level_act29side_10_beg

Phew—! You scared me...

Vivian, what are you hiding under the covers for... are you writing a letter?

Shh—Tante Cora's about to come. She'll be angry if she sees me awake this late.

Who are you writing to?

Vati.

I pestered Tante Cora for two weeks before she finally agreed to sneak me out to a poetry recital at Ludwigs-Universität, and I want to tell Vati all about it.

I was going write it tomorrow, but I'm afraid it'll be too late by the time we get back...

Not that I have any way to send them. I'll just store them somewhere safe, along with all my knight novels.

But why?

Since I decided not to eat candy anymore, I have to put away those childish fantasies too.

But didn't you always want to be like those knights? With their shining swordspears sparkling like the sun? Didn't you want to visit that radiant, glowing country?

They're too far. It's all just too far away.

Mutti's not here anymore, and Vati, he's by himself. I'm... on my own too. I don't want to be too far from him.

I asked Tante Cora how long it'd take for us to get back to Sturmland from Zwillingstürme. The fastest route would be only two days, so if Vati needs me, I can always—

But your Vati doesn't even know you stayed behind.

He'd definitely be mad if he did.

But I don't regret my choice. I begged Tante Cora to help me stay here in Leithanien, instead of following her to the Grand Knight Territory like he told me to.

Even if I have to hide. Even if he can never know.

Tante's helped us so much. My Mutti said she's super strong, super brave, and super gentle...

But even so, I'm sure she needs people by her side too.

She's always been by herself. I can't do much, but I can at least hold her hand.

Mhm. I know exactly what you mean.

Viviana.

I can't say you've made a bad choice. You're giving up on more things, but at the very least you'll have fewer regrets.

It's Tante Cora... I think someone's stopped her to talk.

I'll go take a look.

You should get to bed.

A rare event. Has the Twin Empresses' favorite actually come here of her own accord, to meet with us 'dregs'?

Finally made up your mind?

All because of the Hochberg girl?

Viviana is too sensible for her own good.

She takes after both Lucinda and Werner. If I had a daughter myself, I can only hope she'd be as tough and kindhearted as her.

That day in the car, she suddenly begged me to let her stay. And I thought, maybe things would work out better this way.

Better for Werner, and... better for me.

With her around, I can feel myself gradually calming down this time.

When I pass by Karl Schmidt Street, sometimes I feel like I can see the marigolds again, blooming all over the street. As if the flowering season will never end.

But her current situation says it all.

As grand a Kurfürst as he may have been, he was incapable of saving his own beloved daughter.

Leithanian's illness still constrains all those who have sacrificed everything for the country's so-called rebirth. Its terminal rot has lived and strived, barring the citizens from their freedom.

Still, I'm elated to hear that her presence here has helped you come to a decision, Concertmaster.

No! Cora, I didn't come here to—

This shouldn't be happening!

Everything before her eyes dissipates. Once again, Viviana finds herself on the spiral staircase.

She had thought that an earlier solace would prevent the inevitable, so that tragedies wouldn't have to fall upon the lamentable woman behind the door.

Or, at the very least, that she could say her goodbyes before it was too late.

Countless doors simultaneously open up before her. They line up in succession, meandering towards an unclear horizon.

She recalls every Viviana who was behind each of the doors. She sees every candle and its firelight through each of the frames.

Her parents—or perhaps she herself—make a different choice each time. Life after life, possibility after possibility.

If Mutti and Vati didn't have to hide their love for each other... If everyone had accepted us, then maybe they'd all have blessed my birth instead.

Could we have been happy forever?

If Vati could manage to rid himself of all his identities and duties, and live a simple, ordinary life with Mutti...

Could we have gotten a much better ending?

If you'd contacted McKee sooner, and used the K.G.C.C.'s resources to return to Sturmland even just a day earlier...

Could you have at least seen him one last time?

If people could see you as someone ordinary, looked at you without scrutiny, mockery, or pity...

If you'd found a more perfect image, or just the right words... If you'd written of the brilliant marigolds and gentle silhouettes before you...

If you could just... be accompanied by books in peace...

Would it have been less painful?

You deserve a better life than this, Viviana.

If there really is one.

But why? Why does every last one...

...leave me so disappointed?

Viviana hears the sound of something moving. Doors collapse, distant but clear, like snow losing its grip on a mountain top. The beginning of an avalanche.

Is there such a thing as a second chance?

She walks towards the nearest door. A new one, just like every other she has walked into.

Will there be a better choice behind this door? A more satisfying resolution? Fewer regrets?

