A flash of light tore through the sky.
Moments later, a deafening boom echoed across the Dead Zone, ripping apart the stillness that clung to the land like a second skin.
The sky — eternally weeping — cried harder that day. It always did. The rains never stopped here. Never harsh, never gentle — just sorrowful. As if the heavens mourned those who would never return.
The agony in the air was thick, almost tangible, echoing softly against the ruined walls that stood like broken bones jutting out from the earth. Whatever had happened here — whatever force had been unleashed — had left nothing behind but devastation.
From the academy outpost on the border of the island, observers watched in silence.
They knew what that sound meant.
Another expedition, lost.
The Dead Zone always took something: memories, limbs, people, lives. And in return, it left behind stories no one could forget — or fully explain.
That was why the facility had been built: a strange triad of healers, alchemists, and instructors. A sanctuary for recovery. A place for the broken to be pieced back together.
But even they had never seen anything like this.
As the rain fell harder, search teams moved out from the camp — paramedics with glowing lamps, alchemists clutching spell-bound relics, trainees with trembling hands. They scoured the broken terrain, navigating warped stone and twisted iron, searching for remains to mourn and bury.
They expected silence. They expected death.
And for the most part, they found it.
Until —
"Over here!" a voice called out.
The others rushed forward, drawn to the faint pulse of light breaking through the gloom. Amidst the blackened corpses and ash, one body lay curled inward, arms wrapped tightly around something glowing.
A relic.
The alchemist crouched beside it, gently peeling the charred fingers away. Beneath the soot and blood, a delicate pendant shimmered like it had been untouched by the flames.
A crescent moon, cradling a blooming lily — carved from red moonstone and wrapped in aged gold thread.
The healer's breath caught.
"That's a Matron's Bloom," she whispered. "They're only passed to the daughters of a bloodline…"
Another voice, lower, added, "Or someone chosen to carry the line forward."
A beat of silence. Then a pulse — not from the relic, but from the chest beneath it.
A heartbeat.
Faint. Fragile. But unmistakably there.
The alchemist stood still for a moment, drenched in rain, staring down at the motionless body with the pendant pressed to its chest. Then, softly:
"It doesn't matter who they were before."
He turned to the others.
"The relic has chosen. From this moment forward, she lives — as who she was always meant to be."
The rains drummed harder.
The relic pulsed again, a soft red light blooming briefly against the storm.
And the Dead Zone — quiet and ever-watchful — said nothing.
As the rain thickened into a steady downpour, the alchemists stood in a tense circle around the still form. The relic continued to pulse faintly with a reddish light, casting long shadows on the broken ground.
"We should save her," one of the alchemists said, voice trembling with both awe and uncertainty. "She's alive—barely. Her heart still beats."
"But with what price?" another countered. "Should we really use alchemy? You know what that requires. This isn't healing. This is rebirth. Are we prepared for that?"
"She bears the Matron's Bloom," a third murmured, eyes fixed on the glowing pendant still clutched against the girl's chest. "That relic doesn't choose by accident. It's said to carry the will of God."
"Will of God or not," the older alchemist muttered, "alchemy demands something in return. To bring one soul back… another offering must be made."
A heavy silence fell.
Then, one by one, the alchemists stepped forward, wordless in their resolve. They reached for pouches slung across their belts, for jars tucked into robes—grinding herbs, rubbing sacred stones together until sparks danced between their fingers. The scent of sage, ironroot, and dried blood-leaf filled the air as they chanted ancient words that hadn't echoed in this world for generations.
The energy began to pool, humming low and thick like the turning of the earth itself. Threads of light spun from their hands into the body, weaving across her limbs, knitting charred flesh into new form—her bones shifted, reshaped. The soot faded. Her hair, once singed to ash, grew back like black silk kissed by starlight. The face that emerged was unfamiliar—reborn.
Each alchemist shuddered in turn as the spell reached its height. Their eyes dimmed, their shoulders slumped. Pieces of who they had been—names of old friends, favourite songs, the warmth of a childhood home—were given up in exchange.
And then, the girl stirred.
Her chest rose gently — shallow, uncertain — but undeniably alive.
The spell's glow flickered and faded. The scent of scorched earth and bitter herbs lingered in the rain-soaked air. One by one, the alchemists collapsed to their knees, hollowed out by the price they had paid. A few blinked uncertainly, grasping at memories already slipping from their minds — names, faces, small personal truths lost to the tide of sacrifice.
None of them spoke of it.
"She won't remember anything," the elder alchemist said at last, his voice weathered by both age and ritual. "But she'll be alive. That's all that matters now."
They wrapped her gently in a cloak, still warm with the residue of magic, and lifted her from the ruined soil. Beyond the mountain's edge, just at the lip of the Dead Zone's boundary, stood a singular structure — half academy, half infirmary, half alchemy hall — built not to conquer the Dead Zone, but to tend to the broken things it left behind.
They moved toward it slowly, a procession of soaked robes and scorched boots, as the wind howled over the charred island.
The relic still pulsed faintly at her chest.
And though she did not wake, the Dead Zone lingered quietly behind them — distant, gentle, and watching.