchanted quills, and old maps.

Vastarael's fingers brushed in midair, reaching into his inventory portal that materialized in front of him. A brief shimmer flickered through the air before an elegantly folded letter appeared between his fingers.

He stared at it for a moment.

It was a letter filled with words he hadn't wanted to say in person. They were words of caution. Of regret. Of promises he wasn't sure he could keep.

He slowly walked to his desk and placed the letter on top of a small stack of books. The weight of his decision settled heavy in his chest, but he didn't let himself linger on it.

Instead, he straightened. One last thing.

He had to see them.

Just once.

One last time before he left.

Before he risked never coming back.

Without a sound, he turned away from the desk . Another teleportation glyph ignited beneath his feet, its glow brief but brilliant. His form flickered, shifting once more.

The moment his boots touched solid ground again, the air around him changed.

The smell of sweat, steel and burning essence filled his lungs. The faint echo of clashing weapons, heavy breathing and quiet, determined footsteps reverberated through the massive space.

He was in one of the training arenas, a vast, open-air battleground within the Spire's lower levels. The floor was made of enchanted stone, designed to absorb impact, while the walls bore scorch marks, claw slashes, and faint remnants of previous battles.

Vastarael exhaled, his invisible form standing at the edge of the arena. His gaze swept across the space, searching.

"There you go! See? You're doing it!"

He was looking at Phaenora training his adopted daughters.