Rielian pushed away the companion who was helping him and knelt, rushing to the front of the square.
He ignored the blood and rubble on the ground, knelt on one knee, and looked up at the departing God—Obsidian.
He still hung high in the sky, his wings spread like the night, obscuring everything in the mortal realm.
His God was so mighty; the Abyssal Demon that had just stepped out of the rift was no match for him.
Rielian could still feel the Divine Grace surging within him, a warm and fervent power that almost made him forget the pain.
He firmly believed that a being with such immense power must also possess endless benevolence and wisdom, bringing salvation and answering prayers.
But why didn't he bring her back?
This question deeply pierced his heart, slowly chilling all the joy born from the miracle.
Liriel still hadn't returned.
"Why?!" Rielian's voice trembled, nearly losing control due to excitement and sorrow.
He shouted with all his might, raising his hand to point at the pyre that had long since cooled, now just ashes.
"You resurrected warriors! You annihilated demons! You possess such great power! Then why, why didn't you resurrect her?! Why—
Why didn't you give Liriel back to us?!"
His question echoed across the silent battlefield; all the rebels, and even the remaining noble army, held their breath.
This was a mortal's question to a God, filled with resentment and sorrow.
But it was also very dangerous.
Obsidian's departure paused slightly.
His molten gold vertical pupils slowly rotated, finally resting on the Paladin below, who, though small, dared to question him.
There was no divine wrath, nor did any divine punishment descend.
Only a profound gaze, like a sea of stars, as if seeing through to the deepest part of his soul.
Immediately, a grand and majestic voice resonated deep within every believer's soul, calmly answering Rielian's question:
"In three days, the Saintess shall return."
The voice faded, with no further explanation.
Obsidian's massive wings flapped again, not to shower Divine Grace, but to tear space apart!
A golden-red rift, stretching across the sky, silently opened, emitting light more dazzling than the sun.
The colossal black dragon body, along with the two Blue Dragons beneath his wings, disappeared into the rift.
The rift quickly closed, and the sky returned to calm.
The midday sun once again shone upon the mortal world, as if everything that had just happened had never occurred.
—Divider—
God Nation Serakhen, "Light" layer.
Here, there was no sky or earth, only an endless flow of golden light.
These lights constructed magnificent colonnades and arches, solemn and vast, forming a cathedral forged from pure radiance.
At the source of this light, the "Light" incarnation of the Dragon of Radiance, Obsidian, sat quietly.
His black scales appeared in a strange dark golden hue in the light, his molten gold vertical pupils lowered, gazing at a cluster of soul flame suspended in his dragon claw—faint, pure, yet subtly disharmonious.
This was Liriel, or rather, the last remnant of Sylvanas Windrunner.
The daughter of a great noble who had once attempted to steal divine power, the vessel that had been completely imbued by his power and reshaped into a Saintess.
Her sin, born of greed, was unforgivable.
However, her body and soul ultimately carried his will, playing a crucial role in igniting the spark in the carefully orchestrated drama of Sendarra.
It was time to pass judgment on her.
Obsidian's will slowly permeated the core of that soul cluster.
He precisely peeled away, carefully separating the part of Sylvanas Windrunner's original personality that had not been completely transformed by divine power and still belonged to her.
Divine power flowed, mending the incompleteness caused by the separation, reshaping it into a complete soul form—Sylvanas Windrunner's original appearance.
Obsidian's fingertip moved slightly, and a false yet plausible memory was woven into it:
Ital'ruk Square, the troll berserker's axe piercing her chest, cold death—the last trace that might have involved him was completely erased.
With a gentle flick of his dragon claw, this remade soul transformed into a faint glow, cast beyond the mortal realm, falling into the River of Souls leading to the Shadowlands, beginning her entirely new afterlife.
In the dragon claw, the remaining soul flame was purer, yet also more hollow.
These soul remnants had been completely permeated by divine power and stripped of their original personality, leaving only the false personality Obsidian had casually woven in before.
Obsidian began to remove all the content he had implanted within it.
Soon, the false personality of "Liriel" was completely erased.
What remained was a cluster of almost pure soul, carrying all the memories of the "Sendarra Conquest," yet stripped of all emotional ties connected to it.
