level_act29side_09_end

Franz, steady your breathing. You're going to crush your Originium dice into powder.

Their former owner, Bielefeld, was a rare great caster of Erdenherre who lived a century ago.

He once used the dice to control the wind and lightning in the central valleys of Gaul, masterfully sinking the indomitable flagship of Corsica I and ruining the enemy's formation in a single stroke.

The Battle of the Four Emperors...

Indeed. It was a delightful victory. The Gaulishmen couldn't even manage to cobble together a complete banner. The lamentations of the fleeing and the cheers of the victorious alternated, like a grand duet.

Unfortunately, we lost Bielefeld in the subsequent attack on Lingones. I saved those dice as a tribute to him, in his honor.

If the will of a caster wavers like the grass in winter, how could he ever hope to control the wind and lightning?

Ebenholz remains silent. The Witch King's tone is calm, even... gentle.

It was a feeling not unlike he had discovered a child who'd stolen an old item from his home, stopped him, and explained the item's provenance after the necessary scolding.

How long have you been gone, Franz?

Gone...?

The weakening golden melody seeks an exit from the secret chamber, with Ebenholz and the Witch King standing outside the door. Before them lies a steep, dark red staircase.

This is... The Graf's spire in Urtica.

A series of changes have taken place since the Vyseheim incident, and he had been gone for over a year. But he could never forget the place.

Do you dislike these stairs?

These carpets, blood red, engraved with dark patterns beneath the pristine handrails.

The Messengers who came from the capital every once in a while, exchanging glances. The servants standing in every corner...

Sorry, it's hard to like them.

Right.

When I was your age, I would wake up in the middle of the night and take these stairs to wake up my tutor.

The Witch King ascends the stairs. The sound spreads far down the long corridor as the lamps along the walls light up one by one, illuminating the path beneath the feet of the spire's owner.

Between the lamps float interconnected intricacies of witchcraft. The tutor sent by the Empresses was intended to perform poorly, so many a night Ebenholz would sneak into subtler corridors to practice.

He unconsciously followed the Witch King. For a moment, he seemed to think that the man was still living in the spire, only waking up in the middle of the night to head to the door, for whatever unknown reason.

The short-horned Elafia opened the door. I didn't go in. I stood in the doorway and asked him.

Over the course of three months, I reviewed the six hundred and thirty-four scores collected throughout this ancient spire, all composed by famous musicians and grand casters.

I took the melodies apart, including those that were incomplete or unplayable.

Why is it that the art of which Leithanien is so proud, accumulating the beauty of 'elegance' and 'harmony' of a thousand years, flows with dead melodies and crusty notes?

I turned this sculpture by the door into a sandbox, quickly deducing the situation for the next century.

Iberia would form an alliance with the sea, Victoria's steel knights would spew steam, boots coated with mud and blood would tromp into foreign lands, the Gaulish irises would bloom in the deep forests of Einwald...

But what of Leithanien? The country's horns and fangs have rotted nearly right out of our heads. First with Siracusa, then with Sturmland... Moss and vermin infest every nook and cranny of the spires.

'Why do you turn a blind eye to all of this?'

'Nein, why do you not know of it?'

The short-horned Elafia was still half-asleep. But more detestable than the sand still sprinkled, unwiped in the corners of his eyes, was his long silence. The fear and emptiness he tried to hide.

He claimed to be the most knowledgeable man in Urtica, and even all of Einwald, but he couldn't answer a single question.

Then you kicked him out of the spire, and his entire house fell into decline... I've heard the story.

Just for that. You truly are unreasonable!

Junge, if I were you...

Those hypocritical servants who secretly partook of the wine cellar would never drink a drop of water again. They would feel the pain of their throats cracking inch by inch until their deaths.

As for the teacher who tried to mold me into useless rubbish, he would find himself impaled by Arts dozens or hundreds of times stronger than his during one of those perfunctory demonstrations.

His expression of fear could be frozen into a fine sculpture.

The foolish ministers who tried to manipulate me with a melody would be manipulated themselves, and the obvious contradictions between the twins black and gold could be exploited...

Exploitation without purpose, arbitrarily taking lives... In your own words, those heinous acts are completely meaningless.

'Witch King'.

The purpose of a stairway is to lead you to a higher place.

I despise these stairs as well, but because they are too short. Graf Urtica's spire is so small, with such a narrow view.

Franz, you see this spire as a cage. So, how will you break free of it?

How will you defeat your enemies?

<i>Who</i> are your enemies?

You are despicable, Ebenholz.

