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A legend is bestowed by the people.

The 'miracle' you hold already existed before Lugalszargus and I met.

In the depths of the golden sands, explorers who should've been devoured by Catastrophes found safe haven because of this relic.

The relic was forged into a treasured blade, and I carried it along with the young Shah into the endless sands.

I still remember what he said as he rested against my mane beneath the stars––

'It shall have a name, but that name is not mine to give.'

Then, as legends go, he took up the blade and slew the Poltergeist King.

He never returned. Nobody in the land was worthy of giving that sword a name, but a legend was nevertheless born.

The Hero's sword.

It passed through the hands of many kings, until at long last, the Lion with hair as bright as the sun used it to sever the Red Dragon's head.

That story, you're already familiar with, Vina.

Beneath the gleaming blade, the Lion and Dragon ultimately stood side by side and swore an oath to lift the crown together.

Alas, the Hero's sword would slay no more, but would instead be regarded as 'the highest authority'.

It has endured loss and betrayal, yet its brilliance as the symbol of authority has never dimmed.

As Lugalszargus said, you have all sung of it from generation to generation using the name it was given – the Sighs of Kings.

No matter how many times it is reforged, craftsmen will always be able to hear the sighs from within the sword.

They say that it is the kings sighing, lamenting that the glorious empire no longer has enemies worth conquering.

But, it was never the kings who were sighing, but rather the blade itself – a 'miracle' dug out from the golden sands more than a millennium ago. Still, they had the right to give meaning to this sword.

Vina, legends are never told by the heroes themselves.

But, you continued its story. Perhaps in twenty years, the children will sing...

'Alexandrina, the Sword of Victoria, the king who banished the Sarkaz tyrant!'

But, is this the story you want to hear? And, by whose right do you wield this sword?

The king's? The hero's? The peoples'?

(Gawain...)

Got you, Vina!

You did it, Vina...

The enemy forces encircling the Gloriana are retreating before the dukes' forces!

Vina, hang in there! We'll catch up to you soon enough.

The other dukes' troops have heard news of the Duke of Caster, and are now willing to work together with the Exemplars.

At least, this is settled before the fighting engulfed Londinium.

Waves of cheering pour through the communicator, each louder than the last.

But the battle continues.

The Sighs of Kings is sheathed within the Stone of the Sword. This is not the end, but merely a beginning.

The Steam Knight... is helping us?

No, I'd say he only came for the Realmblade.

Siege's gaze falls on the devastated battlefield, where the Steam Knight went on its warpath.

She looks for the other shadow, but it is nowhere to be found.

Siege grips her hammer tightly and stands before her companions, just like she had done so many times before.

Let's continue the fight.

Until the moment of victory actually arrives.

The Realmblade is now active.

Looking up from here, that golden pillar of light is truly breathtaking.

Two decades ago, I first saw the prototype of our Stone of the Sword in the workshop. I have been waiting for this moment ever since.

The light that sunders Catastrophe is no longer a myth, or a heroic tale in alleyways.

Can you envision it? Beneath the shade of this light, our people will no longer need to live in fear of Catastrophe. Our city... will be eternally glorious.

Back then, nobody could have imagined that it would ever be used for this purpose.

That it would be used in a war started by those barbaric devils, in a ravaged land outside Londinium's gates.

And... it was done by the hands of my dear brother's orphan, with the aid of the Exemplars.

For decades, the pedestal has been integral to our strategy in Victoria. What should have become Caster's triumph is now a part of the legacy of the former king's heirs.

Your Grace, we are sorry for betraying your expectations––

You call it betrayal?

...No.

'The Gloriana was saved, and Victoria was saved.'

What is there for me to be disappointed about?

'The miracle blooming on the battlefield.' I can even hear my own guards whispering these words.

I believe your 'Sir Suffolk' would share the same opinion, no?

The Poet should be acting in accordance with military protocol and retreating with the Realmblade. I will make sure of this––

There's no rush. Whether this is a dereliction of duty or a show of loyalty, I shall decide for myself later.

What's happened has happened, there's no need to worry about the Realmblade's fate for now.

At least, this isn't necessarily a bad thing either.

Connect to the Exemplars' internal communication channel. Use the alliance line.

Your Grace, there's a risk of being tapped.

Talk less and do your job.

Very well.

Uhh, whose communication frequency is this? I didn't turn it on––

Well done, Exemplars.

Well, stuff me?!

Your Grace... I thought you'd at least want to meet me in person.

Indeed. Arrangements for that meeting have already been made.

But, after the Realmblade's activation, all intel on the battlefield flowed to me once again.

Opportunities on the battlefield are fleeting, and I was too preoccupied to make use of it.

Siege, what you have accomplished is nothing short of a miracle.

I will reevaluate the role that the Exemplars could play in this war.

With all due respect, I do not recall opening our communication channels to you.

As of right now, assume your channels are open to all of Victoria's alliance forces.

They will begin their counterattack by retaking Silverrock Bluffs. Are the Exemplars willing to work with us to create a miracle?

Under the banner of the dukes?

No. The Exemplars cannot, and will not be affiliated with any of the ducal forces. This much, I can assure you.

You must operate as a heroic, independent unit.

Alexandrina, you will come to know... what the Exemplars mean to Victoria.

For now, we undoubtedly stand on the same side.

Take count of your troops. It's time to go.

That golden light...

The Sighs of Kings has taken effect! Siege and the Exemplars have done it!

The situation on the battlefield will finally stabilize.

No longer afflicted by the extreme Originium-dense environment, Victoria's forces will be free to display their full potential.