With that in mind, she has already opened the door.

The Genesis... This 'Zwillingstürme' space is extremely unstable, Yulia Schüler. Your premonition was correct.

I understand that you won't leave...

So please stick to the resonance pipes as much as possible to keep yourself safe.

What about you, Herr Executor?

I must find Arturia. The sooner, the better.

Frau Giallo should have already met the person she wanted to.

She is a dangerous individual, and should come back with me to Laterano.

But if she truly seeks the Witch King, then she could be in danger right now.

Federico turns around and looks into the distance.

Ever since Yulia activated the retrofitted resonance pipes, the scenery around them has gradually cleared up, both near and far.

And with that, Arturia's destination is no longer in question.

At the far edge of his sight stands a gigantic black tower, interwoven with scarlet and surrounded by a cluster of spires he's never seen before.

Herr Executor, before we go our separate ways, can you tell me how Jan is doing these days?

He has encountered some common growing pains.

Loris Bordin left him a sum of money, but judging by his own wishes, he may very well leave Leithanien and make a living in another country.

That's fine too.

That boy's head has always been swimming with ideas.

Seniora Schüler, you appear to have more questions for me.

The Caprinae woman quickens her footsteps just slightly as Federico continues at his usual pace, giving her a slight lead.

Loris, is he...

...already dead?

I never said—

Herr Executor, you're clearly the type to dive headfirst into your work without a second thought.

But you seem particularly concerned with my affairs. You wouldn't willingly put your mission on hold like this for no reason.

I've heard from Loris how Laterano's Notarial Hall works, and—

His will.

Prior to Das Kaiserinnensfest, Loris Bordin died in the sewers near Bodenshof's Forest Park, while trying to prevent the Witch King's remains from inciting a revolt.

His final message before death was a phone call in which he expressed his hope that someone else would take over the Yulia Schüler case.

For fifteen years, he resented the city of Zwillingstürme, loathed his work at the Gendarmerie, and treated everything apart from his final battle with indifference.

His sole preoccupation was your case. And as a former citizen of Laterano, his final request can be considered his last will and testament.

That said, the case has now been solved, and it is no longer possible to investigate any further... But I did find a letter addressed to you in his residence.

I read it only once, but I have it memorized. I can recite it to you if necessary.

However, the contents are full of rather emotional expressions.

Such as: 'When I decided to get to the bottom of your case, that gross monster summoned me to his office.

'He slapped me in the face and said', Leithanian expletive omitted, 'Don't you dare think your military success gives you the right to pick fights with everyone.'

'Yulia, I hate Zwillingstürme. I hate that I'm unable to—'

Herr Executor, Loris wasn't that sort of man.

Yulia interrupts Federico's recital.

The Loris I know was never the type to call himself a 'hero' or anything like that.

But he was the first soldier to set foot in the Witch King's Spire.

He was the only fool to join the Gendarmerie and silently protect the city, despite owning a title.

The only officer willing to defy the nobles to protect civilians.

He knew things weren't perfect in either Laterano or Leithanien, and that many things needed changing.

But someone harboring hope in their heart will never give in to despair.

...Never.

Yulia stops in her tracks and begins mumbling to herself. Federico follows suit and looks at her quivering shoulders from behind. He does not move.

The young executor listens in silence, attempting to analyze the emotions in her words.

Seniora Schüler, are you... disappointed with Loris Bordin?

In truth, he was only—

I'm not.

I'm not, Herr Executor. I just... feel sorry for him.

I'm the reason he became like that, right? But I was actually—

A pipe organ suddenly sounds from the distance, followed by a huge energy pulse.

Federico subconsciously pulls out his gun.

...going to accept his proposal.

Federico turns back to Yulia.

An insipid mist flits through his hands, and the Caprinae woman before his eyes no longer exists. Only nothingness remains, as it always has been.

He suddenly recalls the flower from the Sanctilaminium Ambrosii. Back then, he felt that that flower could be the answer to his confusion.

Now, he finds himself in a similar situation, with no one in front of him.

The primary difference is that he is still unable to comprehend the truth of the situation and place he is in—a place devoid of laws or solid footing, only endless dangers and unknowns.

This was Yulia Schüler's second 'death.' My preliminary deduction is that she was caught in a wave of abnormal energy caused by a violent impact to the Genesis Horn.

I will move to verify the precise cause immediately.

In short, this too was an accident.

An accident that has once again destroyed her life, and once again she was unable to react in time.