You are hateful, Ebenholz.

You are pitiful, Ebenholz.

Is it them?

Nein, of course not.

Then, is it the 'Witch King'?

Is he the nightmare that's troubled you for a lifetime?

Nightmare?

The increasingly empty house, the white-haired child holding his trembling hand on his knee, softly singing a song that begins with 'The Sky is blue and fine'...

The sound of the cello spreads out like an endless grassland, while the sound of the piano turns into a flowing stream. He washes away all weariness, allowing him to walk a long way, with the dark of night no longer so heavy...

He often dreamed of these things.

Dreams are already fleeting, and if he has to miss these beautiful moments, he would rather never sleep.

Nein. I have never dreamed of you.

Memory?

Memory?

<i>Fall des Hexenturms,</i> <i>Triumph der Goldmond: Vorspiel zu Zwillingstürme</i>...

The theaters across the country must perform certain plays each quarter, all with similar themes. With Urtica being the old tyrant's homeland, such plays were put on twice as often.

And as Graf of Urtica, he was required to attend all of them.

How many times did he sit in the audience, watching the Witch King perish during a duet of justice, shortly before leading a standing ovation?

Statues on the streets.

Illustrations in books.

He has seen countless Witch Kings.

Without exception, a mysterious light surrounded their twisted horns, and even their voices had a strange tremor, as sinister effects were added to them.

They were quick to anger, cruel, bloodthirsty, with grotesque and exaggerated expressions under their masks.

Not one of them, not a single portrayal, matched the appearance of the man before him.

The ambitions of the masses need adornment, their desires need release, their hatred needs relief.

And you, Franz...

The larger the shadow that obscures your fate, the more your failures have to stand on.

Every one of you is happy to imagine such a Witch King, for the purposes of that attribution.

'Imagining,' you say?

The cruel decrees, the inhuman experiments, the fires of war, all the suffering you inflicted, the countless innocent lives lost, all of it... you call that imagined?

We're talking about you, Franz. You've never made the slightest effort to represent the people you now claim have died.

A sudden headache washes over him, much like the nights he was haunted by the Voice of Mundane.

On those nights, he could only grip his flute desperately. He felt as though he was dying, so he would exert all his strength to curse the man before him... until his surroundings became clear.

But the Voice of Mundane is long gone, so why does the pain still flow?

Ebenholz cannot see his own bloodshot eyes, but the layer of red webbing in his field of vision becomes increasingly heavy.

Pain stirs all memories, tearing through all emotion, as if trying to draw everything out of his head to transform into something tangible.

Nightmares. Memories. Imagination.

Look back on your rather short life.

Countless times you've cursed the name entwined with your own, that indelible mark...

Could it all have been nothing more than facing the void? Looking into the mirror?

The Witch King is dead.

By the time you were born, by the time of that night twenty-three years ago. And his death was genuine.

What meaning is there in calling a dead man your enemy?

The terrifying experiments of your childhood, the pain that's lingered throughout your life, the cold eyes and mockery of so called 'representatives' and 'servants,' the criticisms and accusations of others... Do you still dwell on these things?

Nein. You know very well that compared to what I've lost, all those are insignificant.

Correct, you don't care. You really are upholding the promise you made to him. You're prepared to walk through the long night, bearing it all.

But Ebenholz, why, after all this time, are you still in such pain?

I...

Accepting a punishment is not the same thing as finding redemption.

Why can't you forgive yourself, the man who has always been protected, to the very last?

Why can't you let go of the sacrifices they made for you?

Why do you continue to indulge in self-flagellation, unable to move forward?

Because there might yet be even more precious commitments, even greater sacrifices, even deeper regrets, and even longer suffering ahead?

You can't help but doubt. You can't help but fear.

So then, Ebenholz, who is your enemy?

But Ebenholz, if you don't move toward the light, we can never walk out of that night.

And the night itself is meaningless.

...The night itself is meaningless.

Sehr gut, Franz.

You have defeated your enemies, and broken free of the spire that was your prison.

The Witch King waves his hand and the golden melody, as if finally released, flows toward the door like so many harmless fireflies, quietly drifting in the river of history.

They pass by Ebenholz, brushing against his clothes and hair with a touch ever so gentle.

Ebenholz suddenly feels a baffling sensation. As if the Witch King... had patted him on the head.

Pfft—

Ebenholz cannot control himself, he bursts into laughter.

Ahahahahah! So, after all my tremendous efforts to storm Genesis Horn, I end up winning the praise of His Majesty the Witch King?