The Military Commission's defeat on the main battlefield is inevitable.

Even if there are still disputes among the dukes, the overall strength and sustained combat capability of the Victorian Army far eclipses what the Sarkaz can muster. Additionally, Victoria just enjoyed a massive morale boost.

It won't be long until the scales of victory tip towards Victoria.

Yes...

Amiya, Theresis must have foreseen this when he decided to start this war and fill the trenches of a foreign land with Sarkaz lives.

I know, Dr. Kal'tsit.

But, the more this happens, the more I find myself thinking... What kind of future are they hoping for with so many people thrown away for nothing?

Whatever that might be...

Kal'tsit looks up into the crimson sky.

The storm has not completely halted. The Originium dust swirling in the inverted airflow was only temporarily driven back by the Sighs of Kings, and now rages even more violently than before.

Perhaps they all feel the same way, exhausted just from trying to avert the advent of disaster.

We are only one step from the abyss.

'Return from whence you came.'

On the other side of the canyon... is that a crystal cluster that's glowing? Logos...

No matter how many tricks they have up their sleeves, they cannot conceal the blood.

I have removed the Confessarius illusions.

Once we go over there...

We'll find the real altar.

The truth is within reach.

However...

The shadow is also approaching.

It's cold. Way too cold.

You feel the temperature abruptly change again. Before you know it, you are surrounded once more by a thick, swamp-like fog.

...Sudaram!

How are there this many...?

This is the Nachzehrer's last line of defense in front of the true altar.

This is where Nezzsalem intends to stop us. He does not want us to get any closer.

The lament of the dead fills the air above the battlefield. The Nachzehrers' power... is almost at its very peak.

I have seen the dark clouds of death hanging on the horizon.

If the scorching sun no longer shines, I shall cast the light that pierces the fog here.

We will...

Cross over to the other side.

Find Salus, and destroy the Blood of Teekaz.

May the wails of the dead find some quiescence.

Logos lifts his hand and points to the other side of the canyon.

The congealing mist parts once more.

––'Ferry'.

Brief, yet powerful.

Logos seems to both be describing a physical action and uttering an incantation at once.

Originium crystals surge like waves in front of you, stretching all the way to the other side of the canyon until they form a narrow, but stable bridge.

The Nachzehrer King will come for us, and someone has to hold him back.

I will stay behind.

Logos! Just you, alone?

Amiya, do you still have the package I left with you before? Please give it back to me.

Of course, but––

Good. With this, there won't be any problems.

Now, go.

Death is pursuing you.

You run with all your might. Maybe it's Amiya who's pulling you, Mon3tr who's dragging you along, or Logos who's pushing you ahead with his incantation––

You hardly even feel your feet touching the ground, but it is as if a thousand bony hands are growing from the mist, trying to latch onto your ankles.

But, the aura of decay fails to reach you in the end. A formless barrier envelops your body, keeping the haze at bay.

You know that Logos's incantation is taking effect. In this moment, the Banshee's 'curse' feels so gentle and warm.

You hear something collapsing, and look in its direction.

The bridge has disappeared, just as quickly and cleanly as when it appeared.

The thick fog once again teems forth, impatient.

You search for that familiar figure, but perhaps because he is too far, or perhaps because the fog is too thick, you cannot see anything at all.

Is Logos in danger?;I'm a bit worried...

Doctor, this is the decision that elite operator Logos made.

He has the right to make his own tactical judgments based upon the situation at hand. He believes that it would be most beneficial for us to head to the real altar while he faces the Nachzehrers head-on.

Answer me, Doctor. Do you trust him? Do you trust elite operator Logos?

Yes.;I trust him.

Then, you should also trust that he will regroup with us when we are in need.

I understand your desires, scion of decay.

But, death should not be so cacophonous.

Quiet.

The whistle pierces through the thick fog, the incantation spreading in ripples.

Nothing needs to be spoken, nothing needs to be written...

The concealed dead have nowhere to hide. the Sudaram's piercing shriek forms into a longsword that shuttles through the fog.

The words from the whistle quiver, and the Banshee's song resounds––

Within the ancient bloodlines of the Sarkaz, in a valley choked with Originium, amidst the lamentations of countless people who fell in battle...

Flaming shells and witchcraft-imbued rounds intertwine in the skies above the battlefield.

A high-speed battleship crashes into a witchcraft bastion.

A small number of Victorian soldiers charge head-first into an entire squad of Nachzehrers.

The song grows louder and clearer.

When that song reaches its climax, the Nachzehrer soldiers fall into silence and stop attacking one after another, like motionless flags.

They no longer hunt.

At last, death has returned to the land.

War has come to answer your song.

The withered branches retreat in unison. They coil, then lie down, returning once more to their long-deceased forms.

The most hideous and ancient among them still seem to be struggling unwillingly, finally twisting into a scepter.

The tip of the scepter strikes the ground, and a figure emerges from the depths of the dense fog.

Aefanyl... The master of the Elegiac Court.

You chose to stay behind and face me alone.

The corners of his clothes flutter, as the fog disperses.

The Sudaram's white robes are scattered across the dense white hills of withered branches. Longswords lie fallen and shattered, like grass in a forest.

The young Banshee sits sideways atop the hill, his bloodstained fingers plucking at the bone whistle in front of his lips...

Gentle. Melodious.

No, Nezzsalem. There is no such master here.

Only Logos, elite operator of Rhodes Island, dressed to greet our guest.

I have crafted this opus upon death's motif, and I dedicate it to you.