First of all, I recommend reviewing Special Episode 1, since this—as the title suggests—is a direct continuation of it.
***
When he was still a child, Nadir wanted to meet his family's expectations—especially his father's, who was the most important figure in his life.
Nadir wanted to make him proud. He wanted to be praised, to be told that because he had done so well, he could rest for a while instead of working all day.
But that never happened outside of Nadir's childish imagination. Cyrus Ashveil was a selfish and ruthless man, devoid of sentimentality. He only cared about his own well-being.
Nadir wouldn't realize this until one particular day—after working for an entire month to design a special gift for his father. He believed that if he managed to impress him, something would change.
He presented him with a beautiful spear, of course made by his own hands. The design was exquisite: the dark wood of the shaft was smooth and glossy, perfectly polished; the tip, made of red bronze, had the shape of an elongated leaf, ideal for thrusting.
The weapon itself was a feat of craftsmanship, but Cyrus didn't even bother to look at it properly. His face twisted with annoyance, and he slapped Nadir.
"Why the hell are you wasting time on this nonsense!? Get back to work immediately!"
Nadir touched his cheek, but what truly hurt wasn't the slap. The damned spear remained in the workshop, hanging on the wall as a reminder. Every time he saw it, Nadir repeated to himself: "Dad doesn't love you."
Unfortunately, that was only the beginning of the story. The spear was still nothing more than an ordinary object, without a name and without qualities beyond representing a sad truth—that blood does not always connect hearts.
***
Nadir froze when he saw the four mounds of dirt. He was afraid to ask, afraid to confirm what was already forming in his mind.
Cyrus said nothing. In fact, he hadn't moved at all since they arrived at the site. He watched his son with unusual calm, as if he wasn't in a hurry to see his reaction.
The boy turned his head toward him, his voice choked with fear.
"Father... don't tell me you..."
But he couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't have the courage. His father didn't give him an answer either—as always, he intended to let his son figure it out on his own.
Thus, Nadir had to suppress the panic and despair to face reality. He walked even though his legs felt like they weighed a ton, and he breathed even though his lungs refused to fill.
He reached the first mound and dropped to his knees, extending his arms to perform the most difficult task of his life. Slowly, his trembling hands began to remove the dirt.
Every passing second felt like a countdown. The mound gradually shrank... until a face appeared—small, dirt-covered.
It was a girl, pale, with closed eyes and cold to the touch. She was undoubtedly dead.
Even though Nadir had expected something like this, he wasn't ready. The sight of the corpse made him recoil in horror and disgust. It was one of Adela's sisters.
"Ugh!"
The vomit came within seconds. For someone who had never experienced the rawness of the world firsthand, it was too much to stomach.
Nadir's gaze shifted to the other three mounds. He refused to believe it. It couldn't be true.
"No, no, no, no..."
Overcome with anxiety, the boy threw himself onto the remaining graves and began to dig up the other bodies. He couldn't accept the idea that his beloved would be another cold body in that place.
The second mound contained the remains of Adela's other little sister. This time, Nadir only looked away with sorrow and moved on.
By this point, his hands were almost completely black from the dirt, and he had cut himself on fragments of rock, but adrenaline dulled the pain.
When he cleared the third grave, he found Hilda's body—his greedy mother-in-law. Beyond a slight surprise, he didn't mourn her death. In that state, that vile woman could no longer harm anyone.
Finally, only the fourth mound remained. Nadir hesitated before dismantling it. He wanted to cling to the hope that no one was there. However, he had no choice but to check.
"Please... let it not be her."
Sighing, Nadir repeated the slow and painful process once more. Handful by handful, the dirt was removed, revealing what lay beneath.
And then he saw her.
He saw the face of the woman he loved—the light of his life... and that light had been extinguished forever.
Nadir didn't cry, didn't scream; he didn't even move. It was as if time itself had stopped for him. Cyrus watched him, intrigued by his lack of reaction.
"They didn't have to end like this," he said to his son. "This was your fault."
There was no response. Cyrus thought Nadir was deliberately ignoring him and grew angry.
"Are you really going to pretend you don't hear me? Damn it, you're a disappointment until the very end."
Spitting on the ground, the man turned around and began to walk away. But before leaving his son forever, he stopped and shouted one last reproach.
"This just proves I was always right about you! You should've never been born! You don't deserve a Divine Protection, you don't deserve anything you have—and that's why you lost everything! Do the world a favor and kill yourself!"
Furious, Cyrus left, believing the world had been unfair to grant a blessed ability to his son instead of him.
"..."
Nadir remained motionless, kneeling beside Adela's corpse for a long time. Even as his body weakened from lack of food and water, he stayed there like a statue.
At last, when the remains of his beloved had become a putrid, unrecognizable mess—and Nadir himself was little more than a skeleton covered in sagging skin—at that moment, Pandora appeared.
