All she could do, was swing her fists as hard as she could.

Striking away in the ditch, lightning rushing out of her body, energy rushing out of her body, leaving less and less of herself. Like a storm, she was being spent. Like a fire, she was burning out. Seconds stretched to minutes, the air around her burnt of oxygen, the sharp tang of ozone seeping into her lungs and depriving her of what truly let her blood flow. Her heart was roaring still, pushing and pushing to the brink of a meltdown, her armor slowly being rent by the ebb and flow of ice magic. The elemental spirits had no true alignment. It did not matter that they were striking away at an unarmed opponent. It did not matter that they were serving a master that was long dead. Nothing mattered, but the winter they brought upon the mines, the ice that climbed up onto Ettamri every time she broke free.

Her attacks slowed. Her knees buckled. Her hands were broken. Her rage ended. Her helmet split. For the first time, she felt the winter wind, juxtaposed by the spring rain. It fell against her cheeks, sliding down and freezing as Ettamri fell down on her knee. Before her, a monster of her own making rose out. Pulverized bone, ground so finely it became a pale dust, swirled together to form an intangible phantom. A living, localized blizzard, undying and untiring, shifting from one shape to the other as it cast its spells again, a great icicle rising above Ettamri.

An executing spike to drive through her skull. An executing spike to skewer her fully. An executing spike to finish a fight that could never end in Ettamri’s favor.

That was what the World had become before Muu’s eyes. Gwyn and Matteo, cold and unresponsive, their bodies flung upon the ground by the tempest of Ettamri’s fury. The white knight herself, kneeling, fatigued, a spear of ice floating above her to deliver her punishment. That was what the World had become. The price of her victory had been the loss of everyone else.

Before her, Gwyn’s frozen face splintered, flesh crackling open as blood oozed out, black and lifeless. Beyond, Matteo laid, his legs twisted in an unnatural position, his eyes glassy and blank. How many more people was she going to lose? How many more would disappear? What happened to Hannah? What happened to Aoi? What happened to Youichiro? Jun? Akane? All phantoms, names that had such emotional weight, yet had such little meaning. All bright stars, now dead coals. The rain fell on, and she could not piece the dead pieces back together.

Was this how it was going to end?

…

In the rain, Ash trudged on, alone, her feet sinking deeper and deeper into the mud.

Was that all they had?