Federico is an outstanding executor. He has been with the Notarial Hall for seven years, and carried the title of Saint for two.

He calls himself an executioner and executor, and has witnessed countless deaths, but this is the first time that he's truly sensed someone's emotions in their final moments.

She lived in her own 'Zwillingstürme' for an eternity, as she loved and regretted. Even death was unable to shake her belief in life.

Simple.

But intense.

Your silence ails me, Sankta.

Yulia, she...

The twins created by Leopold and Fremont are currently attempting to brute force their way into my Pavillon.

Frail consciousnesses cannot withstand the resulting energy waves.

No, it's not just her...?

Arturia turns around, even though there is nothing else to see.

Suddenly, the energy blows away a layer of mist like a breeze, revealing the breathing, footsteps, joy, and grief hidden beneath.

These emotions are now—no, they've always been here, all over the Pavillon.

If a soul is like an instrument, then at this very moment she feels the vibration of countless strings, a chorus.

I could only see Yulia because of my acquaintance with Loris, and I had only brief contact with her.

But there are so many ordinary souls 'living' inside your palace.

They exist as information, and walk as Leithanians.

Form and identity. Nothing more.

But reminiscing is a luxury I do not allow in my Pavilion, Sankta.

I believe you came to verify a future?

I think... I've already gotten my confirmation, in a way.

Why, exactly, do people develop a 'self'? And how does one become strong enough to go up against an approaching crisis, or a predestined doom?

We all exist within 'order.'

Rules and commandments serve as Laterano's anchors and cables, enabling faith to traverse the entire lands and providing a target for the prayers of believers. The law is our piety.

'Leithanien,' However, is the result of Güldenesgesatz. Through its systems, aesthetics, models, and morals, ten different regions with no common cultural identity joined together as a unity that has lasted a thousand years.

Experience inherited through generations, laws forged in writing, concepts established by convention...

These exist a priori, and from it, an 'order' is formed. They guide how we should think, speak, and deal with ourselves as well as others.

...And so it becomes our instinct, engraved into our very flesh and blood.

But the order has its imperfections. It is rigid, unequal, and indifferent. It separates us.

Laterano's order offers redemption to its believers, but the gates of Paradise do not open for the Sarkaz. It refuses to provide bread for their empty stomachs or roofs to shelter them from the rain.

Ægir and Iberia face the same dangerous ocean, but their respective orders forbid them to keep watch at the same lighthouse.

Our order rebels against us, and we yearn for it still, calling for its perfection.

...Only 'order' is desired.

Laterano's laws hover barely above a hundred words, and Leithanien's theme has long been concise.

Their minds shallow. Their pride false. Their senses dull.

They regard only the dead as eternal. By this they are timid, yet also fearless.

What is your answer then, Sankta? What do you desire?

...'Emotion'.

We exist in the 'present,' a river whose running flow is our feelings, our discordant and capricious reflections of the moment we are living in.

Feelings build into emotion, and emotions shape our souls.

Our emotions are varied and profound. We are the love, the hatred, the appreciation, and the lament we harbor when these emotions call upon our reflection, and through these encounters we come to understand life itself.

They were the torch we wielded to repel the shadow of death long before the birth of laws, religion, politics, or science. We were born as prodigies in utilizing our emotions.

And thus, <i>we</i> are connected.

Are you referring to the empathy between the Sankta?

Indeed.

Language is not without its limit, and what it finds an impossible chasm to leap over, empathy arches across in an emotion's quiver. It's a precious gift to my kin, through which we can read each other's feelings.

But it is also utterly unfair. Its creeds are too vague, and its benediction too narrow, like a rule written only to serve Laterano's order.

So you crave a 'true empathy?'

You seek an empathy from within, with a wider yet deeper range than what you call 'emotion,' that connects everyone on all lands as one?

An interesting delusion, Sankta.

I've searched, I've tried... and failed.

Would you imagine it? In a dilapidated monastery, Sankta and Sarkaz had been fighting side-by-side against life's miseries and their own wavering faith, all to protect a hard-earned garden?

But when true disaster came knocking at our doors, we found that our 'kin,' who had understood and accepted us for six decades, still harbored doubts in their hearts, fissures in their faiths. We were always strangers, nothing more.

Emotions are as real as the fragility of our minds.

We are good at avoiding pain, experts, even, at muting ourselves on it. Conversely, this helps mask our own feebleness.

As a result, people cannot feel what others feel. Tragedies will always transpire as long as this barrier remains.