Her pale body shone under the sunlight, as if she were the will of a star made manifest, given form to carry out a celestial design.
She looked at Nadir with the gentleness of a mother and knelt to touch his gaunt face.
"Poor tormented soul... Your love is so strong that I felt it even from afar. I deeply regret your pain, but I cannot allow that love to go to waste. My child, you will have to wait a little longer for your well-earned rest. You still have a mission to fulfill."
The Ashveil family had their own district—a vast territory spanning many hectares. It was no surprise, as they were one of the most powerful and influential families.
Although most were blacksmiths, they had decent training to defend themselves with the weapons they forged. There was even a branch specialized in combat, whose members possessed talent comparable to the smiths in their own craft.
However, nothing could have prepared them for what happened on that fateful day.
The day the Witch Cult attacked.
Hundreds of cultists, all following the orders of a single man: Petelgeuse Romanée-Conti, the infamous Archbishop of Sloth.
His deranged screams announced the beginning of the end.
"Love, love! Love must be repaid! Devotion...! Ah, my brain trembles!"
Not even a minute had passed since his arrival, and his unseen hands had already decimated the Ashveil's small army, unleashing chaos.
"We're under attack!"
"It's the Witch Cult!"
"We need reinforcements! Call all divisions!"
The family tried to respond, but all their efforts were crushed by the sect's overwhelming power. Petelgeuse and his followers slaughtered men, women, children, the elderly—it didn't matter who or what stood before them. They simply cut them down or burned them alive.
Cyrus was the last bastion. When all defensive lines fell, he stood alone, forced to face an entire faction by himself.
Of course, he tried to resist until the very end. As the buildings burned, he took refuge in the main compound, which had yet to be defiled by the cultists' madness.
The sound of screams was drowned out by Cyrus's ragged breathing as he hid in his son's personal workshop... or rather, the workshop of the waste of oxygen he once considered his son.
Barricaded inside, the man allowed himself a moment of reflection amid the hell unfolding around him.
"How did it come to this? Why are they attacking us? What did we do to deserve this fate? Damn it!"
Suddenly, the barricade Cyrus had built was destroyed with ease, shattered by overwhelming force.
"Love... cannot be erased. Love... cannot be forgotten. LOVE... CANNOT BE FORGIVEN!" declared Petelgeuse Romanée-Conti as he burst into the room, his corpse-like face twisted in a hysterical expression.
A large group of cultists followed him in, filling Cyrus with resignation. There was no escape—and certainly no mercy.
"Well, well, well! What do we have here?" Petelgeuse approached him, tilting his head in a disturbing display of curiosity. "This is a sinner who has reached the point of no return!"
Cyrus stepped back, repulsed and terrified by the Archbishop's presence. He knew he wouldn't die quickly at the 'hands' of that monster.
Sniffing his fear, Petelgeuse let out a dry laugh.
"Yes, it's clear! You are sloth! I am ashamed to breathe the same air as someone so inept! Ah, my brain trembles, trembles⁓!"
His body bent backward unnaturally, his head nearly facing the floor, but his eyes shifted toward one of his subordinates.
"In accordance with the instructions received by Vanity, I, Petelgeuse Romanée-Conti, nominate you to carry out the execution of this sinner!"
The chosen individual stepped forward and, with a deliberate motion, removed his hood.
Cyrus's eyes widened in shock and indignation.
"Nadir!?"
Without responding, Nadir walked to the other side of the workshop and stopped before a certain object hanging on the wall.
"..."
With an unreadable expression, he extended his hands and took the spear. For a few seconds, he held it in silence, running his fingers along the shaft like a gentle caress.
Then his eyes fixed on the tip. His expression changed.
He turned and walked toward Cyrus—his steps echoing, his eyes burning.
"So you planned all this? I should've known! Only a piece of shit like you could cause so much misery! You're pathetic!"
Desperate, Cyrus tried to break Nadir mentally, believing he could manipulate him as before.
But Nadir was already broken—dead inside. There was nothing left to damage.
The spear was raised. Cyrus clenched his teeth and began to scream uncontrollably.
"Go ahead, do it! Kill me like the coward you are! You'll spend the rest of your miserable life regretting being born! But you won't have the guts to kill yourself—because deep down you know you deserve the pain of being a failure! I hate you with all my being, you bastard son of—!"
Thrust.
Cyrus lowered his gaze, noticing the blood flowing from his chest—right where his heart was. He smiled bitterly.
"..."
He opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out.
Nadir pulled the spear out abruptly, and his father's corpse collapsed with a sickening thud that made his head ache for a moment.
At that moment, he didn't realize it—but the tip of his spear had begun to glow with a red light.
Red like the blood of the distant heart he had finally touched... though not in the way he had once wished.