Regarding these memories, she would be like a detached observer, merely watching a drama unfold in someone else's life.
Obsidian lowered his gaze, observing this almost blank soul.
She was no longer Sylvanas Windrunner, nor was she Liriel.
What would she become? Obsidian did not care.
He merely released his dragon claw, allowing this pure soul flame to silently fall into the Mirror Lake beneath the God Nation.
Then, it pierced the barrier between the God Nation and the mortal world, descending upon the land that was struggling to rebuild from ruins—Sendarra.
Her future would be shaped by time.
—Divider—
Three days after the God's Descent.
The morning light struggled to penetrate the dust above Sendarra, illuminating the completely extinguished Noble District.
Rielian suddenly awoke from his bed.
He shook his head, dispelling the drowsiness, and got up to wash.
The cold water splashed on his face, bringing greater clarity.
He somewhat clumsily began to dress—no longer the coarse linen clothes of a commoner, but the formal attire befitting a Queldorei leader.
This was also the most uncomfortable thing for Rielian these past few days; this formal attire was simply too troublesome to wear.
But he had to wear it, because both the surrendered nobles and the commoners hoped that their leader's attire would conform to tradition.
Finally, donning a dark blue trench coat, Rielian stepped out of the door of his temporary residence.
The slightly cold morning air, mixed with dust and the smell of char, wafted towards him. "Good morning, Lord Rielian!"
"Your Excellency, Provisional Administrator!"
"Morning, Chief!"
Various greetings rose and fell.
The elves passing by, whether warriors with bandaged arms or commoners carrying rebuilding materials, all stopped and cast gazes mixed with reverence and anticipation upon him.
Those newly added titles—"First Citizen," "Provisional Administrator"—weighed heavily on his shoulders.
He could only clench his jaw, nod slightly, and continue walking.
His destination was a relatively intact courtyard in the Noble District, with a newly made wooden sign hanging crookedly at the entrance: "Sendarra Reconstruction Committee."
There, mountains of reports and endless arguments awaited him.
Of course, the current arguments were still limited to basic topics, mainly focusing on resource allocation and the challenges of clearing ruins.
Just as he was about to reach the committee's entrance, his steps abruptly halted.
At the intersection ahead, a slender figure stood silently in the morning light.
She wore a faded, oversized coarse linen robe, barefoot, standing on the cold stone pavement.
The morning breeze stirred her moon-white hair, revealing a delicate yet exceptionally bewildered face.
The sunlight outlined her silhouette, like a fragile halo.
She tilted her head slightly, her eyes empty as she scanned the broken walls, piled rubble, and the collapsed Pale Tower in the distance.
Her gaze was like that of a newborn, seeing this strange and cruel world for the first time.
The moment he saw her, Rielian felt his blood rush to his head.
He froze in place; all the anxiety of rebuilding, all the responsibilities of a leader, shattered in that instant.
It was her! Liriel! The God had kept his promise.
Wild joy surged within his heart.
He instinctively wanted to rush over, call her name, confirm her existence.
However, the bewilderment and emptiness in those eyes made Rielian stop his steps.
That was not Liriel's gaze.
Liriel's eyes were always gentle and firm, carrying a power that soothed the heart.
These eyes before him, still clear, had lost all warmth; there was nothing in them.
The whispers from his dream last night echoed in his ears again:
"...She will return, but she will not be the person of yesterday."
A great sense of loss and a strange feeling mixed with fear seized Rielian.
He watched her raise her hand blankly, seemingly wanting to touch the charred marks on the broken wall beside her, her movements awkward and hesitant.
Rielian took a deep breath; the cold morning air stung his lungs, also bringing a forced clarity.
"Her sin has been atoned for, and her grievances with the mortal world are settled—
Is that what last night's dream meant?
He straightened his back, suppressed the lump in his throat and the horror in his heart, and walked over.
The young woman was startled by the footsteps and slowly turned her head.
Her clear yet empty gaze fell upon his face; there was no recognition, no joy, only bewilderment.
Rielian stopped in front of her, a few steps away.
In the morning light, he looked at those eyes that no longer burned with the fire of faith, and his Adam's apple bobbed with difficulty.
All the words he had prepared were stuck in his chest; in the end, they only transformed into a low greeting:
"Liriel," he paused, "...welcome back."
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