And you and your music endeavor to unshackle people by confronting them with their true hearts, just as one would polish an instrument on sandpaper.

You attempt to strengthen their souls by guiding them through their regrets.

Is this the duty you have long since imposed upon yourself to perform?

Yes, Your Majesty.

Because to this day, I have been seeking confirmation.

I have a future in mind.

Continue.

In that future, everyone possesses a most powerful soul.

Our strengths are unequal, unlike yours, where a tenacious soul can't be shaken by anything in this mortal realm, and even death is powerless to wipe away your struggles, pursuits, and conquests.

Others are like those Cora, Yulia, or the souls in the palace. They are unconcerned with greater undertakings, and simply love the lives they live—but still they dare to fight against the turbulent waves that are engulfing them.

Of course, we will persist in our pursuit of happiness, but more importantly, we will no longer avoid pain, or be ashamed of it.

We, as people, should suffer, and we will suffer.

Our apathy, doubt, confusion, remorse, shame, grief... These complex emotions will no longer leave scars deep in our hearts, nor will they remain untouchable beyond the realm of words.

We will no longer shy away from self-expression, nor will we struggle to find ways to do so.

We will understand how to live with ourselves, and live strong we will.

Sankta, the results of your performances are often unsatisfactory. You should know that for most, emotions are inadequate guidelines, and wholly following one's heart will only lead to dire consequences.

Crafty is the Creator, who, for each house built, has orchestrated a blizzard that brings its ruination.

Yet you hope for your future to include... everyone?

An amusing delusion.

No, Your Majesty—it <i>must</i> include everyone.

Indeed, your existence is an exception to the laws and reasons that govern these great lands.

Born from order, yet ruling over it, your incredible personality, formidable strength, boundless knowledge, adventurous spirit, and subversive insight... all condensed into an essence of one.

You have glimpsed beyond the horizon of perception into the black woods of mystery, and even wield the power to traverse the unknown in your hand.

But they are also the root of your madness, your downfall...

These extraordinary qualities, and the nigh unattainable achievements built upon them; they cease to exist with your demise.

It's a cage trapping us all, and we should not expect any individual to break it open, however powerful its soul is.

Therefore, <i>everyone</i> needs a strong soul, they need the power to 'empathize.'

We will be able to share our knowledge, our experiences, our abilities and insights, all via our emotional bonds.

Then, there would be no crisis able to undo our ties, no defeat able to wear down our rapport.

There will be no truths unrevealable, no pain incomprehensible, no obstruction unsurpassable. Our power comes from our individual strengths.

We would be distinctly ourselves, yet as one.

And when adversity and the unknown are at the gate, they would find our sanctuary unbreakable, as our collective emotions have formed a wall of steel.

<i>Thus</i> I am here. If a 'strong soul' can truly exist, strong enough to resist a predestined doom, then by no means should I ignore it—the future.

Much have you witnessed and experienced, and devoted you are to the power of emotions.

Why, then, did you not seek it from yourself, Sankta?

Are you... reading my mind?

You've been doing this from the moment I arrived at your throne... Is this your 'performance'?

A performance that befits a performer like you, pilgrim.

Everything in my Pavillon, I command at will. They are <i>mine</i>.

Accumulated guilt?

Unreconcilable sorrow?

Hopeless disappointment?

Powerful courage?

Endless regret?

Unwavering affection?

There is no 'performance.' No performance will allow such cruelty and arbitrary.

You do not come to a common understanding, nor are his joy and sorrow yours. You have thrown open the gate to your mind, and he is the guest and the host.

Leithanian history has recorded how the Witch King reformed and rearranged his people, his orchestra and army. Disobedience is not tolerated nor possible.

Sankta. If emotions had forms, by all rights you should be the fullest individual I have ever met.

But I sense in you nothing. Why?

Because you use yourself as a mirror, reflecting the emotions of others. Nein, you do not see and tell. You receive.

You are a receptacle whose content is overflowing with the emotions of others, with no room for your own. You feel what they feel, but at the same time feel <i>nothing</i>.

You undo the knots of others while further tightening yours, a state that resembles only chaos.

Arturia feels a pair of hands on her.

They stretch into the lakebed of her consciousness, and do not stop there, but stir up the mud at the bottom, arriving at the void in the very depths.

Suffocation resembles a rushing river, scrubbing every nook and cranny of her consciousness as it thoroughly engulfs her within.

Hm?

I see.

I saw your only truth.

The Witch King remains silent for a long time as he stares at the person before his throne.

Arturia has never felt her heart beat as fast as it is now.