He laughs at the image of himself, at his own embarrassment. He laughs at the past nineteen years, realizing he has never laughed this heartily.

Even if thunderous rage were to punish him for his lapse the very next second, and headaches were to him back into the abyss, or even if he were to shatter into pieces, he wants to keep laughing.

But nothing happens.

The endless staircase, the spire of Urtica, even the Witch King, it all vanishes. Nothing remains but an empty throne.

Ebenholz stands before the throne in silence, waiting for the unreal sensation to fade away completely.

You've been watching long enough, Sankta.

In his laughter, I felt a sense of melancholy and... liberation.

The character at the center of this drama finally confronts all that he's been through, whether scripted or in life.

If he finds a new goal, he carries on steadfast.

What about you?

You were the first to enter my Pavillon, even before Fremont.

(Leithanian) The Pavillon... my palace.

Thanks to Yulia, I got a glimpse of what it looks like.

It reproduces all that Leithanien has ever taken pride in. The spires that join the millennia, the knowledge, art, and power accumulated over generations, undiminished by time.

There is nothing else like it, an immense project beyond human capability.

In fact, I speculated on it even before.

The soldier, the painter, the scholar, the tuner... I've met each of those who personally witnessed 'Der Tod des Hexenkönigs.'

That night made the deepest impression on their lives. They were entangled by it, trapped in the contradictions of their times and themselves.

Through them, I reconstructed the last melody you left in the mortal plane.

Hoarse and cacophonous, impossible to interpret through conventional music theory... This melody couldn't possibly point to a legacy to inherit, as your followers had expected.

...It was never meant for the mortal plane.

The echoes painstakingly collected by the people of Leithanien are the bricks and mortar of this palace, another form of construction material you left behind.

They would ultimately be found by others, but who could uncover their purpose?

Fame, honor, wealth... an individual, a house, a class... These shallow 'motifs' run throughout all melodies, across all lands.

The meaning of music has always been so narrow.

Sankta, unlike those foolish ministers, you come from the so-called 'holy city' and are unconcerned with Leithanien's past and future.

Nor are you a Lich. Unaware of the existence of Kargereich, you do not walk the path that Fremont does.

And so, why are you here?

Before I explain my purpose, I have a question...

At this very moment, as we stand here, are you only a strand of strings trembling in rigor mortis? A patchwork of flickering lights subjectively colored by emotion, one of the countless fragments of consciousness...?

Or are you the fully intact Witch King?

I had meant to play you...

The physical rules underpinning sound cannot be realized in Kargereich.

However, the place I stand does not acknowledge the rules of Kargereich.

The loss of sound is your own limitation, and has nothing to do with the Pavillon.

Music is your eyes, your ears, your heart... your everything.

You think you've lost all perception, yet desire is stronger. You are a dull yet interesting observer.

Arturia releases her grip on the cello and simply looks at the Witch King.

His entire life, all he has been through, his thoughts and emotions collectively resonate through the space, filling every cubic inch. This is the palace he has built for himself.

You walked in, you see what he sees.

Arturia sees what she had read in the old Lich's memories, the 'blackness.'

Infinite 'blackness,' or rather— 'chaos.'

Human understanding of this word often comes from the negative emotions associated with it—confusion, disorientation, sadness, anxiety, fear...

In reality, it normally refers to a state that is difficult to describe, or an object or concept that cannot be established.

But this is the only word that can describe the scene before Arturia.

Desolation. A land of annihilation.

What sits behind the material world, the vector of collapse.

No visible boundaries, no discernible direction. Sound, light, shape, color...

Things that do not belong in the same dimension mix, stack, and stretch. The cursed lifeforms and their environment are symbiotic, even mutual bodies.

Annihilation is the only ecology here.

'Chaos' surrounds the Witch King's palace, like sunlight and air surrounding a... bubble that could burst with a touch.

The Witch King's Spire stands in the center of the palace, with Originium crystals growing from its base like moss between the bricks.

But such moss covers the entire palace, connecting seemingly irregular spires and other buildings, comprising some vague formation.

Chaos invades the outermost cluster of spires, like a rising layer of mist. Once the mist dissipates, Der Wiener Uhrturm and Die Tür des Wissens no longer exist.

Clearly, the palace is gradually emptying. But its boundaries remain, as if adhering to predetermined rules.

My casters, my musicians, do not resist the storm of lightning and dust. In years past, they destroyed the Gaulish fleets, and now they will push back this chaos!

