The valley shimmered with color—petals of every hue, glowing faintly as the wind carried them skyward.
Yohan stood, stretching his hand out. The petals danced in perfect harmony, following an invisible rhythm—his rhythm.
But for every heartbeat of peace, the horizon pulsed with faint distortion. Echoes of the old world—unhealed, unforgotten.
Ciel: "The scars won't fade easily."
Yohan: "They're not supposed to. Scars remind the world it survived."
He turned toward the distant Academy, its towers reflecting in his eyes.
"I have to go back. The balance won't hold forever unless the next generation learns what it cost."
Ciel nodded, brushing dust from her blade.
"Then we'll rebuild it together."
As they began their walk back to the Academy, the world itself seemed to breathe with them—air rising and falling in rhythm with their steps.
In the far distance, at the edge of the newly reborn horizon, a faint crack appeared in the light.
A whisper slipped through:
"Every balance has its shadow."
Yohan paused, glancing toward it. The same calm expression, but something colder behind his eyes—like a man who knows that peace is only borrowed.
Yohan (under his breath): "Then let it come."
The wind picked up again, carrying petals and starlight toward the rising sun.