Sankta, the future you describe does have its value.

Perhaps it will find its place in the river of time.

However, you are the one person furthest from your utopia.

If you are just a receptacle, just a mirror, if you cannot even see the reality you have neglected...

Then you have reached your end, before your path has yet to reach its.

Your Majesty...

Your audience is over, Sankta.

Your request I will not answer.

Now, bear witness to my end.

New guests at my Pavillon. Very well. Come forward, twins.

I recognize you both.

At first, a pipe organ hums in the distance, its sound reaching the throne loud and clear.

A gentle shade of gold follows. Like a splotch of rich ink soaking into view, the color climbs over the palace walls before melting the Pavilion down.

Brilliant rays of light dye the clouds aureate, and Zwillingstürme's glowing sunset illuminates the black spire that had long ceased to exist.

You truly are attached to that throne, Herkunftshorn.

Twenty-three years ago, when Hildegard and I made our way here, you were sitting on it just as you are now.

Summoned here late at night by a creed, your subjects crawled beneath the steps as your melody shredded their souls away, not daring to make one move. You were disinclined to even take notice of them.

Judging by your attire... you have both proclaimed yourselves the Kaiserinnen of Leithanien?

The blades painstakingly forged by the nobles are now pointing back at them, freshly resharpened.

How amusing.

I won't deny you. Lieselotte and I were born from your Arts. Our flesh and blood, as well as our power, were born from the nobles' boring ambitions. Indeed, we are only creations.

But precisely because of that, we can be loyal only to Leithanien.

Answer, then: how did you serve the Leithanien you are devoted to?

Hildegard and I do not judge ourselves by our merits, Herkunftshorn.

But at the very least, when the people of Zwillingstürme lift their heads, they should be able to see a brilliant sunset, instead of dark clouds brimming with the metallic tinge of blood.

That is our dream, and what we work towards.

How naive.

Do you wish to continue indulging yourselves in the illusions you weaved, and enshrouding your minds from the truth?

Humanity is shackled by repulsive rules. Our legs cannot walk. Our eyes cannot see.

And what kind of future can you possibly bestow to Leithanien, given your wayward minds and narrow sights?

Is the Witch King, who nearly drove Leithanien to the brink, actually rebuking us for our incompetence in giving her a future?

Lieselotte, we don't have much time.

We've performed together on every one of the twenty-three celebrations of Leithanien's rebirth, and your skills have never faltered. I hope I can put the same trust in your combat practice.

You and Leithanien have my shield, Hildegard.

I admire your experience, courage, and achievements, Herkunftshorn. You overthrew prejudice and the old order—more firmly entrenched than the Spires are now—and brought opportunity to every Leithanian.

You gave the nation unprecedented vitality, and were to be revered as the greatest monarch in its history.

But then you pushed the country into war, erected even more terrifying spires, and inflicted suffering a hundred times more painful to the very people you had given hope to. You were ruined by your own desires.

Herkunftshorn, our widespread standards, our harmonious melodies, and our arts and morals make Leithanien what she is.

But you rocked her foundations, undermined her survival, and made her your own vassal.

Your meddling turned the entire country into a resource to be exploited. And it is only righteous that everything you have explored or mastered belongs to Leithanien.

So we're here to retrieve it.

A spire that remains only as a shadow should not exist in the first place. To think it actually lingered over Leithanien these past twenty-three years.

What did you call it earlier... your 'Pavillon'? A palace?

No matter. Today will be your last, and this place shall serve as your final grave.

Originium clusters surge from thin air, first hitting Grimmacht's blade before fragments splash onto Ewigegnade's shield.

Black and red unite into one. A dazzling gold. An intense purple.

Their Arts are condensed to their very limits, like unchangeable, primitive blocks of color. They collide, but cannot blend into each other, and only splash before the throne, seizing every inch of space.

An ear-splitting rhythm accompanies the explosion of colors. Their weapons, originally instruments, perform two movements in two completely different styles, at the same time and place.

Brass, woodwinds, strings, percussion, keyboards, and even bell trees, as well as death whistles...

The rusty reeds beneath Sargon's golden sands, the flame-wreathed amber under the sludge of the Black Flow, the rootless flowers buried deep in the frostbound soil of Sami, and the boundless chaos itself in this Kargereich...

A cosmos coexists with its voice within the Witch King's melody. Notes are woven, conducted, and played by his hand, notes to sing a melody of the 'Witch King,' notes to sing a melody for the 'Witch King.'