Celestial phenomena and calamities join the symphony, as Originium shapes new connections for you. Your bodies and consciousnesses will become a part of the instruments, strings, and troop formations!

Fill the gaps, reform the lines!

Kargereich is beyond comprehension? Demons cannot be captured? Incompetence is nothing but cowardice. Return all intelligence to the Spire for analysis!

Confront it, comprehend it, conquer it! In the name of Leithanien!

Vibrate the strings of our lives until they break!

The King of Casters stands proudly on his throne, with all the spires at his command. This founding of a nation occurs simultaneously with the push-and-pull of war, as it did in Leithanian history.

Amid the unending chaos, the Witch King is the only comprehensible order.

Your enemy is terrifying, so... incomprehensible.

Is 'Leithanien' your unwavering cause? Even death cannot end it.

Just as Herr Fremont predicted, your palace is suffering an irreversible collapse.

Do you regret it? If you hadn't become a tyrant, if the mutinous army hadn't seized your spire, if death hadn't ended your study of Kargereich...?

Would you have had the time to make this palace more stable, unshaken by chaos?

Do you ever wonder, if you weren't the Witch King, if you didn't stand on the shoulders of all Leithanien...?

Could you master Arts and knowledge beyond the reach of mere mortals? Could you surpass reality itself? Could you build your own spire within Kargereich?

Your questions are meaningless, Sankta.

I have no regrets, and I do not wonder.

I do not fear monsters, nor do I fear becoming one.

Then, Your Majesty, I come in search of confirmation.

Confirmation? It has been a long time since someone spoke to me of such things.

I seek from you the greatest answer a human heart can seek—A future.

An ideal future.

Why are you standing there like a fool? Was the blow too hard? Do you have brain damage?

...What's <i>your</i> excuse?

Oh what a comeback. A rude little goat you are.

You saw him too. Did you win?

Win...?

In this ruined place, I could fight that man innumerable times, debate him for innumerable years.

But how could I win a debate with an echo? How could I kill a dead man?

...Then we might as well leave.

Leave? Aha, you really want to turn and walk away? After everything you've suffered on your journey, even as you stand right before the throne?

I'm here. I've seen it.

The throne is empty.

...But the Spire is still here.

This strange, distorted, dangerous space... It still hangs over the heads of countless people.

You're the most powerful Lich. Tell me, what should I do?

How can we... once again topple the Genesis Spire?

There is only one way... the same way it was done twenty-three years ago.

What a beautiful sunset.

Lieselotte, why are you hiding here again?

I'd rather not stay with the envoys of the Kurfürsten.

They speak so crudely of postwar matters right in front of us, as if we're already dead.

Herr Fremont says the odds of us surviving the battle are less than one-in-ten.

Since the day we were born, every test we've taken has surpassed the expectations of those old men.

But the battle with Herkunftshorn isn't another test, it's the only chance we have.

Then we will seize that chance.

We have Herkunftshorn's witchcraft, Gaulish technology, and the Lich's blessing within us.

We are more perfect, more powerful than anyone else alive.

But we can still die. They haven't turned us into immortal war machines.

They gave us human bodies and feelings, making us like unto them, pushing us toward that end since the beginning.

Let's think about something happy, Hildegard... If we really can kill Herkunftshorn, what would you want to do?

You don't need to say it, I already know. You want 'freedom.' Every time you pick up the sword, it's for the same reason.

You can't stand those arrogant nobles, the ones who don't even treat us like people. You never could.

What about you?

You can guess, I'm sure. Who knows me better than you?

...The sun is about to set.

Soon, all the clouds... will fade away with the last thread of golden light.

We need to destroy the Genesis Horn, quickly.

Are you giving up?

You conspired with the Lich to use it to obtain Herkunftshorn's ultimate power, right?

That power... Getting it under control would mean granting Leithanien her sharpest sword.

But Fremont and I have tried so many different methods to force our way into that space.

It's really something, the one who finally managed to open the way... was an outsider.

Whatever her motives, she has given us a chance.

I will not allow an unknown threat to continue looming over Leithanien. Of course, I would rather it descend more safely and discreetly, but at least we can end it now.

If you've made up your mind, the Liches will show you to the throne of the Witch King.

Young Lich, you've been here all along?

Don't misunderstand me, Leithanien's Eternal Grace. I am but a lowly Messenger. Kill me, you will gain nothing but a thread scattered on the wind.

I have received a message from the master. He is presently within the Genesis Horn.

Only by joining forces with the Austere Authority to once again strike down the power of Herkunftshorn will you disperse the dark clouds hanging over Zwillingstürme.

