Erza's breath trembled as the pressure around her thickened, her aura spreading like an invisible storm. Those who stood before her could no longer remain upright. Crusaders collapsed to their knees, maids gasped for air, and even the birds in the sky were forced down, crushed by a power they could not resist. The world itself seemed to bend beneath her presence.
"Why are you stopping me?" Erza demanded, her voice trembling with fury. "Why won't you let me kill him?"
Her mind replayed every step Yuuta had taken. She remembered how he had known her weight was far beyond that of a normal human, yet he carried her without hesitation. She remembered how his throat had been dry, how his lips had cracked, yet he never asked for water. Instead, he had bitten the inside of his cheek and tongue, letting blood fill his mouth so he could swallow something—anything—to keep moving. The more he climbed, the more he bled, and still he did not stop.
Grandpa had noticed it long ago. From a distance, he had seen Yuuta swallowing when no water was given, had sensed something terribly wrong. He understood then that the boy had already crossed a line no one should ever have to cross. Yuuta was sacrificing himself in a way even dragons had never known.
Erza's rage surged again, sharp and uncontrollable, threatening to tear the church apart.
Grandpa shook his head slowly. His eyes were heavy, filled not with authority, but with regret that ran deeper than centuries. He took a long breath, steadying himself, knowing that what he was about to say could calm even the most terrifying creature in existence.
"I allow you to stay on this planet," he said at last.
Erza froze, her claws trembling mid-air as confusion pierced through her fury.
"…Pardon?" she asked, unable to comprehend what she had just heard.
Grandpa exhaled once more, as though carving the words into reality itself.
"I allow you," he said, "to remain with Yuuta until he dies of old age."
Silence fell heavy and absolute.
Erza stared at him, disbelief flooding her expression before hardening into anger.
"If you think you can stop me with lies, you senile fossil," she said coldly, "then I will end you too, along with that human."
Grandpa did not step back. He raised one hand toward the sky, his voice calm, unwavering.
"I swear upon our Great Primal Dragon, Seraphina," he said. "I grant you permission to stay with your beloved human husband in the human world until the end of his natural life."
The name echoed through the air, carrying the weight of ancient law.
Erza's eyes widened, shock stealing the breath from her lungs. To swear upon the ancestors was not mere words. It was a vow bound by existence itself. A lie spoken under such an oath would bring death instantly.
And Grandpa stood unharmed.
"Why are you saying this now?" Erza asked, her voice unsteady despite her strength. "What about the war in the Altanis Kingdom? You said the Silent Creature had awakened again."
Grandpa lowered his hand, his gaze heavy.
"I lied," he admitted. "I said it to force you to return. There is no war. And even if one arises, I will handle it myself."
Erza clenched her fists, her claws digging into her palms.
"Then what about Yuuta?" she asked, her voice cracking despite her will. "His nightmares. His weakening body. The longer I stay with him, the more he suffers."
For the first time, fear entered her voice.
Not fear of destruction, nor judgment, nor war—but fear of losing the one person she loved more than her own existence.
"Then what about Yuuta?" Erza asked, her voice cracking despite her iron will. "His nightmares. His weakening body. The longer I stay with him… the more he suffers."
The words hung heavy in the air. For the first time, fear slipped into her voice—raw, unguarded, and unmistakable.
Grandpa shook his head slowly. His expression was no longer that of a wise elder or an untouchable sage. It was the face of someone burdened by guilt too long ignored. He drew in a breath, as if preparing to tear open a wound that had never healed.
"I am the one at fault," he said at last. "I am the reason Yuuta's life became suffering."
Erza's eyes widened. The storm within her froze, replaced by something sharper—something dangerous.
"What did you just say?" she asked, her voice low, deliberate.
Grandpa remained silent. He did not defend himself. He did not explain. He allowed his words to sink into her mind, knowing there was no escape from the truth once spoken.
The air around Erza shifted violently.
"So all of it…" she said slowly. "The nightmares. His weakening body. His pain." Her gaze locked onto Grandpa, colder than ice. "That was your doing."
Her dragon instincts surged back in an instant, her calm collapsing into lethal precision. The warmth drained from her expression as her cold nature returned like a sudden storm. With a sharp metallic whisper, she summoned her sword—the blade that was never drawn unless death was certain. The weapon shimmered with restrained annihilation, its mere presence bending the air around it.
Grandpa did not move. He knew what that sword meant.
Erza stepped forward and pressed the blade against his neck. The edge did not cut, yet the pressure alone promised extinction. Her eyes burned with restrained fury as she looked down at him.
"Explain," she said coldly. "Explain how you are responsible for the suffering of my mortal."
The sword trembled slightly—not from hesitation, but from how close she was to ending everything.