This mortal realm will never again know a symphony this clamorous, harsh, and illogical, yet also spectacular, majestic, and striking.

Ewigegnade and Grimmacht's duet is so simple in comparison.

The notes gently rise and sharply fall, with the dignified and imposing pipe organ resembling a castle encircled by mountains, while the ethereal violin is like a waterfall pouring by the citadel.

The sound of water splashing onto rock is still clearly audible in the room furthest from the waterfall, but even in the closest it does not sound so noisy.

The two act like one, their movements as harmonious as if they had never split.

The symphonies sing a war song: two generations of Leithanian Kaisers fight before the throne, the entire Pavillon both their sand table and military formation. History bends and rewinds at this moment—

Gaul's flagship crosses the river valley under Corsica I's lead, soldiers bumping shoulders as they form a thick cloud and tear apart Sturmland's iron curtain-like defense line.

And then, Herkunftshorn's silhouette introduces its reign at the pinnacle. He stands atop the Spire, heaven and earth at his beck and call. The elements, thunderbolts, and sandstorms are all at his disposal—

To swallow everything.

Under the omnipresent dust clouds of blood, Ewigegnade and Grimmacht's movements are unremarkable.

They sneak into Vedunien under the cover of night and with a feint from the Kurfürsten's coalition army, and make a beeline for the Spire.

The Spire opens its doors, welcoming its visitors. The unsuspecting spire casters rush into formation, and one by one turn into the red leaves of late autumn.

Shield and sword shatter the Genesis Spire.

Just like that night twenty-three years ago.

My Pavillon, and everything in it, are disintegrating, dying.

The Pavillon... This imperishable hall is not my creation, nor the work of anyone else.

It is the accumulation of mankind's immeasurable sacrifices.

Technology, arts, evolutionary experience—every choice, every regret, every affection, and every resentment. Every hope and every despair.

Every thought and every prayer, the birth and death of every civilization, everything remembered and everything forgotten.

The Pavillon is humanity.

The Pavillon is our will.

Through annihilation the will has taken form, and from chaos the order was given birth.

A will true to reveal the origin. A will firm to conquer the source.

Originium.

The beginning of annihilation and the source of chaos were both mine to wield, and thus I compelled Originium to reveal the nature of its being, to present the fact of its origin.

But I became aware that no matter how Originium grows, overwrites, recreates...

It speaks the same truth, a truth laid bare right before our eyes all along.

It says the creator who was at the source of making was also a creation.

It says the dominator reigned long before its domain came to exist.

It says hope is lost, and eternity is no more.

And what truth did I obtain but heavier chains, and a more ruthless resolve at the origin, the root of all creation?

Undeniable as the silence of death. Unextinguishable as the light of stars.

Cruel was the maker. Vile was the maker. Sly was the maker.

By his hands our determination was shattered, but not annulled; maimed, but not overthrown.

It forged our sharpest sword. It built our toughest prison.

The truth is laid bare for all to see, but how can a seeker challenge the truth with their volition and sanity splintered?

Let the truth be seen by all eyes. Let the reason be heard to all ears.

Your determination has guided you to my Pavilion. More will follow.

You will see in me a nightmare, a traitor to freedom, a... tyrant.

But if the Genesis Spire has failed to reach the boundary with its thrust, then a pioneer must be there to step foot on a place beyond space and time.

If the root of all creation poses nothing but shackles, then we shall be the hands holding its chains.

If the Creator has willed the extinction of his creation...

Then we shall be the bell to toll his demise.

Void cannot and <i>will not</i> be the truth. I will never allow it, nor will I excuse it.

Harken well Herkunftshorn's ultimate vision, his sin, his final will:

The Creator must perish.

I see that your power has grown since our last meeting, twins.

The portion of Herkunftshorn which he discarded long ago is standing before him.

But you have perceived not yourselves, and known not... freedom. You have relinquished... humanity.

I had hoped Leithanien's sword and shield to be more than weapons.

Heed, my audience.

You have come before the throne to seek an answer, to pass down a verdict.

Only a man's answer can sate his kin. Only a monarch's verdict can convict his equals.

If you succeed, if you stand fast till the very end, you must see what I didn't, and be what I wasn't.

Hope may be gone. Enternity may be lost.

Their dearth mark but the end of Herkunftshorn, a monarch's downfall.

Leithanien shall stand, whose light will outshine the tallest beacon of hope.

Leithanien shall live, whose name will outlast the longest river of time!

He sees a rhapsody. He roars a fanfare. He demands a concerto. Now thunders have joined the chorus.