Very well then.

But the master also warns that the Genesis Horn is as unstable as you and he both anticipated.

Once Herkunftshorn's power dissipates, the spire of the Witch King within the void will collapse. Losing the barrier between reality and Kargereich may cause a more serious problem.

When the final moment comes, your choice will decide the fate of Leithanien... as it ever has.

...But a single thread.

Liches always come and go with the wind, free enough to be oh-so-irritating.

Michael.

I'm here.

Find the Lich from before, and the young man raised by Fremont.

Do what you can to protect the people in the amphitheater, in the off chance that...

There is no off chance! You and Ewigegnade will surely return victorious!

Once more: what is our mission?

To... eliminate any threat to Leithanien at its source!

Good. The Gesatzswächter stand ready. Remember, your signal is my command. When the time comes, if there are no new orders, they will act.

Grimmacht...

Go.

...Ja!

Lieselotte, we should move out too.

Both the Liches and the Kurfürsten, always talking about the fate of Leithanien. What about our fate?

We've been here... atop the two tallest spires in Leithanien for over two decades.

Does Leithanien really belong to us? Or are we still just her chosen vessels, carrying the fate of the country on sword and shield?

Let's deal with the problem at hand first.

That's a sentence I've heard too many times now.

Our duet remains tacit, but this is the way we were born, no? So long as we play, we cooperate. That is the mission we have been given.

No matter the time, we will always have our understanding.

...Indeed.

I have no doubt that we will once again achieve victory for Leithanien.

But... sooner or later, you will have to face me, to answer me.

Hildegard, when we kill Herkunftshorn again, what will you want to do?

You're taking such great risks to bring the future to Leithanien. But what is that future?

(Piercing noise)

Ach, it's getting louder.

You can't kill the 'echoes,' they died a long time ago. And they're emerging from another space.

The Twins are ready to enter the Genesis Horn. The spatial turbulence will be more intense there. We'll need to use strings to hold the Horn, but who knows how long we can drag it...

Go. This is something only a Lich can do.

As for me, I must cover the old man and Ebenholz's retreat.

Only by blocking these dark... things can the people be safe. That's the only way those who've entered the Genesis Horn can return safely.

Do you need me to stitch up your wounds for you?

Nein. The pain... keeps me awake.

I nearly forgot. Right, that's what allows you to move undisturbed by the notes.

Unlike the other Leithanians in the amphitheater, who've mostly succumbed to the altered tune of the Güldenesgesatz.

That's a good thing too. If they heard the sounds of the remnants emanating from the land of the dead, they'd lose their minds.

The Gesatzswächter and the Twin Empresses are doing what they can to weave melodies and defend the people's sanity.

Once the Kaiserinnen stop playing and enter the Genesis Horn, only the Gesatzswächter will be left.

Their Arts are very strong, but Arts are Arts. How can they resist the chaos of the void?

The same goes for you, Lessing.

Both your body and your will are being consumed. Your blood will run dry.

Are you saying... that I'm not an immortal Lich?

So what if you were?

It is precisely because we're Liches that we understand the absolute nature of chaos. It's like unto boundless knowledge.

Then... what should we do?

Admit our insignificance and helplessness, do nothing, and wait for a greater power to crush us? Wait for your chaos to devour us?

I won't.

I'd rather take my life into my own hands, and listen to the sound of the last drop of blood falling from my wounds as I collapse.

Hmph... stubborn.

I still remember all those years ago, when the master rescued you from the Gendarmerie. We all thought you were minutes from death.

You were so small, so thin, so... fragile. Like you would shatter if touched by a strand of thread.

But you survived, covered in scars, with a temperament more and more like the master.

...Danke.

It was you who helped me survive. Just like... the Liches have helped Leithanien for so many years.

The Twins are moving, I should find the other Liches.

Lessing, my unorthodox little brother... I'll listen for your voice on the wind.

I just hope what I find with my threads won't be your dying breaths.

(Sharp noise)

The dead don't feel pain or exhaustion.

They surge endlessly from the cracks between reality and chaos, repeating the last howl they gave before death.

Once the Movement is gone... will it be just you making such noise?

It sounds truly awful.

He slowly unwinds the wrappings on his longsword.

The cloth is long enough to use to cover his ears.

But he doesn't do that.

After so many years of hard work, Lessing has grown accustomed to focusing all his attention on the edge of his blade.

The theme of Leithanien will be rewritten by each and every one of us.

And before that... is just a battle.

Victory or defeat, life or death, none of it bears consideration.