Grandpa exhaled, a long and weary breath, as though he were finally accepting a punishment long overdue. His voice, when it came, carried no pride and no authority. It was the voice of someone confessing a sin.
"I made myself invisible," he said quietly. "A background presence. I avoided interaction. I erased my influence from sight."
Erza did not lower the blade. Her grip tightened instead.
"I did it," Grandpa continued, "to weaken Yuuta. To push him into suffering—slowly, quietly—so that you would leave him on your own, without chaos, without bloodshed."
Her breath caught, but she remained silent.
"Do you remember," he asked, "when we entered the Memory Rapture? When we witnessed Yuuta's existence from within his own memories?"
Erza said nothing. The sword still rested against his neck, its edge glimmering with restrained destruction, but her eyes remained fixed on him, listening.
"That was when I understood," Grandpa said. "Yuuta absorbs mana at a rate far beyond any normal human. His body was never meant to handle that much power for long."
Erza's eyes widened.
"So I used Zani Cina," he admitted. "I contaminated the flow of mana around him. I disrupted it—corrupted it—so it would drain him instead of sustaining him. And then… I shifted the blame onto you."
The words struck her like a blade to the chest.
For the first time in her long existence, Erza felt betrayal—not from an enemy, but from someone who claimed to protect her. A deep, burning ache spread through her chest as her sword began to shake, mirroring the tremor running through her body.
Grandpa did not stop.
"Night after night," he said, his voice heavy with regret, "I planted nightmares inside his mind. I forced pain into his sleep. I made sure he would wake screaming, trembling—because you always slept beside him."
Erza's vision blurred.
"I wanted you to believe that your presence was destroying him," Grandpa continued. "That loving him was killing him. That leaving him was mercy."
Her strength finally failed her.
Erza's knees gave out as the weight of the truth crushed her. The sword slipped from his neck, clattering softly against the stone as she fell forward, unable to remain standing. Tears streamed freely from her eyes, soaking into the ground beneath her.
Her body trembled—not from exhaustion, but from heartbreak.
"Why?" she asked, her voice broken, raw, and shaking. "What did I ever do to you… to deserve this?"
She looked up at him through tears, her pride shattered.
"Why would you go this far," she whispered, "just to steal my only happiness?"
The silence that followed was heavier than any judgment.
Erza wept—not because she was weak, but because she remembered.
A dragon's memory was not fragile like a human's. It was absolute. Once awakened, it did not fade. It returned in full—every sight, every sound, every pain—rushing back like a curse carved into the soul.
And now, all of it came back to her at once.
Yuuta collapsing at the carnival, his body giving out without warning.
The way he would clutch his head, teeth clenched, trying to hide the pain.
The nights he woke up shaking, breath uneven, tears slipping down his face—
and yet, not once did he complain.
Not once did he blame her.
He never told her how much it hurt.
Never accused her of being the cause.
Never asked her to leave.
All his weakness.
All his suffering.
Every nightmare.
They had been manufactured.
By the man standing before her.
By her own grandfather—the one who once carried her on his back, who showed her distant lands, who taught her history, wisdom, and love. The very hands that had nurtured her childhood had turned against the man she loved most.
The contradiction tore her apart.
"Why…" Erza whispered again, tears streaming down her face. "Why did you do this?"
Her voice broke completely.
Grandpa shook his head slowly. His shoulders sagged, as though centuries had finally caught up to him.
"I am sorry," he said, his voice cracked and fragile. "I truly am."
He closed his eyes.
"In the name of wisdom," he continued, "in the name of righteousness… I convinced myself that I was doing the right thing."
His voice trembled.
"I didn't realize I was wrong."
Erza said nothing.
She knelt there in silence, tears falling freely as she let the truth sink in. She could kill him—she knew that. With a single strike, she could erase him from existence.
But if she did…
She would lose everything.
The last chance to remain with Yuuta.
The fragile future she had been granted.
The one thing she had suffered all this for.
So she stayed her hand.
Helpless, broken, and trembling, Erza cried—not in rage this time, but in grief.
Because the truth itself was more unbearable than any blade.
As Erza knelt there, drowning in the unbearable weight of betrayal, wrath threatened to consume her completely. The pain of being betrayed by her own grandfather—by the very man who raised her—cut deeper than any wound she had ever suffered.
Then—
A sudden warmth surrounded her.
Arms wrapped around her gently, not forceful, not demanding—just warm and steady. The kind of embrace that did not seek permission, yet was never intrusive.
For a dragon, such closeness would have triggered instinctive rejection. Any stranger would have been torn apart before they could even breathe.
But her body did not resist.
It accepted.
Her trembling slowed.
Her breath steadied.
Tears still clung to her lashes as she lifted her head, confused, vulnerable—and then she saw him.
