No one in the palace knew what would happen next.
Fear had swallowed the halls.
Hope had long since rotted away.
The soldiers trembled, nobles prayed to gods that no longer answered, and even the bravest had already accepted death. The capital stood on the edge of oblivion.
Meanwhile—
Deep within the palace, after centuries of separation, Shin Yato reunited with his sword.
The moment his fingers brushed the hilt, the room darkened.
A black aura spilled out like smoke from a grave, crawling across the walls, the ceiling, the floor—covering everything. The air grew thick, heavy with the stench of death. It was the smell of countless lives taken, of battlefields drowned in blood, of souls that had never known peace.
This sword had devoured more lives than history could remember.
Shin Yato's lips curved into a small smile.
With a single motion, he placed his hand firmly on the blade.
Crack.
The seal shattered effortlessly—like glass beneath a god's foot.
The shockwave tore through the palace.
No—through the entire capital.
The ground shook violently, towers swayed, windows exploded, and people collapsed to their knees as if the world itself had screamed in agony.
In the royal chambers, the king and queen stood beside the bed where Elizabeth lay unconscious.
Her face was pale, unmoving.
The queen's expression was empty—defeated.
The king's was the same.
Even now… there was no hope.
As the tremors faded, the king clenched his fists.
"Send the knights," he ordered quietly.
"Help the injured. Protect whoever is still alive."
His voice carried authority—but not belief.
Then—
The shaking stopped.
Silence fell.
And within that silence, a presence descended upon the palace.
Shin Yato stepped forward, the sword resting casually in his hand. His smile remained, calm and unsettling, as if none of this concerned him.
"…Should I test it?" he said lightly.
"It's been a long time."
Without waiting for an answer, he swung the sword — slightly.
There was no flash.
No roar.
Just a whisper.
And then —
Half of the palace vanished.
The cut was so clean that for a moment, the structure still stood — before collapsing into ruin, stone and steel erased as if sliced from reality itself.
Dust and debris rained down across the capital.
Shin Yato looked at the blade.
He tilted his head.
"…Still sharp?" he muttered.
"Huh."
Casually.
After reclaiming his sword, Shin Yato walked back toward the king.
His footsteps echoed through the ruined palace, slow and unhurried. Around him, everything was chaos. Cracked walls leaned on the edge of collapse, shattered stone littered the halls, and knights rushed past with bloodied armor, carrying the injured as their desperate voices overlapped in confusion.
The palace that once symbolized power and order had been reduced to a broken shell.
Outside, the capital was drowning in agony.
Screams rose from every direction—people crying out for loved ones buried beneath rubble, for homes consumed by fire, for a future that no longer existed. The aftermath of destruction clung to the air like a curse, heavy with smoke, blood, and despair.
Yet Shin Yato walked on calmly.
The sword rested in his hand, silent now, as if satisfied.
He did not look at the wounded.
He did not look at the dead.
His expression never changed.
While the world around him burned and wept,
Shin Yato advanced through the ruins —
as though none of it concerned him.