Yuuta.
He was pale. His movements were unsteady. His body had not yet recovered, his consciousness still fragile. And yet, somehow, he had dragged himself forward the moment he heard her crying.
Without knowing why.
Without understanding what had happened.
He simply knew.
His arms tightened slightly around her as his hand moved through her hair, fingers brushing gently, awkwardly, as if afraid she might break. Each movement was clumsy, weakened—but sincere.
Erza's strength finally gave out.
She leaned into him, pressing her face against his shoulder, her hands clutching his clothes as silent sobs shook her body. She cried into him—not as a queen, not as a dragon—but as someone who had been wounded too deeply to stand alone.
Yuuta said nothing.
He didn't need to.
Even without understanding the truth, even without knowing the betrayal, his instincts had awakened the moment his mate cried. Something older than thought, deeper than reason, had driven him to her side.
And so he held her.
As if that alone was enough to protect her from the world.
Many hours passed after the truth was finally spoken.
The church had grown quiet.
Yuuta slept peacefully on one of the long benches, his breathing slow and steady. His body was still healing, but the pain that once clung to him had loosened its grip. Beside him, Erza remained awake, watching him closely.
This time, she was smiling.
Not the proud smile of a queen, nor the cold expression she wore before others—but a soft, absent smile, the kind born from imagining a future that finally felt real. Now, she could stay with him. Until the end of his life. Until time itself claimed him.
To her, that promise was not tragedy.
It was a blessing.
On Yuuta's left side, Elena slept soundly. Exhaustion had claimed her after everything she had seen and felt. She had cried until there were no tears left, confused by human greed, wounded by cruelty she could not yet understand. In the end, a maid had gently carried her and laid her beside her father, letting the child rest where she felt safest.
Her small hand clutched the fabric of Yuuta's clothes, as if still trying to protect him even in sleep.
From a short distance away, Grandpa watched the scene quietly.
The weight that had pressed on his heart for centuries felt lighter now. He let out a small breath and smiled faintly.
"So this is repentance," he murmured to himself. "It's… not such a terrible thing. My heart feels lighter."
Father Nelson stood beside him, hands folded, his expression calm.
"I know that feeling," he said gently. "Being forgiven eases the burden. But speaking the truth—that takes courage. And you did that."
Grandpa chuckled softly.
"I should have visited this world two thousand years ago," he said. "Perhaps then I would have met the man who taught forgiveness and mercy."
Father Nelson did not respond.
He did not need to.
By now, he understood that Erza and her grandfather were beings far beyond this world. And yet, strangely, he felt no fear—only quiet acceptance.
Grandpa stepped closer to where Erza sat.
She was brushing Yuuta's hair gently, her fingers slow and careful, as if touching something fragile. Her eyes were distant, filled with thoughts of a future she had once believed impossible—like a newly married woman dreaming quietly beside her husband.
Then, suddenly, her expression shifted.
"Old fossil," she said.
Grandpa sighed. He already knew what was coming.
"What about the script I placed?" Erza asked, her voice serious.
She had prepared it before leaving—three wishes, written with Zani, fueled by immense power gathered over two months. A script not unlike fate itself. Once written, it could not be undone.
Grandpa nodded slowly.
"It will not activate," he said, "unless you disappear from this world."
"I know," Erza replied. "But I cannot return to my world until Yuuta dies. What if something happens to the kingdom while I'm gone? If I leave… the script will trigger."
Grandpa smiled calmly.
"I am far stronger now, Erza. And we have built much in your absence—armies, defenses, alliances. I don't foresee any true threat for at least the next hundred years."
Erza fell silent.
She looked back at Yuuta, then at Elena, sleeping peacefully beside him.
For the first time in a very long while, the future did not terrify her.
It simply waited.
Erza bent down slowly, careful not to wake him.
She pressed a gentle kiss against Yuuta's forehead, her lips lingering just long enough to promise warmth rather than goodbye.
"Rest well, my husband," she whispered softly. "Tomorrow, we'll talk about the future."
A faint smile curved her lips.
"And this time," she added, her voice lowering with quiet resolve, "you will take responsibility properly… my idiot mortal."
Her fingers tightened around his hand.
Not painfully—just enough to remind herself he was there. Real. Alive.
A small fear stirred in her chest, irrational yet impossible to ignore. Afraid that he might disappear again, just as he had fled from her kingdom long ago. Afraid that if she loosened her grip, fate would steal him away once more.
Not this time.
She would not let go again.
Not after everything they had endured.
Not when the world had finally allowed them peace.
Erza smiled, a rare, gentle smile meant for no one but him.
And so the night passed quietly.
A beautiful chapter drew to its close.
Yet somewhere beyond the darkness, another story waited to begin.
To be continued.